On the Sixth Day of Hanukkah the Universe Sent To Me . . .A meth addict on my front lawn

Nothing gets the neighbors together for the holidays like a tweaking meth addict breaking into cars.
As I am sitting on my couch, in my pajamas, at 2:30 in the afternoon, watching a marathon of Ghost Hunters, I hear yelling and screaming (distinctly males) on my front lawn. At first I thought it was part of the Ghost Hunters’ “reveal” (impressive EVP’s) until I realized a 19th century ghost would probably not be yelling “Please don’t call the cops” and “I told you to get down on the ground!” My partner and I ran outside to find two of our neighbors holding this guy down and telling him that “this isn’t happening in OUR neighborhood!”. (Seriously, dude, we live in the Arden Arcade area.. This happens all the TIME in our neighborhood). Nonetheless, still in my pajamas (which, for the record, consist of snow leopard print fleece pants and a “Wormy Dog Saloon” t-shirt), I sat down on the ground with Vincent (our now resident tweaker) and waited for the cops. We had a conversation about his dog, his meds, his mom—pretty much what I would talk to you about in a grocery store. I explained to him that going home was not an option, that we had to wait for the cops. He informed me that sucked. I agreed.
The cops finally arrived (four of them and a fire truck, must have been a slow day) and, although there was some initial confusion as to who was the homeless meth addict—me or the guy wreathing on the ground—(I get that a lot when I’m outside braless and barefoot in the middle of the afternoon), Vincent was escorted to the hospital and I was released to go back to Ghost Hunters.
Just another day for me. I deal with people of various mental imbalances and drug problems working as a victim advocate. It’s my vocation to sit with people in their trauma. I didn’t think much of it, but my neighbors were very impressed that I was so adept at “talking him down.” One woman added, “Well, it’s a shame this happened on the day after Christmas. Kind of ruins the holidays.” Really? The holidays should be a cosmic “time out” from human suffering? The “ruining of the holidays’ occurred not from your incessant cookie making and tacky Christmas Snoopy sweater but from a man who is impoverished and addicted to a wicked chemical substance which he uses just to make it through this thing we call “life?”
My partner didn’t like my last blog. He says, “Why can’t you just let people be happy? If people want to sappily celebrate the holidays and have one month of happiness why do you have to ruin it? What would it take to get you in the holiday spirit?” Fair question. I had to think about that.
For me, what’s missing from the holiday joy equation is the acknowledgement of the human condition—suffering. I have great respect for human suffering. Most people don’t understand that. As a profession, I deal with the bruises of the body and the lacerations of the soul on a daily basis, and it takes herculean strength for these victims to experience their trauma and come out the other side. It pisses me off that we don’t respect this—that we place more value on stupid holiday television specials and a butt load of meaningless, never-ending potlucks.
My yoga teacher recently took a month off because of her impending divorce, and I think that’s one of the bravest things I’ve ever heard of. She doesn’t understand why I would say that, but it’s because she actually sequestered herself from the world, felt the terror, the sadness, the fear in her body and spirit, publically acknowledged it and then returned to work. That’s a bravery I don’t possess. Because, you see, I have a confession to make. I can sit with you while you suffer, but I can’t experience my own suffering. Like most of our society, I work too much, eat too much, shop too much, all so that I don’t have to recognize I am part of living world and I, like every other human being, am comprised of a delicate mixture of wounding and strength. We are all damaged irreparably. We have all been injured beyond what we thought we could bare. But by acknowledging that pain, that “laceration of the soul,” we morph the devastation into radiant strength, which is the other part of being a human being. As a Jew, I celebrate Hanukkah, which can be equally as sickening as Christmas believe me. Celebrating for eight nights of Hanukkah television specials and latke dinners can really prolong the holiday pain. But I have to remind myself of what Matisyahu writes of the true meaning of Hanukkah in his song Miracle :
Eight is the number of infinity one more than what you know how to be
And this is the light of festivity when your broken heart yearns to be free
What does it take to get me in the holiday spirit? A National Day of Suffering held on Christmas eve. We should shut down all the stores, everyone would get the day off work, no mail would be delivered, and all of us would sit on our porches and witness our collective suffering. We would honor the pain with the reverence it duly deserves for a full 24 hours. Then, and only then, could we truly have a genuine holiday celebration. And I would joyously attend all your potlucks and watch all the TV specials. Because after sharing this day of suffering, I would feel balanced and connected to you—and after all, isn’t that what the holidays are all about?

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