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Posts Tagged ‘charity’

pinkbranchespouch

After making that necessary mistake of viewing the morning’s headlines, and after letting my blood pressure return to normal, I decided not to stew in negativity but to find a way to produce positivity. I decided to emulate the wonderful artist Jen Parrish of Parrish Relics. With each new jewelry collection, she gives back by donating a percentage of the profits from the sale of one pendant to a charity. The above pencil pouch can be found in my art of where store:

https://artofwhere.com/artists/wordsandimagesbycynthia/accessories/pencil-case/625020

With the purchase of this pouch, now through November 15th, 50% of the profits will be donated to a local Boston-area charity serving poor and homeless women. On November 15th I’ll provide an update on monies raised. Thank you!

p.s. The origin of the image … one Sunday I needed to walk, so I walked by the river, and these branches are what I saw.

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I think the lady meant Jesus, but in any case …

I heard her coming before I saw her. She made her way up the ramp with an awkward sliding gait, using a cane for additional support. I walked over to greet her. A small woman — a good wind could blow her down — but she exuded presence even when she wasn’t talking. Now when you enter the building where I was that day one of the first things you might see is the No Public Restroom sign, a not uncommon sight in the heart of Boston. And it was when she saw that sign that she made her declaration about God and peeing but she quickly moved on from that topic to talk about life more generally. And as the air around me became lightly perfumed by the scent of alcohol, I gently interjected to ask, “Ma’am, I see, but how can we help you today?” She seemed perplexed by the question so I added, “Would you like to sit in the sanctuary for a bit and maybe pray or something like that?” She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Of course!” Now when she went in, I did peer through the window to make sure that that was all that she was doing. She sat with head bowed and I let her be. Eventually she did come out and as I held the door for her — she was trying to coordinate handling several bags as well as her cane — she asked, “Now where’s the bathroom?”

After letting my colleague know I was going to be occupied for a while, I guided her to the restroom. It was a long walk because as she explained several times, she can’t walk fast anymore. As we came to the stairs, she held onto the railing for support. At one juncture, I took one of her bags. And all the while she talked to me, telling me of her daughters, her son out west who was buying a house where she might stay one day. As for today, she was waiting for a bus. “And I planned it just right,” she explained, “so that I have time to come here to pray and then go to the bathroom and then get to the bus stop. I got plenty of time. Cause you see I don’t like to be rushed.”

“Where are you going on the bus?” I asked. And when she said to the shelter, I asked which one and she said Pine Street Inn. I could only say, “I’ve only heard good things about Pine Street.” And she nodded.

Now by the time we make our way down the stairs, there is no railing for support and so I say, “If you need to, you can hold my arm.”

She leaned her whole self against my side and took my hand.

Resuming our slow walk toward the bathroom, she apologized, “I don’t walk fast anymore.” I said, “That’s okay.”

Eventually we made our ascent from the restroom, back up the stairs.

She said, “You’re a lot like my friend Sue. She doesn’t mind that I’m slow. She never rushes me. Sometimes she lets me stay at her place. I can take the bus there too. She’s got her own place you see. She’s the best friend I ever made at Pine Street.”

Finally back in the lobby she adjusts her bags and we agree after looking at the wall clock that she still has plenty of time to make it to the bus top for her journey to the shelter.

“What’s your name?” she asked. I told her and then I asked her name. With a big smile she said, “It’s Theresa. Like Mother Theresa. Maybe I’ll be a saint one day too.”

And then she was gone.

http://www.pinestreetinn.org/

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DSCN2352

an unlit candle waiting for its spark

… there’s a company called Usful Glassworks. Recycled glass is transformed into lovely, useful items. What’s really special about this company, in addition to its merchandise, is its founding philosphy of providing manufacturing and production experience to those who face the greatest employment barriers including at-risk youth, male and female offenders, those with mental or physical disabilities, refugees, veterans and the low-income elderly. It is an institution providing help, hope and opportunity to those who need it most. See for yourself in the following video and learn more about its future on its gofundme page:

https://www.gofundme.com/usfulglass

Additional Reading

http://builtinboise.com/usful-glassworks/

 

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Increasingly, as one watches or reads the news, it becomes clear that individual as well as collective action will be necessary to help people survive this looming long winter. These scarves were tied around the trees in Copley Square today. You can read more about the people behind this particular grassroots program to help people stay warm here: http://www.chasethechill.com/

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Courtesy of Trinity Archives

Photo of Charity, Courtesy of Trinity Archives

Charity is a stained glass window once located at Trinity Church in the City of Boston. It was designed by Frederic Crowninshield.  The inscription at the bottom of the window, barely legible in the above photo, reads “In memory of Cordelia Harmon, the friend of the poor and friendless. Died May 25, 1883.”  In an 1888 publication providing a descriptive account of the church, including of its windows, Harmon was described as “the Almoner of Trinity Church for many years, and through her good deeds was well known by all the poor in any way connected with the Parish.  The window was a gift of members of the Parish.”

Born in Maine, Cordelia Harmon (1820-1883) spent her adult life in the Boston area.  It is clear from surviving records that she consistently strove to help those who could least help themselves.  Regardless of good deeds done as an elementary school teacher, a nurse at Mass General Hospital or serving people through programs offered by her church, Harmon appears to have never turned her eyes away from the wrongs that remained around her.

One of the church-supported programs that she participated on was The Ladies’ Relief Agency.  As a part of that charity’s design, every application submitted seeking assistance was investigated, including a home visit.  Through such visits, and no doubt her work with other charities, Harmon was able to see firsthand the lack of support for those with chronic diseases, people who were turned away from hospitals, and many of whom had no family to care for them.  She would write:  “How can a man, breathing fetid air, living in the squalor and debasement that abound, where the poor most do congregate and often of necessity, feel hope or courage to rise above his condition?

Harmon imagined creating a home for those people where they could live a good life until the end of their days.  It was an idea that she would discuss with Phillips Brooks, the rector of Trinity Church.  He would help her raise the funds to open The Boston Home for the Incurables in 1881.  Harmon would work at this home until she “died at her post” in 1883.  Phillips Brooks was traveling abroad when he learned of Harmon’s death.  In a letter to his brother he wrote:

Despite his expression of not feeling well-fitted to do the work of Cordelia Harmon, upon his return to Boston, Phillips Brooks did continue her legacy.  In 1883, Trinity formed The Committee for the Establishment of The Boston Home for Incurables to raise funds to expand upon Harmon’s idea.  Funds raised helped the Home to acquire a larger facility and accommodate more patients.  It would continue to expand and refine its services over the next 130 years.  Today, the Boston Home is a respected, model institution serving nearly 100 residents.

Charity, designed by Frederic Crowninshield,

The only known surviving image of the Harmon window is a black and white photo taken in the 1920s. In the center of the image, a woman and two children, destitute.  To the left, a figure with head bowed, the weight of the world upon his shoulders.  Standing amidst them is Jesus.  And above them all, in capital letters, is the text:  Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto me.  The window did not survive major renovations that took place in the 1950s. The window may be gone but the memory and legacy of Miss Cordelia Harmon lives on and continues to evolve.

 

Sources, Additional Reading, Etc.

http://www.thebostonhome.org/

https://www.givingcommon.org/profile/1072657/the-boston-home-inc/

September 19, 2014 article with video: http://assistivetech.scripts.mit.edu/blog/finding-a-home/

Charity postcard with insert about Harmon available at Trinity Church Bookshop

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Boston Public Garden Street Light

Boston Public Garden Street Light

When I first read Lin Nulman’s haiku, I told her that her words made me want to paint, to capture the vivid impressions she conveyed of Boston.  I have yet to pick up a brush but I did think of her words when I rediscovered this photograph.  Her work appears in this week’s issue of Spare Change News, the longest continuously running street paper in the U.S.  Over 100 vendors, many of whom are currently or formerly homeless, purchase the papers from a distribution office for .25 and sell them on the streets of Boston, Cambridge and Somerville for $1.00.  If you’re in the neighborhood consider purchasing a copy, or making an online donation.  The writing is excellent and the stories not often told.  Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy Lin’s words below.

 

Sights of the City Haiku

Boston winter night—

streetlight caught in the glass rim

of a sun-catcher.

 

Dark birds float to a

bare tree. Underneath pages

of newspaper blow.

 

A young man reads poems

by Lorca on the train, lips

moving, body still.

 

Sky of milk and slate—

the sails below are whiter,

the river bluer.

 

Vs of geese fly east

across a violet sky, haze

above the wet earth.

 

My pages ruffle,

and the willow grows pale leaves.

They also ruffle.

 

T-shirt heat. Black-haired

boy’s block-print tattoo fills his

forearm: FORGIVEN.

 

Early autumn day.

Bronze beads pepper a bench from

a broken earring.

 

Blue sidewalk. Lights of

table candles tremble their

small constellation.

 

Lin A. Nulman is an Adjunct Professor of English at Bunker Hill Community College.  Her poetry has appeared in Black Water Review, Tanka Splendor, and the anthology Regrets Only: Contemporary Poets on the Theme of Regret, among others.

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Not a rainbow but …

… I was taking a shortcut through the Boston Public Library, making my way from the Boylston Street entrance to the Dartmouth Street side.  Of course I had to pause for a quick browse of the New Arrivals shelf.  That’s where I saw the deed take place.

It would be easy to assume that the old man was homeless, one of the many who frequent the building.  His clothing was bedraggled to say the least and his beard more than a bit unkempt.  His brown skin was weathered into the proverbial leather.  Despite apparent age, there was an almost childish bright light in his rheumy eyes.  While he walked with the aid of a battered metal cane, there was a spryness to his step as he made his way across the room.  But, I have to admit, I noticed none of these details until later, until after I heard the young man’s voice calling, “Hey.  Hey! Wait a minute, old man.”

The old man had been walking away from me, but he turned at the younger man’s voice, and that was how I was able to see his face.  The younger man had been walking toward me, looking gruff and rushed as so many of us do today as we race, race, race.  I had seen him brush passed the old man nearly knocking him over.  But then he had stopped.  The gruff look upon his face had not changed. In fact, it deepened.

At some point the younger man  spun around.  With a fierce, aggressive energy, he called the old man.  When the man paused and turned to face him, the young man raced back to him.  “Here,” he said, and shoved something into the old man’s hand.

The old man raised a plastic bag.  It was just clear enough for me to see that inside were a pair of shoes.  I glanced down and saw what the younger man may have seen.  The old man’s feet were barely covered by a pair of threadbare sneakers.

“Where did these come from?” the old man asked, clearly perplexed.  The younger man had already turned away.  Over his shoulder he growled, “St. Francis.”

The older man looked at the bag, shrugged, and continued on his way.

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