I knew I’d get a parking space; one of the three that are positioned right outside of the door.  I always do.  I like to credit it with my recent use of The Secret (Thank you, Rhonda Byrne).  Whatever the case, I pulled up and, yes, one of my spaces was available.

I parked and started looking for change for the meter (I’ve yet to be able to apply The Secret to finding spaces that have full meters).  As I searched my car I noticed a man sitting in front of The United Cerebral Palsy Center.  His contorted body enclosed in a wheel chair, as his arms jerked in what appeared to be an uncontrolled fashion.  At the same time, he was wailing indiscernible sounds as his head moved from side to side and up and down.  It wasn’t the first time I had seen such a sight; usually there are three or four wheel-chair bound people parked in front of this center.  But, because he was wailing and sitting alone, this man caught my attention.

I continued to look for change for the meter.  And, as I did, I noticed people passing on the sidewalk; all of whom kept to themselves, paying no obvious attention to this pained human being.  I could all but see the conversation bubbles above their heads.  One said, “Don’t look at me.  Don’t look at me!  Do not look at me!”  Another seemed to have the following written above his head, “Nope.  I don’t see you.  Do not.  You’re not there.”

I got out of my car intending to put my money in the meter.  The man continued to wail.  I plunked my change into the machine and thought, “Now, what do I do? Just walk into my appointment and pretend he isn’t there? Try and talk with him? Go into the CP building and get some help?”

I still wasn’t sure what I was going to do as I walked toward the man.  But, when I saw  tears rolling down his cheeks I knew I had to do something.  How could I not?

So, I pulled open the door to the CP center with the intention of finding some help.  I really don’t know what I expected to find or whether I expected anything.  The first thing I noticed, however, was the group of similarly situated people, contained in their wheelchairs, sitting in a windowed room positioned in front of the moving scenes on a television screen.  Some of them seemed to notice me as their bodies jerked about.  I, however, was stopped abruptly by this scene.  It was then that I noticed the scent of urine that hung in the air.

“What’s she doing here?”

The words came from a woman in a wheelchair who was located down a long hall in a back room of this place.

“Be careful, the floor is slippery.” Said an attendant.  “I just washed it.”

I told the attendant that there was a man sitting, crying and in obvious emotional distress in front of their building.  Her reply?  “Oh, he’s just upset because he wants to go home and his driver isn’t here yet.”  She then followed me outside and started talking to this man in what appeared to be a loving manner.  And, off I went to my appointment, not sure what else to do.

But, the thoughts had just begun…I started thinking about “home” and what that word means to me versus what I imagined it meant to this man.  I thought about the freedom that my physical and mental make up allow me versus what this man endures.  I thought about the fact that we, to a great extent, warehouse people such as this man because we don’t know what else to do with or for them.

The thoughts that overwhelmed me, however, were about those people on the sidewalk who passed this man and his cries.  I wondered about them.  Were they afraid?  Did they think, “That could easily have been me?  Or my child?  Or my loved one?”  Were they simply uncertain about what do do?

Whatever the case, it is my belief that we are all connected.  Each and every one of us.  Simply because we are human beings.  In this case the separation that we create is perhaps out of fear, or out of the unknown, or because we don’t know how to communicate.  It’s not such a great stretch to extend these thoughts and feelings to people of other cultures, other religions, other governments.  The bottom line is that we are all trying to do the same things, to be happy, to provide for our families, to care for our loved ones.  And, at the end of the day, we all hope to have a place to which we can go, in whatever form it takes; a haven that we can call home.