And now I know
Spanish harlem are not just pretty words to say
I thought I knew
But now I know that rose trees never grow in new york city
Until you've seen this trash can dream come true
You stand at the edge while people run you through
And I thank the lord there's people out there like you
I thank the lord there's people out there like you
While mona lisas and mad hatters
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers
Turn around and say good morning to the night
For unless they see the sky
But they can't and that is why
They know not if it's dark outside or light
This Broadway's got
Its got a lot of songs to sing
If I knew the tunes I might join in
Ill go my way alone
Grow my own, my own seeds shall be sown in new york city
Subways no way for a good man to go down
Rich man can ride and the hobo he can drown
And I thank the lord for the people I have found
I thank the lord for the people I have found
It's really cold this time of year. I always complain around October because it means I can no longer leave home with wet hair in the morning. (I have a lot of hair. And I don't own a blow-dryer.)
However, I'm also always reminded of just how fortunate I am when I see all the homeless people in my train station every day. It's ten degrees out and they have nowhere else to go...it makes my frozen curls seem extremely insignificant. It makes me sound like a spoiled brat.
I will never get used to seeing homeless people on the street. I have a memory of seeing the Radio City Christmas Show with my family when I was a kid, and on our way out, there was a homeless woman, in the street, shivering and rocking back-and-forth.
How come some people are surrounded by warmth and love and security and Christmas time...and others are shivering on the street? I remember thinking that at that moment, and I still think it every single day.
Every morning and evening, I walk by homeless people and my heart sinks...but I also walk by without giving them any money...and I tell myself, "I'm a single woman by myself...it would be really dumb if I opened my bag and wallet" and "How much help can a few coins do, anyway?"
And I realize that, for such a seemingly sensitive and compassionate person, I don't do nearly as much as I should.
Perspective is an amazing thing.
I can complain that I am underpaid.
I can feel wistful and envious when I hear about people my age buying homes.
I can grumble at having to wake-up a half-hour earlier so my hair isn't soaking wet as I go to my train.
Or I can just, as cliche as it might sound, accept that I am one of the luckiest people in the world.