Hamlet even on Halloween!

To quote Shakespeare, ‘Like Niobe, all tears’ I gazed out my window this last morning of October. Flurrying more than drifting, a host of (oh, here's a good one!) Santa's dandruff? wafted to the muddy pavement. Inwardly cringing at the so apt reminder of encroaching winter, I headed off to the café to face Tony’s good natured gibing.

Despite myself, I couldn’t help but notice the air of serenity that the frosty flakes : ) lent to my otherwise edgy Central Park vista. Note: freshly fallen snow obscures beer bottles, yellowed plastic and broken glass – at least until it melts! And the rebellious glimmer of excitement that sprang up unbidden was hard to suppress. (Don’t tell Tony!) I tell myself that the first snowfall only excites me because it means one less snowfall until the May long weekend . . .


Radical digression from the current topic supervenes:

I have this wonderful friend who is old enough to be my mother. Now that I think of it, a whole darn lot of my friends here in Winnipeg have taken on quasi parental roles, and not least of all because of their age! This one woman in particular has played a large role in my life recently; I will grant her anonymity because I can’t foresee which of my acquaintances may stumble across this blog, and name her Ruth.

Ruth spent many years living homeless on the streets of Winnipeg before the Lord reached out and touched her heart. Today she runs a ministry in the North End; seeking to give back to God what he has given to her. This evening I accompanied her to Wal-Mart, after which she drove me home by way of her old haunts, through the slums of the North End, pointing out boarded-up crack houses, child prostitutes, and other ministries like her own – flickering but persistent lights in a gloomy, oppressive haven for the enemy.

It was the women I saw that grabbed and yanked, not pulled, at my heartstrings. Ruth says the girls can be as young as ten. At ten I was writing poetry and building dams in our creek with my brothers. I tend to filter everything I see through my own experiences, to hold up hard realities alongside my sheltered life. I’m sure this is natural, and not solely my experience, although I wonder at its efficacy. Does comparing another’s life to mine distance that individual from me? Or does the stark contrast bring the painful truths that much closer to home?

Of one thing I’m certain. It will take much to erase the haunted eyes of the black-haired teen selling herself on Halloween from my memory.