I can be a selfish person.
But let me start from the beginning.
I was in a slump, a rut, a funk, you’ll have your own name for it. The kind of mood where I didn’t want to talk to anyone and, when forced to, was short. Ok, snarly.
Too many things on the go, too many deadlines, Christmas looming and the thought of finding time to shop too depressing.
I’d reached the point where full-blown road rage was the only answer. If one more, just one more car cut me off on the Queensway, you’d be reading about me in The Citizen.
So, I looked in my calendar and saw I’d promised to go serve meals at The Mission. Let’s be honest: I didn’t want to go, even though I helped start our project. I just couldn’t face people. Make small talk. Smile. But guilt took charge. I couldn’t disappoint Jon Richardson, the man who makes it all possible. A promise is a promise. But I wasn’t happy.
So, I’m standing on the corner across from The Mission, waiting for the endless light to change, a small gale mocking my overcoat. For a moment I thought about all those who have to take shelter from that biting wind, every single day, but then that glimmer took a backseat when the light turned green.
I ran across Waller, my mood as dark as the pot-holed pavement.
I arrived to find a contingent from Kelly Santini already hard at work. But their smiles couldn’t kick-start that elusive endorphin that brings us back to equanimity. Even the sight of Steve Kelly, looking like a Norman Rockwell soda jerk in his paper hat and apron, couldn’t do it for me.
Then, as I made my rounds with my tray, a hand jerked my arm. I almost deposited the roast beef into someone’s lap. Before I could get out some mean words, the person attached to the hand said: “Are you a real lawyer?” It was asked in such a child-like way that even Beelzebub would have been pressed to be uncivil. I explained that everyone serving was in the legal profession---lawyers, students, support staff.
I moved on, only to be asked at another table if I was ‘really’ a lawyer. Maybe this was because my paper hat had taken on a rather rakish angle from the jostling. So I tried to establish my bona fides with an obvious skeptic. I’m sure she didn’t believe me, especially when I couldn’t produce a business card.
I found this was a table of philosophers, one of the diners pointedly asking me how I could possibly defend people who are obviously guilty. (I was able to sidestep that one by falling back on my civil litigation day job). I was cross-examined on my ‘most frivolous and vexatious case’ (clearly a denizen of our Courts). Someone asked me the difference between ‘morals’ and ‘ethics’.
I was saved from this metaphysical exercise by a wave and a smile from across the room. It was from a fellow who now lives at The Mission. I knew him from the days when we were both young lawyers. I don’t know what caused his breakdown, but he now spends his days battling his inner demons and those in our mental health bureaucracies.
He has not withdrawn; at least I have never seen him in that state. He is strengthened by human contact. It is something we all need. That may seem obvious or glib. But it was speaking to those people who I came to feed one cold afternoon that brought me out of my selfishness. To turn away from others only hurts ourselves. I need to put that on a sign in my office.
This is a hard time of the year to reflect. It is a hard time to act; we seem to only have time to react to the never-ending demands.
I am going to resolve to think about others, call some people who’ve fallen off the radar, mend some fences. I hope you all will connect or re-connect with someone. It is essential to feed the hungry, but we must also nurture each other’s spirits. Merry Christmas.
Ian Stauffer