For this past month, I have been tentatively restarting a way of life that I had grown accustomed to for a while: that of a nomadic writer. Previously, I spent two years (2023-2025) traveling full time, staying in the homes of people I know all over the country, because it was a good way to prioritize writing. It was a time marked by uncertainty and adventure and being dependent on the reality of providence in an inescapable way. I grew so much as a writer and as a person, and I learned about the beauty of poverty.
Poverty is always uncomfortable but perhaps it is especially so in modern America where our worth is so often, whether consciously or not, measured by our productivity. Material poverty is particularly looked down on, but any place that is marked by our own weakness is a place of poverty and a place that feels so difficult — sometimes even wrong — to expose. Poverty is also an evangelical counsel, the way of life chosen by our Lord on earth, and grappling with why is an important piece of the Christian life.
As I begin to be nomadic again, I’m confronted again with all kinds of levels of my own poverty, and even after all this time, it’s not easy for me. But I have learned enough to hold on to some memory of the reality that this is worth it.
That is one of several reasons why I was so moved by Christopher Nolan’s adaptation of “The Odyssey.” I went through a strange little rollercoaster in the theater. Step One (near the beginning of the movie): “Huh, I’m nomadic again, maybe the story of the Odyssey is going to feel really relevant to me.” Step Two (when all the monsters start showing up): “No part of this feels remotely relevant to me.” Step Three (a scene when Odysseus, the consummate warrior who always has a plan, has to surrender the last vestiges of his control and let himself be completely at the mercy of the gods): “Never mind, this rings insanely true to my experience.” With that moment in place, the monsters and the mythology and the terrible fallout of war, all started to look more like an external representation of interior realities that maybe we all face. And after the uncertainty and the suffering expose more and more of our poverty, eventually we find the reality that only grace can bring us home.
A couple of months ago, I went on a walk in Lake Park and came across a busker, playing his guitar next to the little sidewalk circle just down the hill from the lighthouse. As I approached, I felt in myself the instinct to walk on the other side of the circle so as to not have to go right past him and risk offending him with my lack of tip money. I watched as a couple of other people did exactly that. Maybe it was the countless times and ways that I have needed to learn about the importance of courage, or maybe it was simply the fact that I love buskers and wish there were more of them around in America, but I knew that if nothing else, I absolutely had to shoulder this tiniest possible act of courage and not avoid walking by him. Even though I wanted to also stop and listen for a while, I knew that wasn’t going to happen — I was too embarrassed that I couldn’t offer him anything in return, and even if I had a tip to offer, standing there for a while would have been too much vulnerability for me to handle. So instead, all I did was look up at him for a second as I passed and say, “thank you.”
In my mind it was a somewhat pathetic substitute for actually stopping to listen, the tiniest possible expression for the gratitude I felt for his music. But what he said, in a voice that sounded genuinely amazed, was, “Wow.”
Then he added a hasty “have a nice day,” and I’m pretty sure I said something similar as I just kept walking because I didn’t know what else to do. But all my social anxiety hadn’t undone that one profound moment where we both affirmed that the other was giving a gift.
This is a very tiny story of what poverty looks like in my life. Mostly it’s a story of me failing at what I wanted to do. My instinct toward self-protection and control runs very deep; I’m terrified of my own mistakes. And I live in a world where you can do a lot to edit your own image, and only let yourself be seen when you’re ready. But I managed to force myself to take the slightest risk. And I didn’t execute my intention particularly well, but it still sparked this really beautiful moment where I let myself be seen and that mattered.
Poverty is more or less interchangeable with weakness, and my weakness is something I only ever want to hide and overcome. That’s why sometimes I need to be put into situations where the reality of my poverty is undeniable, or I would never learn about the beauty and life that can flourish in the places where I allow God to be the one who is working. When I embrace the reality of my weakness and let myself be seen as I am, the law of the gift can take root. Like my spiritual father said in a homily, “We do things that are of God when we rely on him.” When no part of me can pretend to be earning anything, I can receive from my Father what he wants to give. And sometimes that grace is tiny — like the unexpected affirmation of a Lake Park busker — other times, it changes my life.
