Wayne, a new resident at the Mansion, has an impish sense of humor, he is always telling jokes and looking for some fun. He tells me he is coming to visit our farm and will let all the donkeys and sheep into the house, and he laughs and laughs at the idea.
He keeps inviting Red to a sleepover, and I think Red might enjoy it, if he wasn’t looking for me. Sometimes I think Wayne and Red are sharing a joke together, they both seem to be smiling.
If you wish, you can write Wayne, c/o The Mansion, 11 S. Union Avenue, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816. Also, those of you writing Sylvie: many of her letters to you are being returned because she gets the return addresses or zip codes wrong. I hate to impose any additional work, but one suggestion has been for people who write her to include a stamped, self-addressed envelope. I have also offered to help her address the letters.
They are precious to her. You can write Sylvia at 11 S. Union Avenue, Cambridge, N.Y., 12816.
Some people call it non-profit work, some call it Samaritan work, it is rewarding work, it is hard work, it is complex work. It is profoundly rewarding work.
I often ask myself if what I am doing – and what other people are doing with me – could possibly be valuable or important, given the scale of need, and the bitter conflicts that so divide the country.
We bring yarn and needles and letters to Connie for many months, and one day she is gone, not coming back.
We bring a bag of groceries to a refugee mother and I know it will be gone in a week or so and there is not enough money to keep the groceries coming. We bring shoes to the soccer team, but see they do not have boots for the winter, or tuition for school.
This work is filled with self-doubt and confusion. What do I say? What good can I really do when it sometimes seems the tide of anger and argument just towers over me, over us. I need to inspire in this work, and I need to be inspired.
People message me every day from the Army of Good to tell me they feel helpless and powerless. They watch the news and feel that what they do is not enough, they feel overwhelmed by the scale of need and suffering in the world, and feel insignificant and worthless at times.
This is what i think: We do the best we can for as long as we can. That is enough.
I was recently reminded of a class that the legendary singer Barbara Cook taught at the Kennedy Center.
One of the many insights she offered resonates so deeply with me: “It’s so hard to believe that what the world wants is us. It’s hard to believe, whatever you’re doing, that you’re enough. We are all, always, enough.”
That was it, I thought, I am enough, always enough.
It often seems that no matter what we do, there is greater need, there are so many others out there demanding that I – that we – do more, and do it better. If the RISSE soccer boys get to go on a boat ride or retreat, people ask why aren’t there more girls? If we raise money for soccer practice, people say apply for grants and loans, go to credit unions and banks, write applications, as if I have a vast staff around me waiting for orders.
Like my friend Ali, I have learned to do good every day, to commit small acts of great kindness, generosity and compassion are infectious, they spread in their own way.
When people tell me I should be doing more, I have what I call the Silencer Response: I ask them what they are doing, what they are contributing, I ask them who they are helping, and how much money are they raising? It’s like magic, they simply disappear.
I never hear from them again, Hypocrites are not only the lowest form of life to me, they are the most cowardly, because they know inside that they are false to themselves.
In my own sometimes troubled mind, I know what I do is not enough, it is not nearly enough. And I know I am wrong.
I see the needs of the refugees and immigrants, of the Mansion residents, and I know there are so many more I will never meet and never help, I feel small. I am no Mother Teresa, I am not washing the feet of lepers and traveling the world to raise money. I traffic mostly in small donations that are quite wonderful, we commit small acts of great kindness every day. We stay within ourselves and spread light into darkness, fill small holes, we have no miracles to perform. Life will have its own way.
My work has cured me of self-pity and drama and lament. Everyone has it worse than I do, everyone fights harder battles against bigger odds.
But when I feel small and insignificant, I feel just the way Barbara Cook does, and that is precisely what I tell the many people who now ask me for guidance and encouragement when they set out to do good work to do Samaritan work.
I am enough. You are enough. What we do is enough. We don’t need to grow and expand, we don’t need banks and credit unions, grants and committees, chapters and media campaigns. We can’t help everyone, spend as much as we want whenever we want.
Whatever I am doing, whatever you are doing, is enough. We are all, always, enough.
And the rewards of this work are great. In the smile of a 74 year-old woman when she gets a teddy bear, in the relief of an 81-year-old stroke victim in having more than one pair of sweatpants, in the grin of an 11-year refugee child when he gets his first pair of kick-ass winter boots, in the relief of a 76-year-old heart patient who gets warm slippers and a robe so she does not have to wet her bed because it is too cold for her to get up and get to the bathroom, and in the pride of a mother of seven from Africa who sees a sanitary napkin for the first time in her life and rushes to show her daughter.
I am learning, always learning.
I am understanding what questions to ask people who have not answered a question in years. What animals do you love? What work do you love? What were your parents like? Who have you loved the most? Did you have a dog or a cat? Where were you born? Who was your best friend in life? What do you miss most? What do you need most?
I have learned to listen, and to begin conversations, and undertake the long and difficult work of building trust with people who have learned in awful ways to never trust and are afraid to have hope.
So when I stagger or doubt or weary, I recognize that it is so difficult to believe that what the world wants is me. I never quite accept it, I always need to be reminded. I am enough. What I do is enough. I am always enough.
I do the best I can for as long as I can. Same to you.
