> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://growing-smaller.ghost.io/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # Homelessness - URL: https://growing-smaller.ghost.io/homelessness/ - Published: 2026-07-31T11:05:42.000Z - Updated: 2026-08-01T12:25:28.000Z - Author: Pachomios Browne ^Homeless. You can build some kind of fort with this. Three materials I can think of right now: 1\. the way I've always felt during a move when I have had children at home, 2\. my experience living in a car (and then settling back into a home), and 3\. official definitions. --- Regarding the first one, when my kids lived at home, any time we moved, which as it turned out ended up being quite a few times over the course of those many kids, I would feel very vulnerable, even to the point of feeling irresponsible and guilty. That part is on me and my insides. I would feel so vulnerable because, even when we were getting out of the place we had been on time and in proper order, and we had the next place all lined up and squared away and it was definitely legally ours, I felt at risk, like we were without a home. Perhaps that is because we were not settled, and that was all that it was. A reaction to having life packed into boxes. Or who knows, maybe it was the only moment when we were living close enough to some state of nature, moving from one rental into another (well, it even happened moving into a home my wife and I had bought. We bought, but we still were paying on the loan, and though that's different than renting, you always know for the life of that loan that it's not the same as it being unequivocally in your hand). That in-between making it clear that the only "ours" was ourSelves. Maybe settling, in some way, is a mirage – an illusion – of possession. I don't know. I can return to that later. Anyway, I would feel homeless any time we were in between homes. That was definitely connected to the reality of dependents, though, because the first time I stopped having dependents at home, I incidentally stopped having a home. I was in between homes for an extended period. I had, or rather would have, the resources for a home, but not until my own home sold. I couldn't live in it because it was far away in the wilderness, and I had to return to where people lived. And so I lived in my car for several months, parking it at campgrounds, casino parking lots, out-of-the-way two tracks, grocery stores, vacant land. And it was just how life was while I was waiting for my home to sell. In fact, that was the first paid-for home I (we) ever had. I was more in possession of a home than I had ever been and have been even up to now. Yet I was homeless, and I didn't feel at risk or in danger or irresponsible or guilty Yet When that home finally sold and I had the resources and I found a place to rent, I was grateful. Eagerly and energetically committed to settling. Homemaking with joy. I've always loved that. When I was a kid, I often rearranged rooms because it made the place feel new and gave me a chance to really think about how the parts of that room worked together and the purposes that they served. I'm not saying I worded it like that in my head when I was nine, but that is definitely what I was doing. I enjoyed figuring out how it felt when it was set up in different ways. Something I did not expect as I made my new rental a home, though, began to set in the more settled I got. I began to feel alone, isolated, at risk, in danger. More than I ever felt sleeping on an exercise mat in the back seat of a Chevy Suburban. More than I ever felt cooking dinner over a campfire or a little propane stove after a taxing day of work. More than I ever felt paying $3 to shower at a community pool. I think that was three kinds of homeless – one only in my mind, another actually in my body, and a third one in my soul. And those seem to be the simple (to harmonize) ones. Looking across different agencies, from the federal government to municipalities and human services, homelessness looks something like: Not having housing that is safe *and* standard *and* secure *and* sufficient. It doesn't have to be a cardboard box on the street. This is not a petition regarding homelessness or those traversing or caught in this non-place, but it is a reflection on just one reason why I, personally, need to be compassionate. In fact, it suddenly seems similar to another thing about myself that it took me so long to notice that I carried a cart full of bags of pain for decades. I *should have* been able to see that I really did have a substance abuse problem. But what good is a *should have* when someone *doesn't*? It is a trait of un-self-awareness to be a keeper of high standards and clear vision and then to be unable to see the deathly problem of *actually can't*. No one needs to have a problem with substances (or sex or gambling or risk-taking or shopping or social media or screens more generally) to benefit from the perspective that, "You can't convince somebody else that they have a problem." Sympathies to those whose neighborhoods and cities are heavy-loaded with people who *actually can't*. Being forced to be unwilling residents of addiction, illness, murder, theft, privation, misery. If you *can*, this isn't what you're working for. Sympathies with those whose lives are taking place in shelters, cars, on couches, under bridges, in doorways, on benches, on boxes – desperate forts – bouncing place to place, continually waning. Slowly dying, caught in cycles.[+](https://app.notion.com/p/Kingdom-3ae69de1120f8062beffd4491c42690a?source=copy%5Flink) Sympathies especially with those who are dependent. In both houses. You are growing up and you didn't ask for any of this at all. Sometimes forced into hearing condemnations, fights — seeing shock, violence — smelling putrid perfumes of proper and organized worlds rotten inside, and of rotten and disorganized worlds as infinitely valuable inside as all others. I ask God whether two things can be true at once. Three even. More please, dear Lord. \*𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚕𝚕. 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖. 𝚆𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝙿𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚎-𝚍𝚘 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚏𝚏? 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚍𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗'𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜. 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗, 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞 – 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚘, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚖𝚎. 𝙻𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗. 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝, 𝚁𝚘𝚡𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎, 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗.