"Scientists are predicting that America and Asia will crash into each within the next hundred million years. And that ends this edition of the world news."
For goodness sake - was that really necessary to add to the long list of global woes, the renewed riots in Greece, the bloodbath in Syria, the warmest winter in the States, the coldest winter in Europe, the arming of military to fight against civilians in Darfur, the Israelis planning an attack against Iran ...
And that was just the very end of the news. That is why I do not listen to it - I just happened to turn on the radio for the five minutes drive from the gym back home (I know, I should walk.) I drive every day for work, and so I listen to books. I am thoroughly enjoying "Howards End" by E.M. Forster. He is an excellent writer. I just decided to listen to the news as the drive was so brief, and now to add to my list of worries is the impending crash between continents. Really, none of us will be around, quite probably the planet will not be around, why is it necessary to even put that concept out into the ether? It pisses me off.
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Fears
As I grow older, I become more phobic. I have fears about crowds, about heights, about doing mathematics. I have conquered at least some of these fears - going to India certainly helped. If one fears crowds one shouldn't go to India, period. We went to the bustling vibrant town of Chidambarran. A magnificent temple is in the center of the town and all of the daily (and nightly) life takes place in and immediately in and around the temple.
Siva is the deity here, and for thousands of years the Dikshita priests have carried out the ceremonies. Once a year Siva is taken out of his home, bathed, clothed, placed in a massive chariot and taken around the town. Taken is the wrong word. His massive stone chariot rests on enormous wheels of stone. The chariot is pulled by hundreds and thousands of pilgrims who pull the thick sisal ropes which move the chariot along the streets. They are the driving force, the motor. We arrived in Chidambarram specially for this ceremony. With my fear of crowds I find myself running barefoot over stones, dust, and asphalt trying to keep up with yatris (fellow spiritual travellers) running ahead of me. We are all trying to keep up with someone familiar ahead of us and we clutch each others' arms and scarves. We are in a swirling sea of excited Indian pilgrims. My fear of crowds dissipates and I joyfully merge into the ecstatic throng.
My fear of heights I overcame on my last trip to the north when we had to walk across flimsy bridges over a swollen Ganges.
So - I have a fear of computers and digital devices in general. In a terrible state of jetlag in Singapore I bought an iPad! My fogged thinking was that it would be really convenient to take to restaurants and cafes and blog and write. II shlepped my burgeoning amount of devices to work, but there we do not have access to wi-fi!!!!!!! Imagine that. My nights have been busy trying to read manuals. I went to the Apple store and got some advice. All seems so very easy and obvious when one is instructed by a chirpy youngster. However, I get home and don't know what on earth I nodded yes to so happily!
But here I am, it is Saturday, and I'm in a cafe and it is working!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yahoo.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Don't - do
Don't run around bare foot.
Don't play with your food.
Don't eat with your fingers.
Don't stare at people, its rude.
Don't push in line.
Look to your left and right before crossing the road.
Wait for the green light.
Don't hoot at other drivers. (honk, for the benefit of Americans.)
I am sure we have all heard at least a few of these admonitions. In India all is topsy turvy. Everything we have been warned against, we must do if we are to survive, and not commit gross cultural misunderstandings, unrest, violence ...
When I was in the north, 18 months ago, I developed a horrible painful rash from the heat. I remembered that when I was first in India many years before people used some kind of powder for this condition. In congested crowded Vrindavan I saw what might be a pharmacy across the road from where I was standing. That is, I saw some bottles on the shelves of a stall with red crosses on them. I determined to go there to ask, but i had to cross the road.To my left, right, ahead of me, and behind me was a constant stream of people walking, limping, pushing carts, propelling vehicles with their hands or legs, bicycles with at least five people sitting on them, motorbikes likewise, pushcarts, buffalos, dogs, goats, pigs, rickshaws, cars, buses. It took me two days and pain to get me to cross the road.
This time in Puducherry I had to cross something similar to a wide avenue to get to our hotel. Maybe something like a six-lane highway, although of course there was no such thing as lanes. I stood on a strip across from the hotel and looked to my left for a traffic light - nothing. Maybe to my right, if I just walk a bit. I walked, then realized I might walk forever, I was not going to find a light, and there was no such thing as a pedestrian crossing. What to do? To cross the road was nothing short of suicide.
I looked at the never-ending flow waiting for a break of sort. Then, immediately to my left an angel appeared in the form of an old, skinny, barefoot woman. She hitched up her sari and began to cross the road. Here was my salvation, I hurried after her, shadowing each step she took. The pavement on the other side loomed up like a glimpse of land to someone who has been floating hopelessly at sea.
I reached the hotel safely.
Don't play with your food.
Don't eat with your fingers.
Don't stare at people, its rude.
Don't push in line.
Look to your left and right before crossing the road.
Wait for the green light.
Don't hoot at other drivers. (honk, for the benefit of Americans.)
I am sure we have all heard at least a few of these admonitions. In India all is topsy turvy. Everything we have been warned against, we must do if we are to survive, and not commit gross cultural misunderstandings, unrest, violence ...
When I was in the north, 18 months ago, I developed a horrible painful rash from the heat. I remembered that when I was first in India many years before people used some kind of powder for this condition. In congested crowded Vrindavan I saw what might be a pharmacy across the road from where I was standing. That is, I saw some bottles on the shelves of a stall with red crosses on them. I determined to go there to ask, but i had to cross the road.To my left, right, ahead of me, and behind me was a constant stream of people walking, limping, pushing carts, propelling vehicles with their hands or legs, bicycles with at least five people sitting on them, motorbikes likewise, pushcarts, buffalos, dogs, goats, pigs, rickshaws, cars, buses. It took me two days and pain to get me to cross the road.
This time in Puducherry I had to cross something similar to a wide avenue to get to our hotel. Maybe something like a six-lane highway, although of course there was no such thing as lanes. I stood on a strip across from the hotel and looked to my left for a traffic light - nothing. Maybe to my right, if I just walk a bit. I walked, then realized I might walk forever, I was not going to find a light, and there was no such thing as a pedestrian crossing. What to do? To cross the road was nothing short of suicide.
I looked at the never-ending flow waiting for a break of sort. Then, immediately to my left an angel appeared in the form of an old, skinny, barefoot woman. She hitched up her sari and began to cross the road. Here was my salvation, I hurried after her, shadowing each step she took. The pavement on the other side loomed up like a glimpse of land to someone who has been floating hopelessly at sea.
I reached the hotel safely.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
What to Do
I was reading my very brief journal I kept in India, and was reminded of an incident which occurred on our second day there.
We visited Mahaballipuram, an area of magnificent stone carvings and an ancient temple. I remembered it from a previous visit, 18 years ago. What I remembered about that visit were the granite carvings, the snake charmers, and a fight between a snake and a mongoose. I also remember walking along the lovely beach being pursued by a young girl, a beggar. She was in rags and held a tiny equally ragged baby. As is their custom, she latched on to me and didn't leave me alone. It was at a time when I was in desperate need of quiet time, and I am ashamed to say that I quite lost it with her. I told her to get away and asked whether she had ever heard of the world's population explosion. Of course it went by her.
On my return visit, 18 years later our group of 46 stood outside a temple, waiting to go in. Of course we were accosted by every urchin and beggar in the area. Again, a young girl stood in front of me holding out strings of synthetic beads and pearls. She shoved them in my face and tried to open my fingers. I looked down at her and shook my head. She gazed back out of large brown eyes. She was a pretty girl who was very very dirty. She stared at me and said, "please Ma'am, very every hungry." Despite my stoney face she continued. I looked at her, obviously she was hungry. She wasn't in good shape, but what on earth could I do? If I agreed to buy even one of her strands of beads the other hundred beggars around her would insist we buy from all of them. I looked into her eyes and shook my head. Her whole sorry life and future unfolded in front of me. Just then a security guard who had been on the outskirts of this group came over, raised his hand and he hit her on her back, hard. It happened so quickly. I felt myself screaming 'no' as he hit her again and all the street kids scattered.
It is very difficult when one is confronted with this level of misery and despair. One of the men who leads our tour is an Indian man, a Hare Krishna disciple. For the past few years he supervises an organization that feed 1200,000 children a day in Mumbai. For most of these children this is their only meal. They are fed in government schools and their parents now send them to school so that they can eat, and of course, learn. On my last visit to India I decided to donate to them, because I know where the money is going, and that it is an extremely worthy cause, better than the 10 rupees I can dole out to a few people to make me feel better.
If you are interested, this is the link
www.middaymeal.com
We visited Mahaballipuram, an area of magnificent stone carvings and an ancient temple. I remembered it from a previous visit, 18 years ago. What I remembered about that visit were the granite carvings, the snake charmers, and a fight between a snake and a mongoose. I also remember walking along the lovely beach being pursued by a young girl, a beggar. She was in rags and held a tiny equally ragged baby. As is their custom, she latched on to me and didn't leave me alone. It was at a time when I was in desperate need of quiet time, and I am ashamed to say that I quite lost it with her. I told her to get away and asked whether she had ever heard of the world's population explosion. Of course it went by her.
On my return visit, 18 years later our group of 46 stood outside a temple, waiting to go in. Of course we were accosted by every urchin and beggar in the area. Again, a young girl stood in front of me holding out strings of synthetic beads and pearls. She shoved them in my face and tried to open my fingers. I looked down at her and shook my head. She gazed back out of large brown eyes. She was a pretty girl who was very very dirty. She stared at me and said, "please Ma'am, very every hungry." Despite my stoney face she continued. I looked at her, obviously she was hungry. She wasn't in good shape, but what on earth could I do? If I agreed to buy even one of her strands of beads the other hundred beggars around her would insist we buy from all of them. I looked into her eyes and shook my head. Her whole sorry life and future unfolded in front of me. Just then a security guard who had been on the outskirts of this group came over, raised his hand and he hit her on her back, hard. It happened so quickly. I felt myself screaming 'no' as he hit her again and all the street kids scattered.
It is very difficult when one is confronted with this level of misery and despair. One of the men who leads our tour is an Indian man, a Hare Krishna disciple. For the past few years he supervises an organization that feed 1200,000 children a day in Mumbai. For most of these children this is their only meal. They are fed in government schools and their parents now send them to school so that they can eat, and of course, learn. On my last visit to India I decided to donate to them, because I know where the money is going, and that it is an extremely worthy cause, better than the 10 rupees I can dole out to a few people to make me feel better.
If you are interested, this is the link
www.middaymeal.com
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Shopping in India
My latest trip to India passed in a dream. I will write more of it for Namarupa, and hopefully more vignettes will follow in this blog. It is really impossible to capture or even try to describe the sensory overload that is India.
Amongst other places we visited was Puducherry (formerly known as Pondicherry.) Cyclone Thane had passed through before we arrived, uprooting trees, destroying roads and communications, wiping out villages. The area in and around Auroville was damaged very badly.
We eventually arrived in Puducherry after a long bus ride delayed even further by a sit down strike on the bridge, stopping all traffic. The strike was instigated by workers who had not received compensation for cyclone damage.
The area of Puducherry around the Sri Aurobindo Ashram is reminiscent of the French Quarter of New Orleans (thankfully without Bourbon Street.) It is elegant and gracious - wide, almost clean streets, beautiful French colonial buildings. Lush trees lining the streets and form overhead canopies.
After our visit to the Ashram and Temple we had time for that most spiritual of activities, shopping. I was told of a Kadhi Shop (The Kadhi textiles are the industry begun by Mahatma Ghandhi, and not the shop where Ghandi went shopping, as one of our crowd informed her husband in Michigan. ) They are a wonderful homespun cotton and prices are fixed. I wanted to buy something for my nephews.
An Indian 'guide' accompanied some of us along bustling Nehru avenue, no longer reminiscent of the French quarter. Narrow dusty streets lined with crammed shops and stalls. We arrived at the designated shop and everyone dispersed into the narrow, crowded interior, on either side of which textiles and clothing were piled to the ceiling. Behind a counter sat about 10 men, if not more, all their heads wagging as we asked questions.
Behind one of the men I spotted plain medium sized short sleeved shirts and pointed to them. One of the men removed them from the pile and from their cellophane bags. He displayed them on a crowded counter top. Inside the shop the heat and humidity were getting to me, I wanted to leave so I wagged my head in approval of these two shirts. Another man refolded them and replaced them into their cellophane bags. He handed these to another man who wrote the prices on a piece of paper. This man handed them to another man who added the totals and handed them to a man at a cash register. I paid the amount and yet another man handed me the parcels along with a receipt, (and apparently, a blessing.) Finally, another man handed me my change.
"How many Indians does it take to buy a shirt?"
Amongst other places we visited was Puducherry (formerly known as Pondicherry.) Cyclone Thane had passed through before we arrived, uprooting trees, destroying roads and communications, wiping out villages. The area in and around Auroville was damaged very badly.
We eventually arrived in Puducherry after a long bus ride delayed even further by a sit down strike on the bridge, stopping all traffic. The strike was instigated by workers who had not received compensation for cyclone damage.
The area of Puducherry around the Sri Aurobindo Ashram is reminiscent of the French Quarter of New Orleans (thankfully without Bourbon Street.) It is elegant and gracious - wide, almost clean streets, beautiful French colonial buildings. Lush trees lining the streets and form overhead canopies.
After our visit to the Ashram and Temple we had time for that most spiritual of activities, shopping. I was told of a Kadhi Shop (The Kadhi textiles are the industry begun by Mahatma Ghandhi, and not the shop where Ghandi went shopping, as one of our crowd informed her husband in Michigan. ) They are a wonderful homespun cotton and prices are fixed. I wanted to buy something for my nephews.
An Indian 'guide' accompanied some of us along bustling Nehru avenue, no longer reminiscent of the French quarter. Narrow dusty streets lined with crammed shops and stalls. We arrived at the designated shop and everyone dispersed into the narrow, crowded interior, on either side of which textiles and clothing were piled to the ceiling. Behind a counter sat about 10 men, if not more, all their heads wagging as we asked questions.
"How many Indians does it take to buy a shirt?"
Friday, December 23, 2011
Miracles
It seems apt that at this time of magic and miracles, of darkness and light, I should write about the presence of The Lord in my life. I know this sounds sacrilegious, as I am certainly not a practicing Christian of any sort. However, all the families I work with are either Catholic, Pentecostal or Baptist. I have worked with Jehovah's Witnesses, but that will require a separate piece.
The homes of the Catholics have crucifixes on the walls, in the fireplaces, in the kitchens. Images of scenes from the Last Supper grace the walls. In the Latino homes there are statues or photos of the Virgin of Guadalupe with candles and flowers in front. These altars are all very beautiful, and are changed according to holidays or family events. Alongside the images of the Virgin of Guadalupe are photos of their ancestors. rosaries, various symbols.
In one of the homes I go to, the daughter is very ill. She was born with a metabolic disease and has to be kept secluded in her home. Her mom is young and deeply religious. I see her on Friday mornings. Often, during my visit a woman member of their church comes by and she and the mother say mass in the home while I sit with the little girl. I presume they are saying mass. They stand in front of a picture of Jesus and another of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the dining room table. A white candle is lit and they stand in front singing, and I hear Senor, sangre, padre, madre, espiritu santo, and so on. They kneel and stand a few times.
The young mother recently had surgery to remove several malignant growths in her neck. This of course shocked all of us who are involved with the family. After all, she is very young, and besides anything, her daughter needs her. We prayed before and after the removal of the tumors. Her mother came up from Mixoaca to help her for a couple of weeks. Her mother is also very religious.
I was there on Friday, after her surgery, and translated the doctor's summary for the family. While I was there the 'traveling minister' (as I refer to her in my head) came into the home. The three women stood around the table/altar and prayed and sang in unison. This lasted about thirty minutes while I attempted to interest the little girl in a book of fairies (she is partial to fairies at this time.) Out of the corner of my eye I saw the women genuflecting, then the minister handed them what appeared to be white discs. I realized this must be communion. When the minister left the mother turned to me. Her face, pale and lopsided after the surgery, was glowing. Her eyes beamed, she appeared almost drunk.
"Nesta, " she purred, "un miraglo a pasar, un miraglo de Dios. Dios es aqui, en nuestra casa." God is here, God is present, God is with us. He wants to make himself known to you. Do you know what happened now?" she continued beaming lopsidedly, while her mother also stood there, glowing. "The minister brought two wafers, one for me and one for my mother, but there is an extra one, it is for you, it is a miracle, "Dios te quiere, Nesta, Dios te quiere. Nesta, you are blessed, Jesus wants you to know him, he is here with us and in our hearts, you are blessed, you are blessed."
I had no idea how to respond to these two beaming women! "Gracias," I said. It is time for me to go now.
I left to the usual "Dios te bendige" that most of the families wish me.
So, God bless you and a merry Xmas to one and all.
The homes of the Catholics have crucifixes on the walls, in the fireplaces, in the kitchens. Images of scenes from the Last Supper grace the walls. In the Latino homes there are statues or photos of the Virgin of Guadalupe with candles and flowers in front. These altars are all very beautiful, and are changed according to holidays or family events. Alongside the images of the Virgin of Guadalupe are photos of their ancestors. rosaries, various symbols.
In one of the homes I go to, the daughter is very ill. She was born with a metabolic disease and has to be kept secluded in her home. Her mom is young and deeply religious. I see her on Friday mornings. Often, during my visit a woman member of their church comes by and she and the mother say mass in the home while I sit with the little girl. I presume they are saying mass. They stand in front of a picture of Jesus and another of the Virgin of Guadalupe on the dining room table. A white candle is lit and they stand in front singing, and I hear Senor, sangre, padre, madre, espiritu santo, and so on. They kneel and stand a few times.
The young mother recently had surgery to remove several malignant growths in her neck. This of course shocked all of us who are involved with the family. After all, she is very young, and besides anything, her daughter needs her. We prayed before and after the removal of the tumors. Her mother came up from Mixoaca to help her for a couple of weeks. Her mother is also very religious.
I was there on Friday, after her surgery, and translated the doctor's summary for the family. While I was there the 'traveling minister' (as I refer to her in my head) came into the home. The three women stood around the table/altar and prayed and sang in unison. This lasted about thirty minutes while I attempted to interest the little girl in a book of fairies (she is partial to fairies at this time.) Out of the corner of my eye I saw the women genuflecting, then the minister handed them what appeared to be white discs. I realized this must be communion. When the minister left the mother turned to me. Her face, pale and lopsided after the surgery, was glowing. Her eyes beamed, she appeared almost drunk.
"Nesta, " she purred, "un miraglo a pasar, un miraglo de Dios. Dios es aqui, en nuestra casa." God is here, God is present, God is with us. He wants to make himself known to you. Do you know what happened now?" she continued beaming lopsidedly, while her mother also stood there, glowing. "The minister brought two wafers, one for me and one for my mother, but there is an extra one, it is for you, it is a miracle, "Dios te quiere, Nesta, Dios te quiere. Nesta, you are blessed, Jesus wants you to know him, he is here with us and in our hearts, you are blessed, you are blessed."
I had no idea how to respond to these two beaming women! "Gracias," I said. It is time for me to go now.
I left to the usual "Dios te bendige" that most of the families wish me.
So, God bless you and a merry Xmas to one and all.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Special Needs
I got back to work three weeks ago. Because of scheduling difficulties and because he is now in a day care, I haven't yet gotten to see one of the boys I work with. Today I called his mother and asked how he is.
"Really good," she said. This weekend he ate a whole bowl of food by himself'. I heard the delight in her voice. "Did he use his fingers"? I asked her. "What did he eat?"
"He ate our food with us. I cut up some pasta and some fish and some vegetables and put it in a bowl. He ate all of it, using his fingers. He picked up the pieces and put them in the side of his mouth and chewed them up and swallowed them. He ate all of it!"
He is two years and three months old, and until now, he will only accept soft food. He doesn't put his fingers in the food or bring anything to his mouth. Any bit not acceptable to him he spits out. I was thrilled and delighted with her news. I will see him tomorrow.
No one who is not involved in the care of a child with special needs can imagine the joy, relief, and delight one feels when they do something that typically developing children just do automatically. Two weeks ago I watched in unmitigated joy as my little cousin of ten months sat in her high chair, grabbed the pears, the bread, the pieces of cheese, and everything, in fact, that was offered to her. She got the food to her mouth and chewed and swallowed and ate some more - a two-fisted little eater obviously enchanted with her food. After finishing every last morsel she was removed from her chair, and then showing good fine motor development she picked up the crumbs from the floor. An efficient little vacuum. Finally content with having done a thorough cleaning job she stood up, smiled, and sat down. She had our undivided attention so she performed this remarkable trick a few times .
How miraculous when everything works as it should, a superb intricate enmeshment of different systems working in unison in a little being.
I returned to the news that one of the boys with whom I had worked had died. He was two and a half years old. In his case, it was probably better for him, he suffered from microcephaly, he was blind, and deaf, and had to be fed through a g-tube. At the same time he responded to his parents' voices and presence, he interacted with his environment, touching objects with different textures. He loved music and responded to it by smiling. His parents and sister were devoted to his care. They are devastated. All I could do was tell his mother how very sorry I am, and what a good parent she was, and that she took wonderful care of him. She was so upset that maybe she had done something wrong to cause his death, by not giving him enough medication, or by giving him too much medication, or maybe she gave him water incorrectly, or kept his room too warm or too cold.
"No, no, no, you did nothing wrong at all." How can one console grieving parents? I would never say "it is for the best." All I can do is listen to them, and show I care.
It is not always easy.
"Really good," she said. This weekend he ate a whole bowl of food by himself'. I heard the delight in her voice. "Did he use his fingers"? I asked her. "What did he eat?"
"He ate our food with us. I cut up some pasta and some fish and some vegetables and put it in a bowl. He ate all of it, using his fingers. He picked up the pieces and put them in the side of his mouth and chewed them up and swallowed them. He ate all of it!"
He is two years and three months old, and until now, he will only accept soft food. He doesn't put his fingers in the food or bring anything to his mouth. Any bit not acceptable to him he spits out. I was thrilled and delighted with her news. I will see him tomorrow.
No one who is not involved in the care of a child with special needs can imagine the joy, relief, and delight one feels when they do something that typically developing children just do automatically. Two weeks ago I watched in unmitigated joy as my little cousin of ten months sat in her high chair, grabbed the pears, the bread, the pieces of cheese, and everything, in fact, that was offered to her. She got the food to her mouth and chewed and swallowed and ate some more - a two-fisted little eater obviously enchanted with her food. After finishing every last morsel she was removed from her chair, and then showing good fine motor development she picked up the crumbs from the floor. An efficient little vacuum. Finally content with having done a thorough cleaning job she stood up, smiled, and sat down. She had our undivided attention so she performed this remarkable trick a few times .
How miraculous when everything works as it should, a superb intricate enmeshment of different systems working in unison in a little being.
I returned to the news that one of the boys with whom I had worked had died. He was two and a half years old. In his case, it was probably better for him, he suffered from microcephaly, he was blind, and deaf, and had to be fed through a g-tube. At the same time he responded to his parents' voices and presence, he interacted with his environment, touching objects with different textures. He loved music and responded to it by smiling. His parents and sister were devoted to his care. They are devastated. All I could do was tell his mother how very sorry I am, and what a good parent she was, and that she took wonderful care of him. She was so upset that maybe she had done something wrong to cause his death, by not giving him enough medication, or by giving him too much medication, or maybe she gave him water incorrectly, or kept his room too warm or too cold.
"No, no, no, you did nothing wrong at all." How can one console grieving parents? I would never say "it is for the best." All I can do is listen to them, and show I care.
It is not always easy.
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