ILL. By the way, I hate how uppercase "i"s (I) look exactly like lowercase "L"s (l)

Yet again, I am ill. I think it's an under-active thyroid, but I am not going to say anything further because it's obvious that I talk about it too much. I KNOW I talk about it too much. UGH. The plan is to keep on chattin' w/ the naturopath and refusing to give up until I feel like myself again. Nuff said. 

Turning the focus away from meself...I want to post this reflection I just wrote for my community journalism class. We had to write about our experience volunteering at a homeless shelter (which I will be doing every friday this semester).

Mainly, I don't have anything else to blog about. Can't muster up the strength.

Here it is: 

   Volunteering at a "homeless shelter" for the first time is supposed to be a little uncomfortable. It's perfectly normal to be nervous. It's natural for the men to be be closed-off and cold as we load their trays with oily lunch meat, wilted lettuce and hopeless pieces of stale white bread. It's OK to be slightly shocked by the unfamiliar, dirty smell of the place- like in a nursing home, it takes some getting used to. The sounds of throaty coughing, vulgar language and sloppy chewing may offend a first-time volunteer and that's perfectly understandable. The sad faces that cloud the dining hall with despair may be the hardest thing for a volunteer to cope with. But these people still need nourishment, shelter, and the occasional smile to get the from one day to the next. For that reason, volunteering is worth it.
   This was the pep-talk I gave myself two Fridays ago as I ran across Trent and into the parking lot of The Union Gospel Mission. To my surprise, it was completely useless. None of those words of self-wisdom applied. Not only were my predictions of the sights, sounds and smells way off, but I was also completely wrong to assume such discomfort and uneasiness on my end. Instead, I was left with a feeling of realness (stepping off campus at all usually helps with this) and a raw perspective into the other gender.
   I was entirely comfortable from the time I entered the mission until the time I left. When I returned the following Friday, when we would actually be serving lunch for the first time, I felt even more at ease than I did during the tour. The men were not sad and discouraging. They were laughing, chatting- smiling. The placed didn't smell bad. Actually, it smelled good. Like barbeque!
   Though I was at ease serving pulled-pork sandwiches to the variety of unique, interesting faces, I couldn't ignore a heaviness settling right below my sternum. It was a weird blend of joy and sadness, similar to how I feel after attending a really well-done funeral. I think the feeling comes from being happy when the bigger picture is sad- or maybe it's the opposite- being sad when the bigger picture is actually happy. Whatever it was, it settled right below my sternum, liquifying my eyes for a brief moment and forcing their lids to muscle a few extra-rapid blinks of fortitude.
   I could see my Dad in a lot of the men- and my Brother, my Grandpa and my male Cousins too. They were all there- humbled by homelessness, the ultimate social failure. All I could think of was men and their deeply ensconced pride. It might not always be easy, but women are allowed to ask for help. Women are allowed to have moments of weakness. Women are often encouraged to be vulnerable for the sake of compassion and love. The privilege of fragility is not an option for men, despite it being a natural human quality. This idea struck me intensely. Most men must continually fend off their own humanity. That nagging, tugging twinge of tenderness that all humans experience must be ignored and covered up with manliness. I wondered what our world would be like if men did not constantly silence themselves with pride.

Ya feel me?

Madge