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See below for a book description, FAQ and brief excerpts.

 

 

The Emptiness of Our Hands

 
A Lent Lived on the Streets

On-line price: $18.00  (plus shipping)

With your purchase you'll make a donation to the
Columbus Coalition for the Homeless and the
Homeless Families Foundation.


From February 17 through April 4, 1999, Phyllis Cole-Dai and James Murray lived voluntarily on the streets of Columbus, Ohio. This period of time coincided with the Christian observance of Lent and Holy Week.

Phyllis and James didn't go out on the streets to satisfy idle curiosity or experience a strange new world.  They didn't go out to find answers to questions or solutions to problems. They didn't go out to save anyone. They went out for one primary reason: to be as present as possible to everyone they met. In other words, they set out, in their own way, to love their neighbor as themselves. Doing so, they were reminded just how difficult the practice of compassion can be.

The Emptiness of Our Hands is a meditative narrative accompanied by nearly thirty black and white photographs, most of them shot by James on the streets using crude pinhole cameras he constructed from trash. The impressionistic photographs and strenuous text will together thrust you out the door of your comfortable home, not so you might experience the thrill of walking on the edge, or even find answers to your questions, but so you might better understand what being without a home can do to a person.

Featuring:
  • ~  6 x 9 format (paperback), 268 pp.
  • ~  fully chronological account, perfect for use in daily meditation
  • ~  appreciated by Christian and non-Christian readers alike
  • ~  front cover designed around one of James's pinhole photographs




If you have a question about this book not already answered below, please feel free to contact Phyllis. 

Books about homelessness tend, on the one hand, to be pretty theoretical; written by social scientists and the like, they reach a fairly limited readership. On the other hand (and more rarely), books about homelessness are experiential, written by someone who became homeless because of an addiction or mental illness.

Unfortunately, such "homeless voices" are often distrusted, if not dismissed altogether, by the general public. Our book, written as it is by two "ordinary" people who voluntarily gave up their homes for a period of time, seems to serve most readers as a bridge of greater understanding between themselves and truly homeless persons.  Top

What point are you trying to make with the book?  
We're not really trying to make a point. We didn't set out, for example, to convince the reader of a particular point of view regarding "the politics of homelessness." We are, rather, just trying to tell a story, immersing the reader in the chaotic, broken life of the streets. The telling is intensely personal yet, we hope, powerfully universal as well. (Is this why some readers have described the book as "life-changing?") What, if anything, a reader of the book chooses to think or do in response to our story is not for us to say.  Top

You mention "Lent" in the subtitle. Is this a Christian book?
Our book is intended for Christian and non-Christian readers alike. (James and I are generally interested in human beings, quite apart from labels.) However, we did plan our time on the streets to coincide with the Christian observance of Lent and Holy Week, because we suspected that such a spiritual backdrop might bring into sharper relief the myriad things we might experience. That certainly turned out to be true. But again, that backdrop needn't pose an obstacle to non-Christian readers. James and I wanted to make this book highly accessible and worked hard toward that end. When we hear from all kinds of readers that the book is "eye-opening" or "enlightening" or even "life-changing," the feedback is very gratifying.  Top

Did you go to the streets intending to write a book?
Before we went out, James and I naturally considered chronicling our time on the streets through his photography and my writing. Our artwork could be a companion on the streets as it was elsewhere in our lives, challenging us to greater awareness. We understood that the work might someday shape-shift into a book that other people could grapple with, wring some blessing from, but we didn't dwell on that possibility. The last thing we wanted to take to the streets was a confused mix of motives. So we went to the streets prepared to pick up the pencil,  to shoot the picture, but agreeing that we'd actually do so only if it helped us be more present.

Our first night on the streets was—to be frank—hell. It so traumatized us that we were tempted to quit and go home; paradoxically, however, it also convinced us that we were exactly where we had to be, doing what we had to do. And part of what we would have to do, if we somehow managed to remain on the streets, was produce the book that until then had been merely a shadowy prospect. We would have to speak up. Of this, we were now certain. If only in a limited way, the book might portray how being without a real home can devastate the human spirit—after a single night, we already had some sense of this. Then, too, such a book might inspire its readers to reflect on their own ability to be more present, more compassionate, in their small corners of the world.  Top

What was it like,  co-authoring this book with James?
Before I answer this, let me show you two photos of James, the first as he usually looks and the second as he appeared when we left the streets.

Now to your question. From my point of view, writing this book with James was a fascinating process, for at least three reasons. First, James and I were both faced with the daunting task of trying to put into words—into effective words—something that felt inexpressible; something that had torn us up pretty badly yet also taught us essentials. It was hard for either of us to get perspective on what had happened to us,  let alone what might be said about it. So, just as we had on the streets, we found ourselves doing a lot of talking with one another, and crying together, and laughing together, and disagreeing together, and struggling together,  and being silent together. The deep sharing was vital to the process.

Next, while I had published other books, James was a novice at writing book-length manuscripts. As do all co-authors to some extent, we brought very different eyes and skill sets and stylistic tastes to the writing task, all of them valuable in their own way, many of them requiring negotiation, the continuous finding of middle ground. I learned much from James, as I have from my other co-authors, while doing that.
     
Finally, in the midst of the writing process, both James and I moved: he to Massachusetts, myself to South Dakota. For better or worse, much of this very intense creative work had to be done at half a continent's remove. As a result, the process became much clumsier, but perhaps in the end the manuscript benefited.  Top

Did you keep notes or a diary on the streets?
Notes, yes, although by the time we finally read them, some were either illegible or unintelligible. While on the streets James and I would write notes on whatever paper we could find, with whatever writing utensil we could find, whenever and wherever we felt compelled and rested and safe enough to jot something down. Then, every so often, once a week maybe, I'd arrange to meet a certain friend at the Ohio statehouse. She and I would each go into the women's restroom, enter adjoining stalls, and I'd slip her all the notes James and I had written such we'd last met. My friend would take the notes home, and without ever having been asked, she'd deposit them (unread) into a large manila envelope, date it, file it. When James and I came off the streets, she delivered to me a box containing all those notes, all organized in chronological order. I'm still immensely grateful to my friend for doing this.

When James and I were finally ready to write, we each used those notes individually to reconstruct our days on the streets. Next, we wove together our two narratives. Gradually, after many, many drafts, one primary narrative and one primary voice emerged from those first fragments.  Top

James and I came off the streets in early April, 1999, yet we didn't begin writing until late October. It took us eight months to feel like we'd recovered enough physically and emotionally to undertake the work. During that time, friends and relatives asked us countless questions, scarcely any of which were theoretical or general. Instead the questions were almost always experiential and particular. People wanted the story. And that's what James and I needed to give. Not analysis, but story. Telling the story, both orally and in writing, proved therapeutic.
      
I should also say that the book's chronological approach makes it an excellent resource for persons or groups doing daily meditations or devotions. If they wish, Christian readers can "'walk the streets" through Lent and Holy Week, while other readers can do so by calendar day.
      
You might be interested to know that one editor at a publishing house wanted us to take a more topical, less chronological, approach to the book. James and I revised and eventually, after the publishing deal fell through, printed this book's first edition following that advice, and we regretted it. In the second edition we returned to our original format.   Top

Why do a lot of the photographs in the book look so strange?
You're probably referring to the photographs that James took using pinhole cameras he made from trash while on the streets. Here, to illustrate, is one of those photographs, taken of me on the steps of St. Joseph Cathedral as mass was letting out. The swirls of light are actually parishioners passing by during the long photographic exposure. (James describes some of his pinhole camera-making and his photographic process in the book.) Because of the process used and the conditions under which they were shot, the pinhole photographs are crude, blurred and impressionistic, just like much of our streets experience. You'll never know just what James went through to shoot them for you. In some sense, though, the task of shooting them was a saving grace for James, helping him keep his sanity. I've heard him say this more than once.   Top

Isn't this book as much about spirituality as the streets?

James and I assume that faith is inseparable from compassion, and spirituality from social concern. Much contemporary literature on spirituality is rather inward, even self-involved, while much social concern literature totally neglects the spirit of the individual. James and I insist on the inseparability of the spiritual and social dimensions of life.  Top


 

Book Excerpts


From the "Introduction"


      When James and I hit the streets on Ash Wednesday, 1999, we weren't aware of any homeless statistics or policies. We were scarcely aware of any services (shelters, soup kitchens, clinics) available to homeless persons. We'd made few efforts, through research, to prepare, wanting to go out as thousands do each year in this city who suddenly have no place to call home and must stumble their way through the not-knowing.
      About the only serious inquiries James and I made beforehand were into ourselves. As earnestly as we could, we dragged up into the light of day all the things we'd ever heard, or believed, about homeless people; all the stereotypes and prejudices and assumptions, not even sure how they'd become part of us: Homeless people are dumb, lazy, on the streets because they want to be, mentally ill, violent, lucky not to have any responsibilities, inarticulate, dirty, rude, mostly male, mostly black, mostly drunks and addicts, many of them Vietnam vets.... These were the things we "knew" best—not that a homeless woman could be so lonely she'd ride up and down in a shopping mall elevator, just to be close to other human beings; or that a young man, unable to cope with the tragic deaths of his wife and infant daughter, would abandon his home for the streets, intent on destroying himself.
      Before you read further, James and I invite you to reflect on what you think you know about homeless people; on what you believe it's like to live without a real home. Be honest.
      Now, lay all that aside, if you can....


From "Day One"


      day 1:   wednesday, february 17

      doors 

      I've walked through thousands of doors in my life; left some of them standing wide open, closed others, locked my share. But I've never walked through a door quite like this one—my own front door, a plain slab, not very thick and not very heavy but looking sturdy as steel on this brisk, gray morning—and I've never pulled a locked door securely shut behind me, as I'm about to do now, without a key resting in my pocket or under the doormat so I can easily go back inside. Today there'll be no easy way back in, no easy changing of the mind.
      Only the leaving....
      Ash Wednesday: what T.S. Eliot called "the time of tension between dying and birth." I pause just over the doorsill,  James behind me on the porch, my gloved hand clinging to the knob. It's a little after 8:00 a.m. Jihong's already left for work, as if this were just a usual day in our marriage; Phoebe, James's girlfriend, has started for her home in Connecticut, as if this were just the end of another too-brief visit. They couldn't bear to stay here at the house and watch us go, and we couldn't bear to leave them behind, so they were the first out the door, just after the four of us had made our parting, borrowing the strength of ceremony. In a small bowl we'd combined wood ash from the fireplace with the finer, sweeter ash of incense collected from the meditation room. Then we'd marked each other, as Cain is said to have been marked by God before setting out into the unknown, better to learn the keeping of his brother. The faint dust marks, so tenderly imposed on the skin of our foreheads, were our sign of belonging—to each other, to this set-apart time, and to a world that covers us with the dust of sufferings and miracles alike.
      Now I look over my shoulder at James, hand still full of knob.
      "Are we ready, Irishman?"
      His body visibly braces: he feels the edge. Who empties his bags, rather than packs, before a long, hard journey? He breathes deeply, all he can do, bright tears staining his cheeks. Then his eyes lock mine. "Okay," he says firmly. "Ready."
      I step down, tug the door home, test the lock. Ready or not, the thing's done....

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