I've figured out the absolute perfect way to read.
Sitting on the cushioned bench outside my door: with the sun just over my left shoulder, wearing a hat that keeps the sun off my face but lets it fall onto the page.
If I get it right, the balance of light is perfect. Illuminating what I want illuminated but not discomforting me by shining in my eyes.
It's also largely been a good way to live. I'm not a person who attracts attention when I walk in the room. Not particularly tall or glamourous or loud. I'm an observer. An eavesdropper. I notice the ones who look like they're on their own and invite them to invite me to join them.
People only notice me if I sing or if I start speaking about something I'm passionate about. That's when the light can shift onto my face.
This week, for a moment, that happened.
The Encampment has been gone now for nearly a year. But not forgotten. Today a bunch of former residents, volunteers, neighbours, allies and a very few... um... let's just say 'not-allies' gathered for the debut screening of a documentary that has been made about our very own town, as we wrestle with coming to terms with visible homelessness and the issues that go hand in hand with that crisis.
I don't know how much to say about it, because I don't know where the film goes from here. And this isn't intended to be a review, as such. But I will say this: I was proud.
Proud to look up at the big screen, and to know that I know the intelligent, strong, creative, loving people who lived at the Camp, and who remain friends today. They told their stories and challenged the stereotypes with dignity, courage, and eloquence. They were also honest about the struggles they deal with.
I'm grateful to have met the lovely and gifted people who made the film, covering a broad spectrum of perspectives on a complicated issue in a struggling town. Still, I was nervous. Riding up the escalator to the theatre, about to see myself on a big screen, and to hear myself say the things that (as far as I could remember) made sense at the time. I mean, the film isn't about me, but I definitely had some things to say. Most of which I can't precisely remember word for word. It was a few months ago.
Anyway, having seen the film, I was relieved that I didn't say anything stupid. And I was humbled to have been heard.
It will be interesting to see what local and wider response is when the film gets into wider distribution. (Maybe I'll start a fan-club. For myself. With a merch page, selling Pastor Ruth hats and t-shirts. Click 'like' and subscribe.)
I know not everyone will appreciate the film. There was one recognisable person at the screening who arrived at the last minute, sat alone, and left like a rocket when the lights came back up.
But I recommend it. It's called Home. If you can read upside down, there's more info in the picture above.
But... this... apart from that one exception, nobody in the room was alone. We gathered as a community to hear our story told by a new friend. We hugged and laughed. There were one or two moments that made us a bit uncomfortable, but we as a (I'll say it again) community saw ourselves up there. Not all pretty. Not even all good. But true.
I understand that some future screenings will be followed by panel discussions. So maybe our story will accomplish something. Make a difference.
In the meantime, it's back to the real world. The County-run warming and cooling hub was shut down months ago, largely (no doubt) in response to political pressure. Summer was tough for our unsheltered friends, and winter is coming. Bylaw enforcement against "loitering" and "nuisances" has been such that many of our friends are prohibited from entering any of the municipal parks until Thanksgiving 2026. Yes, really.
We're still waiting to hear of any kind of plan for overnight shelter. Our town, in which the Shelter is located, has passed legislation against any more shelter space, and other towns in the county, led by churches and such, are working on a solution.
All of the silver-screen faces in the documentary are everyday faces around here. Most still unhoused. Most still doing their damnedest to look out for each other and to get stabilised and sober.
Sitting in the theatre listening to myself and my friends tell our story (enjoying our complimentary popcorn - Thanks, Linda!) was a bright spot.
But then the movie was over and we all went back down the escalator.
Put on our boots, our lanyards, our hats, and picked up where we left off.
Doing what we can to shine light in our community.
Lights, (in)camera, action.
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