14th Steet - Union Square

14th Street – Union Square

Every time I visit my oldest son, Jon, in Brooklyn, I make a ritual stop in Manhattan. I get off the subway at 14th Street–Union Square, not because it’s the most direct route, but because I want to spend an hour or so at the Strand Book Store on Broadway. There’s something comforting—almost sacred—about being surrounded by books. They ground me.

One winter afternoon, before heading into the Strand, I sat on a bench in Union Square Park. It was cold—January—and the wind cut through the trees with an indifference that matched the city’s usual pace. Across from me, an elderly man approached a trash can, rummaged through it, and pulled out a half-eaten burrito. He ate it slowly, standing there in Nike sandals and clothing far too light for the weather. He looked about my age. I sat frozen, unsure whether to offer him money, not wanting to offend, not wanting to make assumptions—but also painfully aware of my own hesitations. Before I could decide, he was gone.

The scene felt almost absurd. A McDonald’s on one side of the street. A Whole Foods on the other. And directly in front of me, a statue of Mahatma Gandhi—the man who championed nonviolence and simplicity—cast in bronze, unmoved. I later learned that Union Square, known in the 19th century as Union Place, was once a burial ground for the poor and unidentified. Somehow, that felt right: a place where the forgotten still linger.

Feeling conflicted and honestly a bit hypocritical, I went to the Strand anyway. I needed the comfort of something familiar. As I climbed the steps to the second floor where the photography books are, I stepped aside to let someone pass—and there he was. The same man from the park. Standing right next to me.

I gathered myself, walked over, and quietly said, “Excuse me, would you accept some money if I offered it to you?” He looked me directly in the eyes, took the cash without a word, and walked away. I’ve seen that look before—in my own neighborhood, even closer to home than I’d like to admit. And more times than I can count, I’ve looked away.

Thomas Merton once asked whether we’re just “guilty bystanders.” I felt that question echo in me.

I’m reminded of something John Lennon once said when asked why he devoted so much energy to peace—wasn’t it just a pipe dream? He responded by pointing to Leonardo da Vinci, who imagined human flight centuries before it became reality. “What a person projects will eventually happen,” Lennon said. “Therefore I always want to project peace. I want to put the possibility of peace into the public imagination.”

Now, whenever I step off the train at 14th Street - Union Square, I feel a familiar surge of anxiety. And rightfully so. To truly see someone—to give another person your undivided attention, even for a second—can undo you. It can change your life. It has changed mine.

I’ve come to believe that the more we grow in awareness of others—their pain, their dignity, their stories—the more tender and nonviolent our hearts become. Compassion isn't something we have to force; it begins to rise naturally when we’re truly paying attention.

If something sacred and wise is always present—within me, within you, within all of creation—then how can we turn away? How can we harm, ignore, marginalize, or dismiss anyone? How can we fail to see their worth?

For me, this is the aim of all genuine spiritual practice: to reach that moment—maybe slowly, maybe all at once—when we begin to see the sacred in every single person we encounter. Not as a lofty idea, but as a living reality. That’s when the heart truly begins to soften.