My Neighborhood Is Not Perfect

My house has been broken into twice in 2 years.  An unwanted tradition; we have an alarm system now.  The salvation army is around the corner where those who don't have houses to be broken into line up for food like a black Friday sale at Wal-Mart.  Although they're a little less excited, as if they know the best deals are already sold out.  A homeless woman sits as a permanent fixture outside the market a stones throw from my front door.  It's not even a good place to plop, but she's there every single day sitting in the dirt outside Wilson's Delicatessen's.

The house behind mine was condemned for drug manufacturing.  It has been sitting empty since I can remember.  There's a door up on the 2nd floor that has been wide open for a month.  I reported it to the police, but it's still just wide open, the same way you found the refrigerator door that one time.  Except instead of letting the cold air out, this door is letting all the cold air in.  An abandoned crack house is probably the only house around with its door open this cold Winter.  Maybe its for a reason.

Most people scoff at my city.  Yet yes, this is my dream home.  This is my dream city.  I thought of it many years ago when I lived 1100 miles away.  I traded in the monotonous sunshine of the Golden state for Evergreen tree's and the schizophrenic seasons of the NW.

My city has walkable streets and its not too busy but has everything you need.  I like that there are no parking meters downtown, and that my bank, dentist, barber, and favorite coffee shop are all on the same street.  There's a park on the bluff that is the most beautiful place to watch the sunset in the whole world.  And I can see islands out my window that I have and have never been to.

No, my neighborhood is not perfect, but it knows it, and it doesn't pretend otherwise.  I don't read the newspaper everyday, but I don't need to.  I see the sorrow of the world out my front window.  The homeless aren't ancient parables in distant lands, they're in my back alley looking through the dumpsters every night.  Their names are Keedran, John, and Mary.

Sure, retreating to a McMansion in the suburbs sounds enticing sometimes.  Or going somewhere where the weathers a little less wet, the sun is a bit brighter, and the beaches have actual sand instead of just rocks.  But this environment reminds me why I am on this earth.  Not to hide where its safe, but to live where there's hope.