I went to the Greenfield food co-op earlier today and found the sign above by a young man wearing jeans tattered in knee and shin and a gray, sleeveless, sweat-stained T, asking for money. I gave him some even as I noticed that no one else was doing this, and asked if I could take a photo. He agreed, said I didn’t have to give him anything in order to take a picture.

We introduced ourselves; his name was Win. Win said he stays in the shelter around the block in the nights when he could get a bed (there are not enough beds for unhoused people in our area), but he spends the hot days outside, and showed me the sunburned skin on his forearms (we’re once again in the midst of a heat wave, with very high humidity).

I asked him how the weed helps him, and he said he gets terribly anxious and depressed. To my question about whether he takes medications, he said yes but he can’t always get them, and when he has both his medications and some pot, he feels best of all.

“I’m relaxed more, I can sleep,” he said. “I just need it, is all.”

Day after day, I bear witness to how judgmental I can get. You need to drink in order to live through the day? You need to take drugs? You need to eat a lot, work a lot, find solace in excess of some kind?

I’ve had to take a backwards step and look at myself. No, I barely drink unless I’m out for dinner; I’ve gotten drunk twice in my life, and both times it was because I drank a glass of wine on an empty stomach, which made me not just drunk but also nauseous and sick to my stomach.

I take half-gummies to fall asleep. This began when I turned 70 and sleep avoided me regardless of how tired I got. My doctor approved. I can’t seem to get through a day without eating some processed sugar in the form of chocolate or cookies. At the end of a session on weight-bearing machines in my local YMCA, I was congratulated for how I did. “Do I get a lollipop?” I asked jokingly. Instantly the woman got dead serious. “That’s the last thing you get,” she said, lips pursed

But I have found work to be my biggest drug of choice. It’s an opportunity to do good things but narrows my view substantially. I join people who talk about those addicted to their phones, till I remember how many long hours I spend in front of a screen that may be bigger than a phone but serves equally to take my mind off things I don’t wish to think about.

What are they? Is it waking up alone in a big bedroom made for two? Getting older as I live in a house in the woods? Wondering about the well of creativity and how long it will flow?

Who am I if not a teacher or a writer? Just like I wondered some years ago who was I if not a wife? What is it like to empty yourself of all these identifications, the drive and the work? What happens when none of those are relevant anymore?

The earth gives me an answer. I walk directly on it when taking the dogs out. Step after step, I remember that I belong here regardless of what I do, how much or little I contribute. I belong here like the homeless man belongs here, the weed that grows in cannabis farms all around us now, the heat, humidity, and storms that have overwhelmed this valley since the end of June.

That’s the comfort I take daily. It’s what I would like to tell the man who wouldn’t lie about what he needed. Weed is fine, I wanted to tell him, but what’s under the weed may be finer, or what’s under the hot pavement on which he sat. The earth holds us all, including his many silent, anguished voices.