Well let us continue our walk and we will try again.

We are now coming up to a row of shops.  We do a little bit of window-shopping.  We see things that we cannot afford but we desperately want.  We see things that we could easily afford but have no desire for. It is beginning to get a little darker.  The sun begins to set; it will have to wait until tomorrow to resume its battle with the clouds.  With the darkness, the cold wind blows a little harder.  But for some reason, this wind does not seem to bother us.  We are walking a little more upright. Our eyes are no longer focusing on the pavement beneath our feet; instead, we are feeling more alert, more attentive.    

Cars pass us; some are traveling over the speed limit, while others are traveling under.  A cop stands across the street.  He is writing a parking ticket. The driver has parked illegally, and the cop does not care why.  Maybe the driver got sick, maybe there was an accident.  The cop does not consider any of this.  However, this does not matter.  What matters is that neither do we.  We could care less.  We just forge ahead, mindlessly continuing our walk.   

Now we feel the cold.

The wind is stinging our face, and we once again lower our heads to protect our cheeks.  Our toes begin to go numb.  We step on them in some vain attempt to restore circulation.  While we are doing this, a woman approaches us.  We know what she wants even before we look at her, even before she asks us a question.  It is the smell that alerts us to here presence.  It is the smell that makes us aware.  It is a horrible rancid smell, the smell of a person who has not bathed in weeks, the smell of a person who has spent the majority of the winter months living outside. 

Our gaze now lifts upwards, away from the sidewalk, and settles onto the source of the smell.  She is just what we expected, a homeless vagrant.  A bag lady.  She tries to ask us for some change.  She does not want much, just enough to buy a sandwich, maybe another bottle of booze.  Who knows, and who really cares.  We don’t, that’s for sure. So we push past her, not bothering to give her a second look.  Oh no, “we do not want to encourage her.” 

We, of course, forgive our actions by thinking, “Oh she is just another street person.  Someone else who is ruining our city.”  But damn it, haven’t we failed again?  Where was our compassion? We noticed nothing about the woman.  We were repulsed even before we met her.  We did not look at her face, or into her eyes.  We did not see the loss and the suffering that lies behind them.  We did not try to gaze at her figure.  If we had, maybe, we would have noticed that beneath the big lumpy coat of hers lies a body that has been eaten away by this cold weather and this harsh wind.  We did not even give her a chance to tell us her sob story; everyone has one.  We just assumed that she has always been a member of the streets, walking around, bothering innocent people. 

What would it have cost us to show a little compassion and make this woman’s dark day a little brighter?  What?  I’m asking.  Why could we not be bothered? What did we have that was so precious?  What would it really have cost us?  Three minutes of our time and the thirty-seven cents that lies among our pocket lint.