The rich and the homeless

Having lived among the rich these past few weeks, I've noticed some parallels between the homeless who live in my neighborhood, which is just over the big hill from the posh, mansion-ville I'm living in now.

Chiefly, the biggest similarity is the amount of time the rich and the homeless have on their hands.

Perhaps it doesn't have anything to do with being rich or without a home, but more with my being a teacher -- neither rich nor homeless (well, only temporarily at the moment).

I spent most of today working. I took time out for a brief nap, but then went right back at it. I didn't get everything done that I wanted to get done and am fighting the urge to kick myself about it tonight. My teaching partner last year used to tease me by leaving little notes on my desk that said things like, "Stop, you've done enough!" She's off teaching in Cyprus and I'm left trying to remind myself that "enough" is truly far less than what I end up doing...if that makes any sense.

Ironically, the weather was nice all morning while I was tucked away in my classroom pulling together the multi-media extravaganza that has haunted me for weeks as well as mounting the art work for THE BIG EVENT Tuesday night. When I got home, still with much to accomplish, it started to rain, therefore I haven't really been outside today.

Pity. Outside gives me strength. Even in the rain.

Tonight I'm not feeling weak so much as exhausted though I doubt much sleep will come my way partly due to the coffee ice cream I ate after dinner and partly because there are 12 thousand things I must remember and they all seem to pop into my head around 3:30 in the morning.

So I marvel at the weekend my friends spent...the friends who have graciously offered us respite in their million-dollar mansion.

Yesterday, Doris spent the day moving all of her art supplies (which are sizable and varied) from the upstairs billard room to their downstairs apartment. (Yes, they live in the basement of their mansion...as Doris told me yesterday, maybe twice a year does she make it onto the fourth floor and that's only if she can't find what she's look for.) Saturday, Doris cleared away, cleaned out and reorganized like a fiend, reveling in every little find. "Oh, I wonder what's in here" was her mantra for the day and she'd open up box after box to find beads or old cards or an odd assortment of test tubes, silver chains, and pastels. Meanwhile Steven, her husband, worked in the garden and then changed out his grips on his old set of golf clubs that he is giving to his son. He spent most of the afternoon reading and listening to his flotsam and jetsam musical selection on his IPod.

Today, Doris worked on an art project on the dining room table, while Steven putz with the pool. At 11:30, Ann took them to the ferry where they went to Bainbridge Island for lunch with long-time friends. We picked them up at 5:30 this evening and then everyone came home to putz some more -- Doris made pepper rolls and Steven read again (though I, of course, was still working).

I envy their days of "projects"...of passing the time with glue or putty or yeast.

But it's May, and I find that I always envy those who have time, be they homeless or rich, since, for me, May to the middle of June is a lesson in patience and persistence, a lesson in not running out into the rain naked screaming at the top of my voice and trying to remain calm in the face of mountains of work.

I dream of running away to some commune during May, of wearing overalls without a shirt on underneath, building up callouses on my hands by shoveling dirt and hauling hay, manure, and wood. I dream of a cloistered abbey somewhere high on a hill overlooking the ocean, a place where I wouldn't have to speak or be spoken to, a place where I wouldn't be in charge of anyone and only "God" would be in charge of me.

But the days will keep turning, one after the next, and I will remain between the rich and the homeless until the middle of June when I can let it all go and pretend I am either homeless or rich or both.