The stress and trauma of sleeping rough can be paused in a space with intentional warmth and thoughtfully placed rest areas. When I get to the Women’s Hearth in the mornings, I am greeted by the cozy front rooms, adorned with artwork, throw pillows, squashy armchairs and so many plants that I am often surprised that the air here is not crisp.
I mentioned that on July 17, 2016, I prayed fervently to be released from years of demeaning homelessness in the San Francisco Bay Area. I also reported that ten days later, on July 27, 2016, I stepped off a bus in Moscow, Idaho, and have been inside ever since. So how did this remarkable change of circumstance come to pass?
I often compared homelessness to a turnstile at a BART station. I was stuck in the turnstile, as its wheels rolled me rapidly around and around. Eventually, I would be spewed out of the turnstile, on one side of the other: either inside or out.
It was often assumed that people who lived inside had a lot to teach those of us who were outside. It was rarely supposed that we who lived outside had a lot to teach people who never had done so.
I consider myself to be in the ideal position to express what homelessness is actually like. That is, from the perspective of those of us who have lived it.