Why do the things that connect us slowly pull us apart?

Old Man Willow lives in the concrete part of town, his roots upturned and tucked in the scuffed shuffle of exhaustion. Living on the streets, his shadowy presence looms large. His broad shouldered bearing tackles the comfort of passersby who are afraid of this man with the flowing treebeard and weathered eyes. He rules the streets and in the middle of the night, Old Man Willow owns them outrightly.

"When everyone in this city is safe and warm in the comfort of their homes, when everyone in this city has gone somewhere where there is a roof and a bed, I sit in a hallway at 4 am and wonder if I'm going to make it through another night. Even in the middle of winter, I'm out there and I know I'm the only one. I'm the only one," he says with burdened vulnerability I didn't expect to hear.

Demons and drugs have pulled Old Man Willow into a life of distrusting isolation. His road of darkness has dragged him into the soul of sorrow where defeat eats flesh and leaves weeping wounds. The storms he has endured forced him to bend and twist over and over again and it shows. Life's hurricanes have taken their toll on this human being and have left him with deep in the bone marrow aches and abandoned youthful dreams in tatters.

His dream was to make it to the "show..." He had the natural ability, the athleticism to rise above the ranks of amateurs....to breathe in the glory of the migthy crack of the bat. He was born to play ball in a place where it is a religion. It was in his blood. The ball field was where he belonged. It was what he connected to. It was his love. His love...... but not his fate. His fate was stamped by the choices he made. It pulled him apart like the seams of a worn baseball and left him facing the reflections of acquainted glory in the hallways and on the streets alone, panhandling for a hot cup of coffee.

Beyond the raging anger which sealed his fall from the gracefulness of a limbered soul, Old Man Willow shares his insight with anyone who will ask. Few have asked. He knows it was his own fault, but he also knows he was a victim of the dysfunction he grew up in. Always tough, always on the defence, always fighting to scrape by when others had an abundance of support soared around him, he developed a crusty outer shell. Authority didn't exist in his mind. They were the enemy. They were all stupid. He knew how to throw heat on the mound, but he didn't know how to be coached. He failed at this part of the game.

"I had too much attitude. I didn't listen. I loved to play ball," he says with a life affirming gleam in his eyes, "but I had no discipline. They wouldn't take a chance on me and I don't blame them."

"What happened then?" I asked....

"I partied too much. I fell in love. I figured I had it in the bag then.....that my talent was good enough to make it even though I didn't listen to them......I kept partying and married my childhood sweatheart. We were too young though when I took her away from her family. It only lasted a year and I took her back home and moved on.....I had a few tryouts but I had this big chip on my shoulder. I see it now. I didn't then. I just didn't know how to play THAT game. I thought I was better than everyone else. It was just anger talking. It was just my anger. Nothing's ever come easy."

He sat back lost in the song of his undoing in a place of long ago.

"I could've made it....I was that good. I threw it away.....I threw it away."

The cold years have aged Old Man Willow. His treebeard is predominantly and prematurely grey. His blue eyes have faded. His thick outer shell is calloused with weathered beatings from drugged numbness and broken relationships. Still, when you look beyond his scuffed remnants of this broken man, you see the strength he used not on the ball field, but on the mean streets in order to survive. He used his strength to survive and it has slowly pulled him apart from what he loved the most. It happens to the best of us.

What was glowingly apparent to me as I sat with him in the comfort of a warm office and listened with a combined sense of awe and pity, was an awareness that this man felt emotion far deeper than you or I. He may have had the physical prowess to dominate in a game we shared a love for, but he didn't have the filtering capacity to protect himself from the onslaught of life's feelings thrown with heat. Old Man Willow may scare down the passersby. He may have a shadowy presence which looms large over the concrete part of town. He may even throw a few swings at the demons and not have the self discipline to walk away from a fight. But his true persona is of a sensitive frightened human being who couldn't guard himself from hurt. This is what slowly pulled him apart from the rest. This is what finally took him to a place in his hurt where he finally asked for help.

His help was heard.....by his doctor who has grown to admire his unique patient.....by a doctor who took it upon himself to "go to bat" for a man who has burned many bridges in life. And because of this respect he has for a broken human being, Old Man Willow is going to receive some help. Tomorrow, he moves into his own place. Tomorrow night, his hallway will lead to a bedroom where his own bed awaits made with crisp and fresh sheets. His head will have a pillow. The community, many of whom have wanted to help Old Man Willow, has pulled together to help him. Hopefully he can make the transition from the mean cold streets to a place called home. It won't be easy to break lifelong habits. But, we're all willing to give it a try.....again and again...

and again.......this is life itself.