A Heart Full of Love

When I was in high school, I had a pretty serious poetry phase. I read it, I wrote it, I loved it.

I still appreciate all that I read. What I wrote provides some amusing insight to how I was feeling at the time--much more than any of my journal entries ever have. But I very much prefer other genres of writing to poetry now in my adult life.

But there was a book of poems, "A Heart Full of Love" by Javan, that was among my adolescent favorites, and I kept thinking of that title during the walk to Mellon Arena for last night's Penguins game.

As we approached a homeless man with a cup, silently begging for money with his image, Larry started to pull out a dollar. I would've fainted if I wasn't so cold.

When we were in Chicago a year and a half ago, he complained about how annoying it was to be approached by homeless people outside of games while we were leaving Wrigley Field. I didn't argue with him or anything, but I simply said that I try to give when I can. If someone asks and I can, then I give. I know all about the arguments that these people may be buying drugs and booze and who knows what else, but maybe they're just buying baby food. I'd hate to support a harmful addiction, but I have the same odds of doing that simply by being an American consumer.

Larry put a dollar in the man's cup and said, "Coffee, not crack, buddy."

As we walked away, Larry said he felt kinda bad because the man's cup was empty. And I said, "Well, maybe he has a heart full of love."

And I kind of knew that, you know, that probably wasn't the case. But it was the first thing that popped into my head. And I thought of that poetry book again until we got "up the 'rena," as the Yinzers would say.

Even though I wasn't really thinking of poetry during the game, our seats were like poetry. My Jordan Staal bobblehead is poetry. The fact that I have such an amazing friend--who knows and understands my love for Jordan Staal and GAVE UP their center ice, front-row seats so that I could go on Jordan Staal bobblehead night-- is poetry. (The same amazing friend could argue that we were poetry when we sold them our Winter Classic tickets.)

Luckily we sat among wonderful people, and the young man to my right was as giddy as I was. You know I love my giddy people. At one point when people were angry that a certain ref continued to obstruct their view, my giddy neighbor said, "Eh, he's human. He makes human mistakes, right?"

And I thought of that book again. There's a line in there a lot like that. It was as though I was meant to think of that book for some reason. It was as though I was supposed to think of human mistakes, of which I'm guilty of many.

On the way home, I told Larry that I just feel different this year. In nearly two short months, I feel like I've learned so much. I've learned how little I actually know about what hurts and helps people. I've learned that good intentions don't really matter if it makes people cry themselves to sleep. I've learned that the people we like the best are sometimes the people we hurt the worst. I've learned that I should talk less and hug more. I've learned that I shouldn't parent my friends the way I parent my children.

Also, during the new year, I've reaffirmed a lot of what I already knew. I'm not afraid to start over. I have amazing friends--who are consistently there to remind me of my strength and my roots, who are there to share adventures in parenting, who are there to laugh and cry with--sometimes in the same 5 minutes, who are there to accept me for all of my human mistakes. I have happy, healthy children who have made my heart grow with a love that is unlike any other. I have an incredibly loving husband who ...if I ever cry myself to sleep, it will be in someone's arms. I have a mom I can tell anything to and a Mark who will share advice through Southern Fried Rock. I have inlaws and brothers and sisters who are the most dependable people I've ever known.

I have a heart full of love.

That man had a cup.

And somewhere along the Parkway West, I started to wonder how he must've lost everything else.

"I just hope it wasn't because somebody couldn't forgive him, Lar. I mean, I've screwed up so many times. I have knee-jerk reactions to too many things. I overthink, overanalyze, overcare. I talk when I should shut up. I've said hurtful things to hide sadness. I can be lousy. But I have incredible love despite that. I just wonder what he could have done so bad that made him unworthy of unconditional love," I said.

"You wonder about everyone. People are your thing," Larry said.

I did a story in college about homeless people, and it was just OK. Nowhere nearly as good as stories from the reporters who lived homeless for a month or so to get a real perspective. But I still remember the people I interviewed. I still remember their stories. I still remember how fragile stability can be and how quickly our life choices can determine our shelter. And the thing all of the people I interviewed had in common was regret. They had a life of love they left behind. And most of them did view it as them leaving, as so many admitted they had chose something--an addiction, another lover, a job, travel--over their loved ones.

At no point could I be so naive to believe they were all telling me the truth. But their regret--that was real. The lonliness, the emptiness, the homelessness was real. The heart full of love for all they had lost was real.

I thought that was powerful. That, even in the bitter cold temperatures when a frigid, subzero wind threatened their lives, what they wanted more than shelter was love.

"I think I would rather possess
Eyes that know no sight
Ears that know no sound
Hands that know no touch
Than a Heart
That knows no Love"

--Javan