The Stranger Project - est. 2014

June 27, 2017 - Jackie, New York City

I’m in New York for a few weeks, thanks to the incredible generosity and thoughtfulness of two dear friends that live here.

I'm writing this while sitting in the main reading room of the New York Public library. It is a sanctuary of gilded beauty. It has ornate, detailed carving which covers the vaulted ceiling. Fluffy pink, renaissance-like clouds adorn the centre panels. Glorious streams of sunshine pour in through giant arched windows.

The large, concert-hall sized room, is surrounded by reference books, with a small, wrought iron balcony adding more books to the room. There are dozens of long tables, with intricately carved bases. Four brass lamps adorn each table. The air-conditioning is a life saver! There are a few hundred people in here, and yet, the silence is sublime.  

It’s my fourth time being in the city, and I admit it, I LOVE New York! There is an energy here unlike any other city I’ve been to.

Three weeks is the longest I’ve spent in New York. There’s a certain luxury in that duration in so far as, I’m able to be more leisurely about doing things. There is no rush.

"Intentional meandering" I call it - it's something I'm working on; more about that another time.

I even spent most of yesterday hanging out at my friend's place, and not going anywhere, or doing anything, for most of the day. After an intense, action packed first five days, it was grand to spend the day at (their) home and relax.

A couple of things I’d like to boast about at this point. I must look like a New Yorker. Once again, while out for a walk on my own last night, I was stopped by someone and asked for directions. It’s happened twice before on previous trips here.

Each time, I’m proud to say I knew the answer, and happily pointed out directions to get ‘tourists’ to their destination.

Another thing I noticed just today. There are of course, copious amounts of people working in the tourism industry here. On any given street corner, people are handing out flyers for bus tours, restaurants, sight-seeing trips, ride-to-the-roof-of-this-building excursions, add infinity.

Almost none of them stop me. I either look like a local, or a completely unapproachable ass. Either one works for me!

This weekend was the 48th annual New York Pride March. I had the incredibly good fortune to participate in the march, riding on a float with my friend’s employer.

Truly, a stand alone life event, that I will never forget.

37,000 people in the march, and another TWO MILLION spectators.

An energy like I’ve not experienced before.

I was here in New York during Pride in 2012, two days after equal marriage came into law, throughout NY State!

Another stand alone moment in time.

On Sunday, there was an even more powerful sense of connection with spectators, as we travelled along.  Some spectators stood ten deep at points.

There was a palpable sense of jubilant camaraderie and celebration. Defiance. Definitely resistance and persistance. I've been marching for over 35 years. The love was everywhere. Strangers waving, singing, dancing and blowing kisses.

Certain intersections had pairs of large dump trucks blocking them off.

Some streets were barricaded with pairs of garbage trucks.

Everything is impacted by the current political climate.

I didn’t take any of that for granted. Nor will I - I shall march as long as I can, and hope one day, we won’t have to. Alas, there is still much work to be done.

I had thought about perhaps utilizing some of my ‘luxury’ time, to go out and meet a stranger. I hadn’t really planned on it happening today, and in meeting Jackie, it just seemed natural.

Strolling down Fifth Avenue, I was first drawn to Jackie's vintage film camera. I’m a hobby photographer and have, over the years had the distinct pleasure of using some quality older cameras.

A friend once had a Hasselblad camera. It's a large format camera that makes the most delicious clunk-click sound with each shutter release. My first real sense of geekdom. Clunk-click. Ahhh.

Jackie was filming outside a specific 'tower' on Fifth Avenue. One  that I wouldn’t have wanted to stop in front of, let alone photograph. Okay, I did take one or two shots, which I intend to alter.

But her camera made me want to ask questions, even though I know very little about the technical aspects.

If you’ve been following this project for any time, you’ll know I speak of self-imposed rules. You'll also know, on occasion, I liberate myself from my own constraints.

I break the rules because I can.

Today, I gave myself permission to not be so intent on getting a full life story. It was about connecting with a stranger.

While I didn’t go into the whole backstory of The Stranger Project - est. 2014, I explained the idea. I asked Jackie if it would be alright to ask a few questions, and to take Jackie’s photo, which I would post here. She readily agreed, while continuing to work.

“I’m an only child,” Jackie told me. Of all my ice-breaker, conversation starting questions, this is one of my personal favourites. I'm fascinated by the difference between people who grew up as an only child, compared to those who had siblings.

“No, I don’t feel that I missed out on anything as an only child. However, ironically, I have a nine-year-old son, and he desperately wants to have siblings,” she said.

“I guess it’s because he sees his friends with brothers and sisters. Alas, that ship has sailed.” We both chuckled at that.

As a film maker, Jackie is still using old school film. Each canister of film lasts two and a half minutes, and costs around $25USD to develop, when she’s working with colour film.

Just thinking of the gamble and cost would be prohibitive to me. In our 'new-age' need for instant gratification, the wait and uncertainty would be an exercise in patience and willingness. To wait, and then discover the work isn't what one hoped for. This could be a grand discovery, or a resolute sense of failure. I’m projecting my own perspectives here.  

It was no surprise to me when I asked Jackie what she does.

“I teach this,” she says, pointing to her camera.

“I teach film-making,” she said. Jackie is from New Hampshire, in the north-eastern United States.

I found out that Jackie is a professor of film and electronic arts. A faculty member at Bard College, founded in 1860, a college of the liberal arts and sciences. Of course, she teaches film making.

I asked if I would know of her work. “The one piece I’m most proud of,” she said, “is a film I made called ‘The Observers’.

It's about one of the world’s last staffed weather observatories, at Mount Washington, in New Hampshire.”

Currently, Jackie is working on a film about the 45th US President’s vast property holdings. I loved that throughout the conversation, not once did we use ‘that' name.

While chatting, as I mentioned, Jackie continued to work, and as happens, I managed to throw her off, or so I felt at least. 
She had opened the camera to remove the reel she had been filming when I approached her. The camera needed a new film reel. Dropping the box out of her hand into her bag amongst other film boxes, which all looked the same to me. She placed a new film in the camera and wound it into it's sprocket.

“I don’t know which film canister I just used. Hmmm. I think it was this one. Or was it this one?” she asked of herself. I knew it was time to let her get back to focusing on her task at hand. Filming people coming in and out of the large tower we were chatting in front of.

“It was nice chatting. Thanks so very much, for letting me ask questions and take your photo. I hope you’ll look for the story,” I said as we shook hands.

“It was fun,” she said. “And now you’ve met a stranger in New York!” #notastranger

June 18, 2017

It was still dark.

“Hey. Sorry to wake you up, I need your help,” he said, in a gruff half-whisper.

He didn't turn on the light. There was  a silhouette against the light coming from the bathroom, across the hall.

My bedroom was the smallest in our house. It was what the Scots call a box room. Eight feet by ten feet.

Even though I didn’t share my bedroom, I had bunk beds. Someone my father worked with had given them to me, and of course, I slept on the top bunk.

As I fought against opening my eyes, my focus still blurred, I could see my father’s face, level with mine, and up close.

“Can you thread this for me?”

Suddenly, both of his hands were in my face. There was a needle and what appeared to be the thickest, black thread imaginable, right in front of me.  That thread, was thick enough for embroidery.

“What are you doing?” I asked, sitting up in bed.

“I’m sorry. I just can’t get this goddamn thing threaded. Can you please do it for me?” he asked, his voice raspy in a hushed tone, impatience simmering just below the surface.

“I have to go get some groceries around the corner, and then get off to work. I just need you to thread this for me! Cn you?”

We had been living in Scotland for little over a year. My father was escaping his second failed marriage, and as he would teach time and time again, his answer to life’s problems was to leave.

Literally.

Just get up, and go. I was ten, and my brother was thirteen when we abandoned everyone else in the family, and took off to the old country.

For the first while, we lived with my grandmother, my father’s mother. That proved unsuccessful and short-term.

Looking back I guess you could say it was a culture shock.

While it was without doubt, an exciting adventure, it had, at times, been a difficult and emotional transition.

We moved into our own flat, with little furniture other than a few pieces from Gran. It was sparse, and so far removed from life back in Canada.

There was no flooring to speak of.  Just the bare floorboards of construction. We had no carpeting or carpets. There were no appliances. We had no fridge; the kitchen had a built-in ‘larder’ which was essentially a cupboard with a thick, stone slab, and two vents that opened to outside.

We had no television. My father compensated for this by getting us a ping-pong table. There we nights we played the hours away.

We had a coal bunker; every flat in the ‘close’ had coal bunker.   Every close, or stairway, in every row of tenements had coal bunkers.

Street after street, of rows and rows of tenement housing. I soon learned how to set and light a good coal fire. I found it almost magical that having a coal fire burning in the ‘front room’ meant our water tank had hot water too.

There was no constant running hot water supply, and I didn’t understand it was out of necessity. We couldn't afford such luxuries. We couldn’t afford to keep the water tank heated. Many couldn't.

There were times when we had no coal, and my father would begrudgingly turn the water heater on, so we could have a bath. Sometimes, we had to share the water.

My father had found an old, torn, dirty parka in the cupboard, behind the water tank.   The coat was a dusty, almost camouflage-like military green. It had bright red flannel lining, which showed through some of the holes where the seams had come apart.

That he was attempting to sew it, with thick, black, thread that felt like cord, didn't occur to me, at first.

“Dad. Do you want me to stitch something up for you? I can do it later.”

No, he wanted the needle threaded.

“Look, it’s early. Just do this for me and then go back to sleep. I’ll do it myself. I just can’t get the needle threaded. You’re good at these things.”

He turned the light on. Again, I squinted and blinked. I grabbed the needle and the thread.

Holding the needle up to the light, I took the thread in my other hand, and by way of demonstration, I put the end of the thread in my mouth, licking it.

I slowly reached out, and, closing one eye, focussed on the hole at the end of the needle. Boom! In one attempt, I passed that thick rope through it’s intended tiny target.

I handed the carefully threaded needle back to my father, and lay back down, covering myself with the blankets.

“It’s cold in here. Can I turn the heater on for a few minutes?”

I asked him this knowing that he would find it hard to say no. It was cold. Despite the miracle of a coal fire heating our water tank, and the front room, it didn’t extend to the bedrooms. Or the kitchen. The bathroom was the coldest.

We had small, 'one bar' electric heaters in each bedroom, but my father didn’t like to use them too often, trying to keep our electric bills small.

He smiled at me.

“Thanks for helping with the needle. I knew you could do it. I’ll plug the heater in now, but you have to turn it off in five minutes, okay?” as he leaned in, kissing my forehead.

“Have a good day. I’ll see you tonight,” he said, after plugging in the heater.

"You have a good day too, Dad."

As he turned out the light, I snuggled down, anticipating the warm orange glow of the electric heater to fill my room with light and warmth.

I must have fallen asleep again. I stirred suddenly, hearing the deadbolt lock ‘click’ as my father returned from getting groceries.

Leaping down out of the top bunk, I unplugged the heater. I opened my bedroom door in time to see my father’s arm coming in the front door.

He was fidgeting with his keys still in the lock, and a loaf of bread in that same hand. I knew he was about to curse. It was just what he did. He reacted to everything.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” he barked, as the silver skeleton key came out of the lock.

The bread, in it’s waxed paper wrapping, fell out of his hand, and in his attempt to catch it, he lurched forward. It bounced slightly, and fumbled it's way down the hall.

His other arm got caught on the door handle, or, the sleeve of that dusty green parka got caught on the door handle.

As he lurched forward to catch the bread, the pint of milk that was wedged in under his left arm, slipped out of his grip.

It all happened in slow-motion, as we both watched the glass bottle fall towards the floor.

My father’s cursing rose louder, ruder, sounding more personal. A seemingly direct affront to him, like no other had ever endured.

“Fuck! God damn fucking bastard!” “SHIT!”

“That's all the fucking money we have, for fuck’s sake! I'm going to be late now. Fuck, fuck FUCK!”

He was spitting angry, and red with rage.

As the milk bottle tumbled in slow-motion, I noticed that the sleeve of my father’s dusty green parka was adorned with perfectly placed, equally sized, thick, black stitches, almost puckering the seams they held together, pulled so tightly.

Blanket stitches.

I spotted another wound on the sleeve that was now firmly jammed up against the door handle. It was like a battle field, that jacket, with it’s trench-like stitching.

Utilitarian without concern for aesthetics. Yet, warranting full marks for the uniformity of stitches.

I’m sure over the years, memory has coloured the story somewhat. I’m not so sure my thought process was that sophisticated at eleven years old. I do remember those stitches, though. Clearly, like I had just seen that parka hanging in my hall closet.

In that moment's infinite timespan, I knew what was going to happen.

And it did.

That milk bottle shattered upon impact.

The glass and milk and cursing splattered all over the floor, pooling, then running in-between the floorboard crevices.

Splashes of milk trickled down the wall.

The sound of the bottle breaking was like an explosion, only slightly less far-reaching than my father’s violent outburst of swear words.

Each curse, singularly pronounced, as if to inflict damnation upon those milk-soaked floorboards.

His furiously loud voice ricocheted through the cold, empty stairwell of the close.

“Fuck it! FUCK IT!”

“Fuck.”

He sounded defeated now.

“Dad, it’s okay. I’ll get a…”

“NO! Go to your room. Leave it!” he yelled, not even looking at me.

He was watching the milk run through the cracks, leaving puddles cupped in some of the pieces of broken glass scattered across the hallway.

"Just fucking leave it. I’ll clean it up. I don’t want you to cut yourself. Go back to bed, please.”

I don’t remember what happened after that.

I remember the shame I felt when I saw him wearing that parka, with it’s rope stitching. Those tears in the fabric that would never heal. The wounds. I was embarrassed that he had to wear it.

We never spoke about it, but I know he wouldn’t have asked me to wear that coat. The hand-me-down, found by chance in an empty flat. Yet, it didn’t bother him.

We were that poor.

I don’t remember the next couple of days, other than knowing that we didn’t have any milk. That really had been the last of the money my father had. There wasn’t another pint of milk to replace that one. Not that day.

I’ve carried this story with me for over forty years.

I’m pretty sure I might have told one person, some of it, but I don’t remember who.

I’ve certainly never written about it before.

My brother has never mentioned it. Not this particular instance of going without. Not the cursing, not the sound of that bottle, smashing it’s way into the floorboards.

I don’t remember even talking about not having milk for a couple of days.

We never really got along, my brother and I. We fought like cat and dog, constantly. But we were in the same ring. Two brothers, each other's keeper in the battlefield. Often unspoken, if not, pared down reassurances and comforts. We were child soldiers in the same war.

My father passed away last year, and this is the first ‘Father’s Day’ since his death.

Almost, a year of firsts.

I don’t remember the last time I gave him a card. Not for his birthday, not for Christmas or any occasion like today, another hallmark moment.

Years had gone by without my father and I even talking.

Nonetheless, I did think of him, every year, on Father’s Day, despite myself.

We didn’t speak last year, at all.

I'm pretty sure I called him the year before that, as a gesture of friendship, not love.

To let him know I was thinking of him.

I didn’t hate him. Nor do I love him. I don’t know the last time I felt love for him.

I’m okay with that. Now.

I have a few fond memories; standing on his feet while he danced, passionately talking him out of opening all the gifts on Christmas Eve.

He taught me how to skip stones on water.

For me, there aren’t any of those often quoted 'Thanks to my Dad', or 'Dad, I’m so grateful you taught me X, Y or Z’ moments.

I still carry bits of anger. I still grieve.

I understand it never fully ends.

As I’ve told a few close friends, "We just learn to drive differently."

Over time, it finds a groove, and settles in.

I can say this, though, with insistence, ironic happiness, and profound honesty.

For at least the last two decades, I’ve acknowledged this to myself, time and time again. It was just what I did. It's just what I do.

No matter how often, I always smile. No matter how unfortunate, I always smile. I’ve even laughed out loud, ridiculously, while others scurry around in anxious despair.

'The Kindness of Strangers' - In this new podcast, we talk about walking Tom home, in the final weeks of his life. I met Tom back on Day 10 of TSP2014, and we became good friends. Our story starts at the 18:45 mark (runtime 14mins), but please, have a listen to the entire podcast... #notastranger

"What are your hopes for health care?" 

This Wednesday, March 01st, 7pm, I'll join a group of speakers, each sharing our hopes for healthcare. We'll be using the 20x20 format; 20 photos and each photo is displayed for exactly 20 seconds before automatically advancing to the next one!

The evening will be streamed LIVE via #FacebookLive at facebook.com/bcpsqc

I offer my gratitude and thanks to Clara Hughes* for being such an outspoken, proud and loud champion (Olympic and otherwise) for Mental Health Awareness.

I have an 'invisible' mental health condition that I live with, everyday. I live with depression. Depression is not easy. Some days, getting dressed is an almost insurmountable task. Depression is nothing to be ashamed of. Pretending to be 'well' when I'm not is exhausting. Depression can be like the weather, unexpected and unpredictable. Some days, standing before a sink full of dishes is just as consuming and foreboding as climbing a mountain. People living without depression in their everyday lives, find that difficult to relate to, or believe, even.

I'm learning how to live with depression, and proud to add my voice to the conversation. You're not alone, ever. I will always have an ear to listen, or support anyone in finding resources to offer support.

If you or someone you know is needing support, there's great information here: http://www.heretohelp.bc.ca

Don't ever feel, think or believe you're alone. You're not. 

January 06, 2017 - Reflection. "The opposite of depression is not happiness, but vitality." Andrew Solomon

Three years ago today, I posted my first five stories to my personal Facebook page. Just a little thing I was going to try in order to dig myself out of isolation. If only just to get outside, every, single, day.

I could never, ever have begun to imagine all the magic and comfort that would come my way. In abundance, unexpected, unconditional and authentic I've made friends with so many wonderful supporters of TSP2014, some digitally, and some in-person, all equally genuine. I'm even looking after Day 269's fig tree, while Adam is off on a journey.

Today, as I sat on the proverbial couch, settling in for an afternoon nap, i was snapped wide-awake in realizing that in some ways, I've come full circle. Albeit with a vastly different perspective and experience base.

I live with depression. For me personally, the last year was a rollercoaster, and once again, a life changing ride. I'm still not sure I've stopped spinning. I know for sure, I'm nowhere near done unpacking all the lessons that come from embracing vulnerability, speaking my truth, and living out loud.

There's always work to be done. Our wellbeing, in part, comes from connection and community. In no small manner, the connections I've made here, with you, reading this here, have been a staple in my growth and reflection.

I'm in a deep reflection right now. I'm being as present as I can. It's good, it's natural and it's how I process and grow. These last three years have changed me in ways that are profound, ethereal and sometimes overwhelming. All thoroughly permeated with gratitude. Eventually.

This project isn't over, not by a long shot. It will continue and will be informed by my observations, lessons, and learns. And listening. Truly, listening. My wish for all is goodness, peace, and love. Connection and community. Grace and generosity. Stillness, happiness, contentment. Boldness, bravery and intention. Strength, character and heart. Love. So much love.

'crows know love' Vancouver, December 25, 2016

2016, has been such a powerful year. Filled with ups and downs, lessons, love and losses. For me, and the essence of TSP2014, has always been about connection and conversation, ultimately leading to growth.

Throughout these past fews years, I've been blessed to share my experiences here. Whether chatting with strangers, or just me, thinking out loud, this 'project' has been a gift beyond anything I could have ever even imagined. I look froward to the next chapters; the still untold stories, and those I keep threatening to write!

Whatever you may or may not celebrate, today, and every day; celebrate each other. Connection and community are vital to our well-being.

For that, we are each responsible.

November 17, 2016 - Family Words have a tendency to trip me up. I can get so stuck on a word that it loses it’s meaning altogether. I'm not talking about the big, unknown definitions of words that are new to me. There are certain everyday, common words that I mull over, trying to find my own, personal understanding of their meaning. What does that word really mean and how is it applied to my experience? What else can it mean, perhaps to someone else, or a from a different perspective?

Words like trust, shame, guilt and battle. Those rattled off pretty darn quickly there!

Family.

That’s a huge six letter word. Family. There are so many levels of understanding, definition and interpretation of the word ‘family’. So much springs to mind. I'm sure it has a very personal meaning to each of us, based on our own upbringing and experiences.

My parent's divorced when I was about three or four years old. I know that’s not uncommon. That my stepfather is black, and married my mother, a single parent with four children in 1969, wasn’t so common. To this day, he treats my mother like a queen, and they are each other’s best friend, still.

My father remarried as well. Three more times. I’ve had two additional families with stepbrothers and stepsisters that all ended by divorce, and/or distance. We left one family behind and moved to Scotland. Then we left another behind in Scotland when we returned to Canada.

I never met my father’s fourth family until after he passed away. He had been married to his fourth wife for 30 years. “Those were the happiest years of my life,” he told me, shortly after his wife had passed away.

At the internment of my father's ashes, I met this fourth family of his, and I could all too easily see how he would have been happy. They accepted me and welcomed me without any gulf, or judgment. Their hearts and arms were open wide. I’ve never heard so many times, albeit indirectly, how much I resemble my father. “Wow he really looks like Reg, doesn’t he!?” was the general consensus.

Then there are our ‘chosen’ families. Those from school, or work, or socially. The friends we meet that stick around, and in time become a part of our own life. Our selected and extended families, branching out, over time. It’s commonplace to have circles of chosen-family-friend’s that might not even meet one another. Some family-friends may never overlap, yet know all about each other. Then there are those that collide and morph into a bigger family group.

I know a lot of people, sure. I am blessed with lots of friends. Good fortune has brought what I consider to be, an abundance of great friends. I also have a very small, intimate group of select friends, that I carry with me daily. We all do. Those that we go to, or think about when things happened that we want to share. Those that are here for the good, the bad, and to tell you when things are ugly.

Those friends that hear our deepest thoughts, concerns, hopes and secrets. Those that get to hear the madness of my processes and inner turmoils, as I process through every shred of everything. A family. My chosen family.

When my friend Tom, who I met back on Day Ten of TSP2014, went into hospital at the end of June, my first reaction was to be his family. We had such a special friendship and connection, it wasn’t even really a consideration for me.

Tom had, over the two-and-a-half years I knew him, mentioned his brother, his sister-in-law and his two cousins. He also told me of an older brother who had died when he was a young man. Both of his parents had passed away. I thought Tom had no one else. By choice, and without question, I would be his family.

During the first three weeks in hospital, a group of people emerged, and to my amazement, a few others had the same impression I had. That Tom made each of us feel so special, and considered him family, doesn’t surprise me. What did surprise me is how many people he had impacted in this way. We each thought we were his closest friend.

Tom’s families, whether by birth or by selection, all gathered. We became another family. In Tom’s death, we are connected by virtue of knowing Tom. We cared for, loved and supported Tom through his final transition in this life. We soon came to comfort each other, as well.

After Tom died, we had a Celebration of Life, in honour of Tom. He didn’t want a funeral and had made that clear. A gathering, whatever it might be called, after the passing of a friend or family member, isn’t really for the person who died. I think it’s for those of us left here in this lifetime. To seek comfort in our commonality. To share sentiments and our expressions of love and care. To celebrate our experiences with Tom, share his stories, his quirks, his humour and his friendship.

The coffeeshop that Tom and I frequented, insisted on buying us all our beverages. I had a mocha, Tom’s favourite. Tom's niece brought tasty treats for us to share. Tom’s sister-in-law, and now dear friend of mine, brought a framed photo of Tom, It was a picture I had taken of him sometime last year. His ever-present Tilly hat even made an appearance!

It was such a warm, connected and comforting group of Tom’s ‘family’. Those of us who shared in loving and knowing Tom. We each mourn his passing, in our own way. There was comfort, in our mutual sadness. There was lots of laughter and cheer, as well as tears and hugs. It was a good day for hugs. So many were had.

This photo is from that day, back in August. Tom’s Celebration of Life. If you didn’t know the story, it wouldn’t be hard to look at this picture, and, you might quite easily guess it’s a family gathering of some sort. You’d be correct. This is a family. We shared our love, respect, admiration, and gratitude for Tom. We supported and cared for each other. Tom brought us together.

Sunday November 13, 2016 I’ve been sitting this story for almost three months. I’ve spent a lot of the last three months sitting on my ass, without the slightest sense of guilt, while I worked my way through an difficult summer, and grieving two significant, personal losses.

I’m now feeling like I’ve processed what I can, and am feeling at peace, and content. There’s no completely recovering from the death of someone that is, or was important in one’s life. Nor should there be. It’s part of the price, if you will, of love. The memories are the long lasting rewards. So are some of the lessons. We’ve all had a bumpy ride throughout most of 2016, let’s face it. It’s been a year marked with the loss of personal heroes; artists that influenced our youth, that enrich our lives, with their stories. We’ve had turmoil and sadness. While this particular story germinates in loss, it moves quickly to my intended essence; appreciation of the little things. The random moments of beauty and connection, the gifts of gratitude and remembrance, honouring each other. Acknowledgment of our differences, and highlighting, seeking out, our similarities.

On the morning Tom passed away, in early August, I had planned to meet with his family, at his place, to help sort of Tom’s belongings. We had spent hours together with Tom the day before, and had each said our goodbyes. This was a chance to keep to our plan, and to spend some time together, in the shadows of his death. Going through Tom’s belongings was revealing, I saw a side of Tom I didn’t know. Seeing the things that he kept, that meant something to him. The personal stuff that we all have. The time together was comforting and oddly light. It was so profoundly moving. And sad, of course. It was also beautiful; here we were, three people absolutely comfortable in our shared and individual grieving. Four weeks prior to this, we had never met. This is family.

Tom apparently, was setting in for the zombie takeover. He had stashes of rolling papers, cigarette lighters, loose packets and cartons of cigarettes. Some opened, some not. And enough peanuts to feed the entire population of squirrels at City Hall, through a long winter!

His Tilly hat collection. Tom’s leather biker jacket. He treasured that. On the last day that Tom was outside, I was walking him home and he had a bad fall. We sat on the sidewalk, me holding Tom up, while we made sure he was okay, relatively speaking. I recall saying to Tom that it was a good thing he had decided to wear his biker jacket that day; judging by the scuff marks in the leather from the sidewalk, it had most definitely limited some of the flesh wounds and road rash Tom suffered in that fall.

I was gifted the jacket. It sits in a bag, under my bed. Time will decide what happens with this treasured memory.

I asked if I could have the cigarettes. It seemed silly to throw them away. We’re all non-smokers. I admittedly am the worst kind–a reformed smoker. I started smoking when I was 13, and stopped, finally, on my 40th birthday. I find it disgusting now, personally. I also understand addiction, intimately. I digress. I thought I’d give the cigarettes away. It seemed to me that’s what Tom would have liked. In all, there were FORTY THREE full packets of cigarettes, once we had collected them, from a number of stashes in various areas of his single room.

Tom passed away on August 05th, just two weeks short of him turning 61. On Tom’s birthday, I decided to go out, armed with this bag of cigarettes, and give them away to honour Tom’s birthday. It was liking spending time, going for a walk, with Tom.

I was intent on giving them away to people that I felt might be appreciative of a free pack of smokes. Typically, I started to create a series of statements which I used to approach each person. This wasn’t about gathering anyone’s story. It was about sharing with another person. Connecting, however briefly, is a two-way gift.

I approached folk who were asking for help, or collecting empties, or sitting on benches with what may be all their worldly possession’s, in a few bags next to them, or at their feet.

When I found someone who smoked, and not everyone did, I asked if I could tell them a quick, short story. Not one person said no to hearing my story. “My good friend Tom passed away recently, and today is his birthday. I inherited a bunch of cigarettes, and I wanted to celebrate my friend’s birthday by giving away the smokes to people that could do with a gift from Tom.”

The smiles and instant, authentic connection was palpable.

Then I made my the rest of my pitch. I explained that I wanted to do a small tribute project to Tom, and asked if I could take a photograph of just their eyes. Nothing else would be in the image. Only one person turned down my offer at that point. I get it.

I gave each person a pack of smokes and then asked to take a photo of their eyes. In most cases I only took one photograph. I told each person “When I take your photo, I’m going to say something, and the picture will be only of your eyes, reacting to what I say.”

As I was about to take each photo, I said what I’ve come to believe, are two of the most important words we can use. “Ready? Thank you.”

(above) Packet 01 - I approached Henry, who was pushing a buggy with empty bottles and cans. Much to my surprise it turns out, Henry knew me, and remembered my name. We had met way back on Day 32 of TSP2014. I wish I could say I recognized him first. That said, it was so incredibly delightful to have the first person I approached, be personally connected to this very project about connection! So random!

(above) Packet 02 - Eddy seemed unsure of my intentions. I showed him Henry’s photo to offer some validity, and sure, they know each other! The world is a series of circles, after all! While Eddy himself doesn’t smoke, his girlfriend does, and so I gave them to Eddy to gift to his girlfriend. We both walked away smiling from ear to ear!

(above) Packet 03 - I was sitting at Tom’s Bench, when Bob, a man that I’ve seen around the neighbourhood before, approached me. He said “Hey, you wouldn't have a cigarette to sell would you?” That got him a pack! *A few days later, I saw Bob again. “They sure were strong cigarettes! It was like smoking a cigar, took me three days to get through the pack!”

Packet 04 - Dave was sitting on the sidewalk, panhandling on Burrard St. He had just come to Vancouver a few days ago. Originally from Halifax, Dave had spent a few months on the Island, in Victoria. “I liked how friendly the city of Victoria is. It was like Halifax. It reminded me bit of home. Not like Vancouver. This isn't like Halifax. Or Victoria.”

Packet 05 - David and his friend were sitting outside a restaurant, singing somewhat incoherently when I walked past them. His friend, Bassi, was laying down, with his head in David’s lap. When I gave him the cigarettes, David smiled. “Tom is with us in many forms.”

Packet 06 - Bassi was lying on the sidewalk, with his head in David’s lap. He tells me he thinks his names is Dave, which is also very funny to both these guys. Bassi laughs so much I have to take several photos to get one with his eyes open.

Packet 07 - Even though JoJo had a cast on his arm, the smile on his face was infectious. His grin literally went from ear to ear, his entire face smiling! I asked how he broke his arm. “I caught it in an automatic door that was broken and it slammed closed on me and broke my arm. But that’s okay,” he says, widening his smile again. “I prevented it from slamming on some frail old guy that was behind me. He didn't get hurt. And man, he would have!”

Packet 08 - Sean was standing in the middle of a busy street, at an intersection. I crossed half way to join him on the boulevard. He had a handwritten cardboard sign with “Spare change” in bold letters. I didn’t want to get in the way of his mission, so I quickly told him my proposition. “Sure. I’d love that. I could really use a smoke myself right about now!” I took his photo and reached into my bag, and handed him a pack of cigarettes. “Oh,” he said. “Just one pack?”

Packet 09 - When I gave Jordan the cigarettes, he smiled and started to say something, then stopped himself. I asked what he was going to say. “Well, I don't mean to be rude. That’s why I stopped myself.” I assured him he could say what he wanted. “I’ve had these smokes before. They’re popular on local reservations.”

Packet 10 - Ron was sitting in a wheelchair, panhandling outside a transit station. He was a happy man of few words. ”Absolutely.” After I gave him the smokes, he reached out to shake my hand. “Thank you very much!”

Packet 11 - Peter leaned in close and said, almost in a whisper “I mean this not as a joke. Even though I never met your friend Tom, my most sincere and heartfelt condolences.”

Packet 12 Allan - “That's just beautiful.”

Packet 13 - Ralph was one of the cheeriest people I met that day. He was sitting on the ground, in the shade of large tree near the bus depot. I sat with him and we chatted a bit about friends dying and the valuable lessons we can carry from them. no problem! I'm a smoker. They're all mine!

Sunday, November 06th, 2016 It's been a long time coming. I know I'll never 'get over' the death of my good friend Tom, and later on that same day, the death of my father. Here we are, three months later, and I'm at peace today.

I know without a doubt that the love, care, kindness and support of many kind hearts, made the dramatic weight of this summer bearable.

The Stranger Project has had so many powerful ripples come back to me; becoming friends with Tom way back on Day 10. Two years later, walking Tom home in his final transition from this life. The comfort that brought me, the gift, which then softened the edges of the sudden and unexpected death of my father.

People I've met, once strangers, are now solidly ensconced in my tribe. Loving and hugging and caring all the way. Without this project and all the many wonderful connections I've made because of TSP2014, right now, my life would not be what it is today. I am humbled, grateful and blessed beyond imagination. I am inspired. Thank you.

Throughout the summer, while I've been mostly absent here, I've written notes, thoughts, process, poems and ramblings! Suffice to say, I hope you'll stick around - there's more stories and experiences still to share!

I'm thrilled to share that 'Not A Stranger' has another Vancouver screening! Next Thursday, October 20th, 7pm at SFU Woodward's campus. The short documentary, by KGP Films, explores my experience with TSP2014. I hope to see you there!

"COMMON THREADS: Short Films from the Heart of our City.

Come and celebrate some incredibly talented local filmmakers at Reel Causes’ first ever program of short films!

This evening of film is dedicated to the intersections of our communities and we are thrilled to support and highlight the work of Intersections Media Opportunities for Youth Society. This event is in conjuction with the DTES Heart of the City Festival.

Sunday, August 21, 2016 - 6:05am Yesterday I said goodbye to my father, who passed away on August 05th, the same day my dear friend Tom passed away.

My father and I, while not close, had spent time over the last ten years or so, working on a friendship. No apologies, or reparations, no arguments, or accusations. There were some challenging conversations, on both sides. We had one three hour conversation that I never expected, and will never forget. We made a conscious effort to connect, and to build on the present, not the past.

It had been a few years since I had seen him last, but we had talked on the phone, up until the end of last year. I didn't know he was ill - a choice he made to not have anyone contact his children. He had remarried almost 30 years ago, and I've never met any of his family. I was filled with trepidation yesterday, being his only child to attend, and stepping into my father's life, a circle of people I had never met.

I considered not going. I told a friend the feeling in my stomach was like that of going into hospital for surgery. Voluntarily.

My father's family welcomed me with open arms. They were kind, gentle, and full of grace. Everyone spoke of how much I look like him. There was not a moment of feeling like an outsider, not even an awkward silence. I was not a stranger.

I was asked to read a poem that someone had brought along. I choked out the words, in between pauses, gasps for air and a firm grip of my tongue between my teeth. Then I completely broke down, in front of everyone assembled. With dignity, they held that space for me. I was safe, and felt the loving and deeply connected care from every single person.

I feel comfortable saying it was a lovely afternoon, ugly crying in public and all!

In speaking with a friend later in the day, I said I was the only one to 'ugly cry' and that I wasn't concerned about it. He challenged me with, "Why is it UGLY crying?" I replied that I don’t want anyone to see me with my face contorted like that - and that it was a good question. I pondered this a while. It was pure raw emotion. Going forward, I'll see if I can use that when next describing my 'pure raw emotion cry face'.

Today we celebrate Tom's life, and personally, I'll mark today as the end of a swirling chapter that has gone on for the last two months. Dying and death have been a daily focus. It's a conversation I'm determined to keep going. I've been exposed to, endured and made it through every, single, moment. To close on a celebration of life seems only fitting.

The lessons. Long may I continue to receive them. Celebrate love today. Take a moment to connect, or reconnect with someone that might just benefit from knowing you're thinking of them. Just because.

August 07, 2016 - A parallel universe

Time. Timing is everything. Time is short, is precious, is a gift. Time needs to be managed, needs to be well spent, needs to be made. Time management, is an oxymoron. We can’t manage time, make time, or shift time. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, are all the same (yes, yes. STFU science geeks, you get my point).

My friend Tom died on Friday, after four weeks in hospital and two weeks in a hospice. I saw him every day when he was in hospital, for the most part, twice a day. When Tom transferred to the hospice, I was there for the ride. I stayed with Tom, sleeping on a couch in his room at the hospice. Five nights. We watched a lot of baseball, we played catch, we sat silently for longs periods of time. We held hands and I touched Tom’s arms and feet and legs frequently. I fed him, gave him drinks of thickened juice, a quarter teaspoon of soup at a time. I held his hand. He squeezed back. I wiped his nose, his lips, his beard. I put his socks on, I took his socks off. I got up in the middle of the night, time was irrelevant. Tom coughed incessantly. I felt a need to gently rub his chest, while he used what seemed to be all his energy to muster a good cough.

I only hope he got more sleep than I did. The moments of elation at four in the morning, with just shadows of light, and our eyes would connect, in between tiny spoons of cold, thickened cranberry juice. In those moments, the love I felt was so pure, and honest and tangible.

The toughest journey in my life, without a doubt, has also been the most beautiful. Complete with a bounty of lessons and learns, some fresh, some repeats, and some I know are still unpacked.

It was a tough place to land on, making the decision to come home, and not stay at the hospice with Tom, any longer. It came out of a number of circumstances, and the decision, once made, surprised even me, with how ‘right’ it felt.

My learn was to really step back, and recognize that this walk wasn’t about me. I was participating in it. I was offering support and guidance where I could. I know I made a difference, and I know that Tom died a better death, with me there. This is one of the gifts - immediate and heartfelt - I can allow myself to know I made a difference, for the good. I celebrate that.

Tom needed his space, just as much as I defend and require my own space and time.

I had said everything I wanted to say. I had reached a place of peace. I had accepted that I might not be there, holding Tom’s hand when his time came. I was comfortable with all of this, in part, because I had spent the last weeks talking it out with Tom. I was living it in my head. And I was talking with a few close friends. They’d be the first to say how much I live inside my head. I figure things out and then I announce conclusions, sometimes framed as ‘what do you think of’ statements. I sound things out loud).

I’d had numerous tough conversations, I’d shared my tears, and my gratitude. I listed as many things off the top of my head that I would remember about Tom. I told him those things. He would squeeze my hand, and when he didn’t, I’d ask him to let me know he’d been listening, and he would smile.

Tom was an independent man, right to the very end. If he didn’t want to listen to me prattle on, he would simply close his eyes. End of conversation. He did once make the sign of a ‘snapping turtle’ to indicate to a mutual friend that I talked far too much. His humour never left him.

I had not seen Tom for a week. I'm told that on the Saturday before Tom died, he had a wonderfully bright day. He talked lots, and clearly enjoyed his family visiting. The following Thursday morning, Tom’s sister-in-law called to say that the hospice let her know that Tom was nearing the end of his life. We headed out to say goodbye.

When I arrived at the hospice, Tom’s brother and sister-in-law were with him. I had called Karen, the manager of our local coffee-shop, to say Tom was nearing the end, and she was there as well.

It was evident that Tom was near death. And just as stubborn as ever. We spent the day taking turns holding his hands, switching sides, rubbing his legs, and talking to him. Touch, for the sake of touch. Touching heals, and soothes. We laughed, we shared stories. We drank tea and coffee and went for little walks. We cried, sometimes alone, sometimes together, always without shame or embarrassment. We bonded. We sat together, comfortable in our shared silences. I told Tom yet again of my gratitude, my love, my memories, my thanks. I thought to ask him to show me signs when he’s hanging around after he passes, 'cause I know he will. I told him we’d be okay.

I read in some of the literature on death, that often those who are dying are fearful to let go, because they worry about those they will leave behind. Reading pamphlets and articles about how a loved can prepare for a death, and things to understand about the process of the body preparing itself to shut down, were so incredibly helpful and oddly comforting. I knew what to expect. I was as prepared as I could ever hope to be. I could never have been prepared enough.

When I left at about 5pm that evening, I honestly couldn’t say if I was going to come back the next day. The thing about time spent with someone dying–it feels that every single minute of that journey is being fully recognized. I spent hours contemplating life; my own, Tom’s, my friends, my family. Yet, looking at it from this side of the story, these last six weeks have flown by. I’m grateful that Tom had a relatively swift and painless transition. Although, as a friend, I wish it never happened and equally wish it happened faster. Again, time - can’t change that.

Friday morning, having not received any calls through the night, I called the hospice to see how Tom was doing. This was to be the first and only time I would call. Tom was resting, he had softened his breathing and was still with us. Not an hour later, Tom was gone.

I felt relief, truth be told. I also didn’t feel guilty about being relieved. I'd made arrangements with Tom’s family to meet them, to gather Tom’s belongings from his home, where he had lived all the time I had known him. Just across the street. I was also relieved not to have any plans, and nothing to do. No hospitals to visit, no calls to make, no updates after the last round of calls. I had no plans other than to spend some time on my own. Processing. Crying. Being in the moment, and present, for me.

I slept well, I knew I would. The last six weeks have been a special kind of exhausting. I had a leisurely Saturday morning, drinking coffee, reading, catching up on news. So many wonderful messages from friends and ‘strangers’ who follow along with these stories. It's one of the many ripple effects of sharing; the feedback.

People have been sending messages saying that talking about death and dying is difficult, or not how they were raised. Some messages talked about not knowing what to say, or how to respond. Many offered thanks for helping them to begin to understand what we need to know. Undoubtedly, we will all walk someone home, at some point. We will all take that final walk ourselves too. Let's begin to have the conversations about death that we need to have. Honest and open. Shying away from the topic helps no one. Truly.

I felt at peace. I'm content. Being open to learning, vulnerable and willing to experience death first hand, I learned far more than I could have imagined. Least of all, I learned more about life and living. Lessons from those at the end of life, come with perspective and wisdom that is unimaginably simple and life-alteringly profound.

Timing, paradox, irony, call it what you will. A strange twist of fate, perhaps? On Saturday afternoon, I received a telephone call, informing me that my father had died. We’ve had an estranged relationship for many years, most of my adult life, really. Unbeknownst to me, my father had been sick and in hospital, for the last six weeks. The same as Tom. He died on Friday, August 05th, the same as Tom. My father didn’t want any of his children to be contacted. I'd not spoken to him since last year. He’ll be cremated and there won’t be any funeral. The same as Tom.

I cried like a child. The sounds of sobbing and choking tears were all mine. While I had been walking Tom home, my father had chosen to take that journey on his own. I have to respect that. I wish it had been otherwise, and it wasn’t my decision to make. While I wasn’t there, or a part of his final days, I’m at peace with my father’s death. He did it his way.

I had tried over the past ten years to reach out, and try to be friends with my father. I didn’t demand reparation or explanations for our differences. We talked from time to time about the things I did need to talk about. I didn’t always get the answers I wanted, nor expected. However, I’m glad for the awkward, and difficult conversations. I don’t have much left unsaid, and I’m grateful for that. In conversation with Chylo, one of my nieces who never met her grandfather, I described a few of the reasons why there was a gulf in my relationship with my father. I had plenty of things on that list, and they could have flowed for hours. Instead, Chylo asked me to ‘Share a good memory with me if you can please.’ I told her about a family vacation, when I was about twelve years old, and we were living in Scotland. We went on a family caravan vacation. I cried because my father wouldn't let me take my teddybear, Pandy, with us. When we got to our destination, my Dad made me go to the car to get what he said was a box of (potato chips). I stamped my feet in protest, but when he made me open the box of ‘chips’, Pandy was inside. That story always makes me smile.

I’ve had two very intense, intimate and personal dances with death in the last two months. Two very different experiences. In one, I was blessed to be able to walk alongside a dear friend, to learn and to grow as a human being, through his experience. To share openly and honestly about my perspective and my learns around death and dying. I had time to say all the things I wanted to say to Tom. To be able to say goodbye, from a place so comfortable, I could encourage Tom to let go. That’s a gift.

In the other experience of death, I found out after the fact.

My father was 87 years old. It’s expected that one’s parents might well die around this age. I knew one day I’d get this call. However, I wasn’t ready, I hadn’t prepared and I don’t know what that goodbye would have sounded like. I had shut that part of my life down, long ago. It’s called protection. You can’t hurt me if I’ve sealed that tomb up. My father kept everyone at arm’s length. He always had done. He did it to protect himself. You can’t hurt me if I’ve sealed that tomb up. He always said he was good at starting relationships, just not so good at ending them.

Self-care moment: Butterfly Vancouver, July 29, 2016

Yesterday, I woke up intent on fulfilling someone else's bucket list. One I had created. In the expression of many days can happen in one day, after another at least seven days yesterday, my lesson, or reminder, my learn, was it was time for me to come home.

I'm confident that I've done the right thing, and in my heart I am so at peace. Tom and I have had (mostly me, he'd be first to say) many very, painfully difficult conversations. We learned a new language, and I accept that it is a one-time gift, intimate, engrained upon my heart and soul.

I've moved through so many stages of learning in the past six weeks. The walking isn't complete. For me, the YOU ARE HERE checkin point, is being mindful that this isn't my own final walk.

I may be the honoured story-teller, I'm not the author. My words feebly string together someone else's tapestry. That tapestry is interwoven within my own life story.

In continuing to honour my friend, the one I've grown to know dearly in the last two-and-a-half years, and the one that developed in the last six weeks, and has brought us to where we are now. Tom, like myself, has always enjoyed his own space.

When helping others, I'm more keenly aware than ever, that it's difficult to see this experience unselfishly, and objectively, through someone else's experience and unspoken desires. I've had many, many longs hours immersed in deep, personal introspective thought, reflection, gratitude, and profound sadness, equalled only with the unimagined beauty of this deep personal and intimate experience.

So many thoughts, so many of my own learns, so many of my own observations and even incredible connections with new friends because of Tom. There are some of the funniest, silent, meditative moments that I'll cherish forever, as the memories of a good friend.

I'm keenly aware too, that in his typically generous heart, Tom allowed me to share parts his story, including this chapter, while acknowledging the pieces I've written have always been submitted for consideration when, as I've always sought permission to share, before even having these shared chats.

Out of respect of my hero, moving forward, I will be writing a limited number of essays about this final chapter. I do have Tom's permission, and through this, have grown to know and care for Tom's family. I also have always choosen to not share the details that I gleen as a close personal friend. I've always had the ability with all of the 'strangers' I've met to establish trust, and sometimes an unspoken one of what is shared personally, as opposed to conversation shared that comes from 'updates' or 'follow-up' stories.

For the next few days, I intend to enjoy my space, process so much information, switch off and maybe even see how much of the 98% full of content PVR I can binge through. I also intend to be mostly offline, and truly quiet and still.

This is a complete stream of thought, and as such, my final ask is that rather than send me responses of support (I can so feel you all, trust that - you know me. I do. I am loved and love). I ask that instead, and the choice is yours, no obligation, whatsoever...

Consider the notion of planting seeds of love, kindness and compassion freely, without ever telling anyone, and without ever feeling a need or expectation of seeing the end results. It's a new kind of peace.

There are ripples that connect, like an underground current of energy and love. Tap into it. Explore. Be uncomfortable. Love. Be loved.

Thank you.

‘Connection’ and 'Community’ are the two predominant words that come to mind, when considering the life lessons I’ve learned throughout The Stranger Project - est. 2014.

I was isolating and floundering in depression when I started all of this. I soon recognized that the connections, no matter their duration, were impacting my mental health, and well being.

Within a matter of weeks, a community of strangers, and those who saw value in these stories, started to flourish.

As the writer Andrew Soloman says, “The opposite of depression, is not happiness. It is vitality.”

I’m a tactile person. I've pretty much always been tactile. I like touch, touching, and contact. Hugs are vital. I extol the value and virtue of human connection, as beneficial to our wellbeing.

In March of 1998, I was given a stark lesson in human contact. A longtime friend was in serious accident, and we didn’t know what the next 72 hours held. Four of us gathered in the hospital's Emergency ward, waiting to see our friend. When we were finally able to see our friend, I remember not being able to look at his face - there were so many wires and tubes and machines. I could feel the room getting darker around the edges, and my breathing became exaggerated. I was going to faint.

I focussed my attention on my friend's feet. I had an innate need to touch my friend, to offer love through my hands, to let him know I was there. I held myself together, and started gently rubbing his feet. They were like blocks of ice. I remember being confused about why his feet were so cold. The machines continued with their beep, beep, beep, as I lovingly caressed his feet.

I saw in my peripheral vision that my friends were holding his hands, and offering the same comforts and love. Within fifteen minutes, our friends vitals changed, and his feet were warm to the touch.

He knew we were there. He remained in a coma for the next twelve days, and we held onto him throughout. Love was the answer.

Through TSP2014, I have learned so many lessons. I've heard so many incredible stories and forged lifelong bonds with people who were once strangers, and who are now friends. There are people who followed along, reading each story. They are now part of my extended family and I am constantly humbled, and filled with gratitude for all of these gifts and blessings.

Earlier this year, I was invited to give a presentation at The University of British Columbia (UBC) Student Leadership Conference. I met Natasha Thom, who was also presenting at this event. Natasha is a remarkable young leader. She is a cancer survivor, and a spirited advocate. Natasha is also one of the kindest, most thoughtful, and loveliest people on earth.

Natasha's friend, Leigh Boyle started an organization called The Lipstick Project. Natasha joined the organization in 2013. and is currently the Director of operations In their fifth year, as a fully registered non-profit organization, “The Lipstick Project* serves men, women and children in Metro Vancouver who are facing significant health challenges by offering light, love and compassionate care through free, professional spa services.”*http://www.thelipstickproject.ca I reached out to Natasha a couple of weeks ago to see if we could arrange for Tom to get his first ever pedicure! Yesterday, Natasha and one of her team of volunteers, Amy, came to the hospital, and for almost an hour, Tom ignored me while these two amazing ladies charmed him with their love, care, kindness and compassion.

When I asked Amy why it is she volunteers to do this, her immediate response was “Because I can. I’m able to do it, and I can do something that helps another person feel better. I love doing this work.” There really are so many wonderful human beings, walking alongside of us all.

I will say that personally, I’m not a fan of ‘feet.’ For the most part, with the exception of my own, feet are pretty ugly. Tom, however, has feet as soft and smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom. Amy was still able to work magic for Tom, and even gave him a mini manicure. It was delightful to watch Tom as he lay back, reclined for maximum comfort, drinking grape juice and being pampered. His smile from ear to ear was the highlight of my day. I swear he could be a foot model now!

Touch, contact, and connection all came together in a remarkable and relatively simple gesture. The foundation of this gesture is rooted in such love, compassion, kindness and empathy, and that's the magic ingredient here.

Connection and community. If we want to live in a kind, caring and connected community, we need to be kind, caring and connected community members.