- You would think that with all this traveling I would learn how to be a better guest but I'm pretty sure I'm learning how to be a better host. So many warm words, gifts, and positive exchanges. Murali, our Indian coordinator steps up to the mic and every time it's, "Friends, on behalf of the ECC and the St. Olaf group...."
- Doug and Jane Koon, members of the first Global Semsters and their advice: live modestly so you can return to India, give back, and be free.
- We were blessed by the highest Hindu priest, the only priest of his generation to touch Lord Shiva at the a world-renowned Hindu pilgrim destiniation, Mt. Arunchala. He is a Brahmin and his family has been doing this for generations. The temple was dim and musty; water pooled on the stone, cave-like bedding. I was hot. I was pinned between the others amongst the relics and mystic idols. But I made sure to look into the preists' eyes when he marked me with the the Bindhi. He noticed. I hope the right message was communicated: respect and honor and awe and fear. a slight challenge? maybe.
-Ramana Ashram, a walking meditation center: We were to ask who am I? and if we felt like it, to whom do my thoughts arise? I started asking and saw a book. I went to literature and then my poem. Who am I? I am the poem. Why am I destroying myself? Why am I destroying myself? Why am I destroying myself. I was under Shiva's spell, the God of destruction. Around and around I went with a deep frown embedded in my brow. Why am I destroying myself? How am I destroying? Cutting. Who is destroying? Me. What am I destroying ? Me. I am desire, need, love. Why am I destroying myself? What am I getting rid of? Am I getting rid of me to be me or ridding me of me? Around and around I went. Who am I? The destroyer and the destroyed. Who am I? Who am I?
On the way home I walked in step with three young Indian women. They said hello and their purple, green, and pink saris comforted me. Name? Tiffany. You? Lukah. I passed along a slight, eager, promising wave. Bye.
Daphne said Shiva attacked the mind and the ego and so the great meditater answered his own question with his heart. It returned. Loving again.
- India wakes up early. The roosters crow and cricket players scatter and bloom in the fields.
- I dig the no-shoe thing.
Friday, October 19, 2007
ECC
I had five cups of tea today and a lovely chat with Christine and Siri. I anticipate this will become the new norm.
We're staying at the Ecumenical Christian Center outside of Bangalore, India, and except for the mosquito nets and Malaria pills, it feels a lot like camp. Meals in the main hall, the cricket field/volleyball court on the front lawn, lush foliage about the campus, and activities (aka class time/random excursions) scheduled through out the day. And like most camps, the staff tries it's best to encourage good conversation and well being. A mound of dirt titled "Pile of Religious Harmony" sits on the side of the road and hedges in the shape of a global map linger by the lake. "Inspirational" signs are also scattered about. From the traditional and cheesy, "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one less-traveled by and that made all a difference" to the slightly bizarre, "I don't eat my own fruits, but you..." to the the completely distorted, "Deforestation is secret plot to exterminate the mother earth with her infant kids in he gas chamber."
On a slightly different note, although I do enjoy the solitude of this place and the time to read, think, and write, I worry about returning to my dark, empty room after a good day. I've been told that the morale of past groups drops in India and I can sense the loneliness that permeates the walls and lingers in the shadows. Such feelings haven't ventured out of their dwellings but I know I'm susceptible; I've always been guilty of the wandering mind...
We're staying at the Ecumenical Christian Center outside of Bangalore, India, and except for the mosquito nets and Malaria pills, it feels a lot like camp. Meals in the main hall, the cricket field/volleyball court on the front lawn, lush foliage about the campus, and activities (aka class time/random excursions) scheduled through out the day. And like most camps, the staff tries it's best to encourage good conversation and well being. A mound of dirt titled "Pile of Religious Harmony" sits on the side of the road and hedges in the shape of a global map linger by the lake. "Inspirational" signs are also scattered about. From the traditional and cheesy, "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I took the one less-traveled by and that made all a difference" to the slightly bizarre, "I don't eat my own fruits, but you..." to the the completely distorted, "Deforestation is secret plot to exterminate the mother earth with her infant kids in he gas chamber."
On a slightly different note, although I do enjoy the solitude of this place and the time to read, think, and write, I worry about returning to my dark, empty room after a good day. I've been told that the morale of past groups drops in India and I can sense the loneliness that permeates the walls and lingers in the shadows. Such feelings haven't ventured out of their dwellings but I know I'm susceptible; I've always been guilty of the wandering mind...
Saturday, October 13, 2007
It was a Global Day (Mumbai, 10/7)
Elephanta Island. The Sisters of Charity Orphanage (Ashadaan). The Bollywood film.
The Orphanage:
You can get used to a child's head resting on your shoulder.
The children were just finishing up a birthday party when we came. The music resonated through out the room and their chocolate-smeared hands clutched empty candy wrappers and packets of stickers. They were laughing, playing, and one-by-one eagerly invited us to join their games. After weaving through the smiling faces, being dragged here and there (most likely to places we weren't supposed to go. oops), making animal sounds-galore, and swinging children around so they could jump to the sky, I found her.
Like many of the children who were mentally and/or physically handicapped, so was she. I didn't realize until I picked her up but (oh, how do I say it?) she had only one arm and no legs. I would be lying if I said it didn't phase me for a second. She knew a little English and was assertive with her pointed finger. I was instantly under her command and we willingly went where ever she wanted. We ventured outside, wandered the premises, and played London Bridges Falling Down with the other children. After about 30 minutes of carrying her and participating in such activities, my arms started to ache. But to put her down? That meant putting her back in her crib. It meant doing something you just do not do. So I tightened my grasp and she followed suit. Her gentle arm clung to my neck and her soft lips pecked my cheek. I continued to twirl and dance. I hummed in her ear and we swayed to the fading laughs and the nurturing breeze.
Dinnertime came and I followed the supervisors leading gestures. I grabbed a plate of the rice-porridge concoction and a spoon and plopped down on the floor with her resting on my lap. In the pool of other children, I began feeding her. She obliged willingly but soon her keen mind found other tasks to pursue. She found an empty spoon and other mouths in need. She found thirsty children by making the sign, a tight fist and a protruding thumb. Again, her dynamic personality surprised me. I fed her while she scolded the children that didn't finish their food.
The nuns and helpers indicated it was time to go with their mops, buckets, and bolted doors. But how do you even talk about leaving? All I have is her pleading and questioning face looking up at me. Oh, how unfamilar she became. But she knew the schedule. And although I was the one leaving her, she left without complaint.
Her name was Maraht. Or was it Naraht? Like all foreign sounds, her name slipped all too easily from my mind. But I walk down the streets and lay in my bed, and still I feel her weight. Her frumpy little body fit so perfectly in arms.
The Orphanage:
You can get used to a child's head resting on your shoulder.
The children were just finishing up a birthday party when we came. The music resonated through out the room and their chocolate-smeared hands clutched empty candy wrappers and packets of stickers. They were laughing, playing, and one-by-one eagerly invited us to join their games. After weaving through the smiling faces, being dragged here and there (most likely to places we weren't supposed to go. oops), making animal sounds-galore, and swinging children around so they could jump to the sky, I found her.
Like many of the children who were mentally and/or physically handicapped, so was she. I didn't realize until I picked her up but (oh, how do I say it?) she had only one arm and no legs. I would be lying if I said it didn't phase me for a second. She knew a little English and was assertive with her pointed finger. I was instantly under her command and we willingly went where ever she wanted. We ventured outside, wandered the premises, and played London Bridges Falling Down with the other children. After about 30 minutes of carrying her and participating in such activities, my arms started to ache. But to put her down? That meant putting her back in her crib. It meant doing something you just do not do. So I tightened my grasp and she followed suit. Her gentle arm clung to my neck and her soft lips pecked my cheek. I continued to twirl and dance. I hummed in her ear and we swayed to the fading laughs and the nurturing breeze.
Dinnertime came and I followed the supervisors leading gestures. I grabbed a plate of the rice-porridge concoction and a spoon and plopped down on the floor with her resting on my lap. In the pool of other children, I began feeding her. She obliged willingly but soon her keen mind found other tasks to pursue. She found an empty spoon and other mouths in need. She found thirsty children by making the sign, a tight fist and a protruding thumb. Again, her dynamic personality surprised me. I fed her while she scolded the children that didn't finish their food.
The nuns and helpers indicated it was time to go with their mops, buckets, and bolted doors. But how do you even talk about leaving? All I have is her pleading and questioning face looking up at me. Oh, how unfamilar she became. But she knew the schedule. And although I was the one leaving her, she left without complaint.
Her name was Maraht. Or was it Naraht? Like all foreign sounds, her name slipped all too easily from my mind. But I walk down the streets and lay in my bed, and still I feel her weight. Her frumpy little body fit so perfectly in arms.
Monday, October 1, 2007
the rambles
- I kicked their soccer ball on the way home. It was a surprise. We laughed and laughed and laughed some more.
- Sometimes, I want to ask questions. But the thing is, I don't want answers. I'm not interested in their answer. I'm interested in my own and I'm interested in saying it outloud, freely. I want to make a statement. And, I suppose I want you to respond. Unfortunately, I get weird looks without some sort of precurser.
- Sometimes, I want to ask questions. But the thing is, I don't want answers. I'm not interested in their answer. I'm interested in my own and I'm interested in saying it outloud, freely. I want to make a statement. And, I suppose I want you to respond. Unfortunately, I get weird looks without some sort of precurser.
- "Percival destroys it, as he blunders off. Yet it is Percival I need; for it is Percival who indpsires poetry."
- I didn't hear what the teacher said but I saw Annie smile. I'll have to talk to her about that.
- I don't understand. Why would I ever turn the children away?
- "Umaima sighed audibly. 'We are going to have to work very hard to make life bearable.' Adham gazed up at the mansion. ' We are going to have to work even harder to make that gate open for us again.'" --Naguib Mahfouz, Children of the Alley
- I saw a woodchip in his hair.
- I've been here for three weeks and the fully covered women still make my heart skip a beat. But I also see the women wearing headscarfs and I will not deny their beauty: the colors, patterns, and fashions complimented by warm, smiling faces.
- I saw the teacher hug Annie. She was crying. I will help her. I will share her grief.
- Come, Adham. Let's go tend the fields...
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