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Did you keep up your blog?

No, wifi connections were spotty. I did something much more tried and true. I actually wrote - in a journal, just like I have done for most of my life.  I filled an unlined moleskin notebook and remembered how much I enjoyed writing longhand.

So now comes the blog.

Yes, of course I have photos. I shall upload a few. But as you may have noticed, visuals are limited on this blog!

It was just 6 days ago that I sat in the back of an uncomfortable small taxi without air conditioning being trounced around as we drove through narrow poorly tarred roads that wound up and down through the hilly countryside from Udaipur to Kumbalghore (Kumbalghash) the massive almost impregnable fort built in the 15th century, and Ranakpur, the exquisite Jain Temple. I wondered what and how to write about these experiences.

I think I will begin with being in, or on a vehicle, (I actually rode on the back of a scooter!) as it seems a metaphor for India itself. The only driver whose car seemed to have a seatbelt told me not to use it 'it is against comfort Madam.' He said this to me as he hurtled through congested lanes while conversing on his cellphone and honking. None of the millions of people on motor scooters wear helmets - I am sure that too,  is 'against comfort.' Many had bandannas tied around their faces, some kind of attempt against pollution, I am sure. It was dark as we drove from the airport to Udaipur and needless to say, roads were packed, as were the stalls and lanes at the side of the road. Suddenly the driver braked and we came across what appeared to be a major traffic jam. I peered out of the window to see bikes, cars, buses, scooters, tuk-tuks, rickshaws,  pedestrians, all seemingly patiently waiting for a cow to amble across the road. Then we were off again, a kind of choreographed balletic flow.

The idea of personal space is quite different in India People jostle and touch and push one against the other. A total stranger on the boat from Elephanta Island back to Mumbai cuddled next to me, arms around me, soft and smiling, as her daughter 'snapped us.' It seems to me that everyone enjoys being in close proximity, 'one to the other' and this proximity is also enjoyed on the roads. Every type of vehicle, from outsized trucks to bikes and cars also appear to enjoy being perilously close to each other. One feels the motion in the air as a car moves closely by, the warmth of an engine, glancing off someone's legs on a bike. All familiar, all comforting to each other, and for me, each exhalation is filled with gratitude at having survived.

I sat in the back of the taxi, bouncing up and down, my tailbone hitting the hard area of where the belt should have been, my spine undulating and bouncing, sweat pouring off my face, and thought to myself that I must tell friends to remind me that I must never ever  come to India again.

What is it about this country that keeps drawing me back? No sooner than I thought that I must never return, than I began to plan yet another trip in my head.

I think that for me, anyway, the stream of consciousness that constantly flows all around is an in-my- face reflection of the universality of the human condition. The universality of grinding poverty reflected in every line deeply etched on the faces of those passing by. They are emaciated, their legs bowed, they surely suffer from rickets. Poverty and suffering are part of the human condition - here we cannot avoid it. Every thing I see reflects the hardships, it is visible on the people, the dogs, the cows, the monkeys.
And untold wealth- a 27 storey building in Mumbai where the richest man in India lives, replete with helipad and an entire floor which is a swimming pool - and two people live there, with 2-300 servants!
And beauty - faces light up with smiles, the large velvet eyes of the children gaze out seriously from under thick lashes to light up the area around them.

And devotion - the joy on the faces of people in the temples, the beautiful thousands of years old traditions of darshan and arati. The fragrance of jasmine, the blowing of conches, the tinkling of bells. A constant flow of all that ever was, and all that is, and all that will ever be.

Year's End

2015 is almost over.
I am deliriously happy because it has been raining! Let it rain let it rain let it rain.
At this moment in time I am so enjoying not having to go to work, but today I met a friend at the gym who had gone to see someone in North Richmond and I am reminded that I really do need to write about the children and the struggles their families face. It is so easy to ignore, or to forget amidst the consumer bombardment at this time of the year.And so, I am not big for New Year's resolutions, but I do resolve to go back to my writing.
A really close friend in South Africa has suffered an embolism, so prayers for her recovery. Prayers for all those who are sick in body and in soul. Prayers for the world we live in. Let's continue to care about our fellow travellers.
And - speaking of travel, I am off to India on Xmas day and will be back in 2016!
So happy holidays and a peaceful and healthy new year to one and all.

Terror

What a title!

I am terrorised by Donald Trump.

When he first began his reign of terror people I know and respect found him amusing. From the beginning I saw him for what he is - a demagogue who is sewing the seeds of hatred and playing upon peoples' fears by scapegoating anyone who is not like him (as if he is an ideal because he has made money).

I am having a hard time differentiating between what is labeled an act of terror here in the States versus the all too frequent horrendous mass shootings. What are they if not acts of terror? I just don't understand why people are not terrified of people being able to buy weapons. Something in the American psyche is very off, and this man personifies it.

Wouldn't it be nice if people began to see the fear and hatred they have projected on to him comes from them.

I have unfortunately lived through different bouts of terrorism. When I lived on the kibbutz there was a spate of terrorists coming over the Lebanese border and killing people in their homes, on buses, and children on a school outing. I remember sitting on night duty in the childrens' houses talking to the woman who was on duty with me. What would we do, we wondered, if a terrorist came into the childrens' houses? They would know where to come because we sat in the only rooms with the lights on all night. We wondered whether we could jump out of the window into the bushes, but first we would have to cover the children with blankets and make it look like they weren't there. These were not idle thoughts. The terrorists did come to places where people congregated. The other thing we fantasized about is whether we could invite them in for coffee and maybe talk to them. To hear what they wanted. We wanted to know their thoughts and desires, and to understand their point of view. Mostly we wanted to hear about what they thought they would achieve by killing innocent people they didn't know. But not once did we think about destroying them.

I am scared of the present atmosphere.

Waiting

I did begin a new post after I quit my job. and had surgery the day after.
Yes, what a way to begin retirement, or something new, we know not yet what! I was going to explain my comment in my previous post about work ending with a bang, but ..... guess what, I have no desire to write about it. It is over!
I had surgery the day after I finished to remove a digital mucous cyst from my left index finger. I had made grandiose plans for the days after surgery, but when I awoke in the middle of the night in really bad pain I realized I would not be doing anything for a while.
Three weeks later and I am much much better, the 'thing' is gone, and I have movement in my finger and am knitting again, so all is well with the world. (! - my immediate little world)
I do find myself wondering how the kids are faring in their new programs, and even pick up the phone to call their parents, but then I put it down again. I must let go.  The same thing when I drive to Richmond to see the doctor, or to pick up yarn. My car wants to veer off on its own accord to their homes!
So yes, I am entering a new phase of life. The change is enormous, and it will take quite a while to find my new way and to feel OK with not working. I realize that in this society  we are defined by what we do, when we are in actual fact, far more than that.
So for now, while I think about 'what next' I am content with my art classes, reading, watching movies, working out,  meeting up with friends, knitting, enjoying the season to hibernate and ....... thinking 'what next.?'

That's It

Yesterday, October 12 2015 (Columbus Day) I handed in my notice.

I have worked as an occupational therapist in home health and in early intervention for the past 23 years!!!!!!!!!!!!! In my prior posts I have laid out the reasons for quitting. Of course I informed my so-called supervisor, human resources etc. True to form I have not heard from them, not a word! I have heard from two people in administration, about filling in forms, etc. And so it all ends, not with a bang, but with a whimper. (forgive the misquote)

Last week I was out of town, so I didn't see the children.  I returned Saturday. On Sunday I went to the mall in Emeryville, and was standing in front of the parking ticket machine when the woman in front of me turned around and smiled. "Hola" she said. It was the parents of a boy I am presently working with. For a minute I did not recognize the mom as she had on makeup and was dressed rather differently from the way she is dressed in the home. I was delighted to see them. We walked together to the elevator. The father held the boy I work with and the mother pushed her older son in a pram. The elevator was crowded and the mom asked her son "quien es?" and at first he just looked blankly at me together with all the other unknown faces. Then I saw a look of recognition in his lovely brown eyes. He smiled at me and said "eta" - his version of my name, then he reached out and hugged me.
That hug alone makes the work gratifying.
After I handed in my notice I opened up a shoebox I have that contains photos of all the families, past and present, and thank you cards from the parents, in english and spanish. I went through them, smiling with recognition of each child. This definitely softens the blow of - I am not sure how to put it - dismissal? lack of the most basic of courtesies? ignorance? disrespect? - from those 'on high.'
I have nothing but admiration and respect for each and every one of the families I have worked with. I feel honored to have been on them in their difficult journeys as parents of special needs children. I have laughed with them and cried with them, and rejoiced in each developmental milestone. I feel privileged to have been allowed into their homes and families. They are all in my heart, and I will honor them by writing about them and our work together, and their precious little ones.

How

How does it happen that tender jade green leaves of the watsonia are rising through the  dry brown remains of the spring flowering?
How does it happen that the leaves on my tomato plant are starting to brown and shrivel?
How does it happen that when I leave my yoga class at 8 p.m.  I have to turn on the headlights in my car?
How does it happen that I find a New Year's gift from Israel outside my front door?
How does it happen that it is a year since my visit to South Africa?
How does it happen that the street is full of parents dropping off their kids at school?
How and when did this all happen? It is already September, and I have only recently got used to writing 2015.

The New Dimension

The evening was innocent enough.
 A friend invited me to dinner at a hip new restaurant on Folsom Street, in San Francisco. The city is changing, and along with it, so is Folsom Street. There are now ultra hip restaurants and new green lofts alongside the leather and chain joints and stores.
We ate at what I would term a modern diner. Delicious American food - a clientele of mixed  ages, colors, and genders.
Before we left I went to the bathroom. Or at least, I thought that was where I was going. I walked to the kitchen and was redirected. The friendly hostess came up to me, pointed toward a door on the side, and said the code is 0699, or something similar. I punched in the code, a green light flashed and I entered an entirely different dimension. Pitch dark, flashing strobe lights, mirrors lining the walls, earsplitting pulsating music. I remained stock still gaping, unsure of what universe I had entered. The DJ busy with switches and what have yous happened to look up and pointed towards the back of the room - I think it was the room and I think it was the back. I stumbled my way along, unsure of whether to dance, skip or walk. In the vibrating dark I felt my way right, left, right, and saw a door with  the welcome word, restroom. Inside a sign bore instructions to inform someone if you didn't like what you saw or if you felt harassed - I think it meant outside the restroom.
I then fumbled and tripped my way back. My only guiding light was the on again off again glimpse of the DJ  amongst the strobe lights and the loud insistent music and the mirrors.  Will I ever get back to the world I had exited, I wondered. I opened a door and there I was, back in the relative quiet of the decently lit diner.
I warned my friend who returned as surprised as I had been, even though he had been forewarned. I felt like Harry Potter opening an innocent door to an entirely new universe.
Things have changed in San Francisco, especially south of Market, and they weren't exactly sane before!