I attempted to inquiry without success what was happening to an all-Hindi workforce. I got that a catered dinner event was to take place tonight. Anu returned home shortly after me, to be as surprised as I, but with the advantage of having her inquiry answered completely. She discovered that Puneet could not secure an adequate venue to host twenty-or-so VIPs to commemorate his new post to an international business organization.
With the strained events of the day I missed lunch, wishing I had said, “yes” to Busanti’s request to pack me a lunch. Anu brought some food home and asked Busanti to prepare a quick meal. Anu whipped up a salad of chopped fruit and vegetables with lime juice, salt and pepper dressing. It was delicious. With the dinning area prepared for tonight’s event we chose not to disrupt the stage and eat in my room. We had a lovely chat about achieving harmony in ones life and the importance of taking care of oneself. She even expressed her concern if I could handle the journey I’ve embarked on, because my emotions indicated to her a frailty and lack of strength to continue. I assured her that I would be fine and that I’m a veteran of transforming fear into personal strength and courage. She presented me with two small metal statues that represent the Ying and Ying, which she too was gifted when setting out to return to India. Just after Puneet opened the door to say that guests were arriving that were asking for Anu. I said I’d just stay in the room and complete my preparations to leave. He would hear it, “No, you will come out enjoy the festivities too. You too are our guest and I want you to join the dinner.” Puneet’s demeanor was invitingly forceful, which was difficult to refuse. To honor their mostly Indian guests I thought it wise to dress in traditional Indian clothes of the Punjab state.
On my first official day in India, after returning from Nepal, I met Raj, a wonderful English-speaking tuk-tuk driver who took me to the India Gate, said that if I wore the traditional clothing of India I stand to be cheated and over-charged must less than if I only wore Western clothes. Doing this would give off the impression that I was a veteran and that I knew the customs of being a foreigner who has been in the country for a while. After checking in with my intuition I agreed to let him take me to a place that pre-made these garments, which he said, “the sales of these go to help disabled people in Delhi.” Now my intuition was saying, “get those clothes on quickly, it’s getting kind of deep!”.
I changed into the Punjabi I bought in Delhi, and emerged from my room. I didn’t know that the house could hold as many people. There was a mixture of mostly Indian entrepreneurs and business owners, some who had employees in the Finland, which explains why the Finish Embassy Director was in attendance. Gus, who’s here with his wife, is a handsome cleaned shaven young man with a shaved head that stands 6 feet tall. This profile causes his fair skin to stand out even more than mine. He wore a blue and white pinstriped with a white collar and a red tie with a deep navy blue blazer, which are the lightest and most cheerful colors in the room. All the other men from this region are in black, grey or brown with either off white (maybe due to the elements in the water that turns whites gray), even the women are were dark color, yet the richness of the fabric gives them a subtle shimmer over the men. Gus has completed one and half years of his three-year-post here in India. I am still naïve with only nine days under my belt, which is hardly enough to make any truly logical assessments, which made listening to Guus’ impressions of India stimulating and educational, especially when it comes to business matters. It was especially fascinating to witness an Indian business-owner plead his case with Guus regarding issues of taxation and lines of credit for an Indian owned company operating in Finland. The man was deeply concerned and maybe even a little bit annoyed about the doors he’s unable to open if the ownership of his company should become more than forty percent Indian owned. Interesting, is that this man laughed and smiled all through his passionate plea. I believe this is what Devdutt Pattanaik is addressing in his attempts to improve East and West business relations. I see how this behavior can bring about the opposite results, as I thought to myself, “He can’t be truly upset about this because he continues to laugh and smile,” as though it’s not really a problem to be solved but a topic of conversation, like the weather.
I asked Guus if he was familiar with TED.com or if he saw the India Devdutt Pattanaik_ talk about the business styles of the East and West and what can be done to bring more synergy between the two. Another Indian man in listening distance chimed in, happy he and I--this creature of everything opposite, shared something in common. At least that’s what his deeply relieved demeanor said to me. He expressed how much he liked it the presentations he’d seen on the site. Guus, to my surprised had no knowledge of TED.com. I promised Guus I would send him the link at the same time we were interrupted by our host in attempts to be sure all the power players had at least an introduction to one another.
I mingled a little and the varied conversations I had told me that Raj was right. These people thought I had been here for a long time. One Indian woman asked if I lived permanently Chandigarh! Another couple expressed their pleasure that I was wearing the garment correctly as “So many Westerners, just put it on not understanding how it is worn correctly.” I have to admit I was proud.
I was very near my room when I ended my last conversation and thought it was time to excuse myself to continue my efforts to ready myself for two long train trips. It was about 11:30 pm when I finished packing and eradicating items into three compact piles that will be left in my Panchkula-homebase. It was midnight when I started to feel my body drop off to sleep even with the very loud voices of those who still lingered just outside the bedroom door.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Leaving Chandigarh 12/10/09 Part 1
Okay, today it’s time to cut the crap! I’ve been blogging as a tourist, safely protected by the walls of what many would consider to be palaces, and yes that includes the Star’s humble and spacious Bronx apartment. I know now that I’ve been on “holiday” so far. I’ll pick up my description of London and Ramsgate, England and all the sites and experiences of Nepal at some later point. No more of the easy life, even in Southeast Asia. I, like the Buddha, have come to see that my work and experience lay on the other side of the palace walls.
Just yesterday, about 9:30 am I was having another pleasant ride to the office with my most recent of gracious hosts when she said, as if discussing the weather, “We’ve guests coming to stay that we are obligated to host because of who they are to us.” I didn’t ask. I know that the room I have been staying in is the only spare quarters in the house. We were both sitting in the backseat and in many ways ignoring the driver as if the car was on autopilot. I’ve yet to get comfortable with what I will refer to as a ‘colonialist’ attitude—ensuring everyone stay neatly within their caste. I knew immediately that I was getting a very gracious heave-ho. I’ve overstayed my welcome, for this phase anyway. She continued, “We thought you would be here for only a couple of days and now that we have others…” I interrupted, “I completely understand and I can make arrangements to leave within the next few days.” She cautioned me, while her hands did the universal sign for slowdown, not to be too hasty. “Let’s wait until Puneet tells me when the guests are coming. We should know something later today.”
I guessed that I had at least a couple of days to arrange, what exactly? I felt my temperature rise and knew not to show the wide array of emotions that were trying to surface. The displays of emotions (fear, tears, or upset of any kind) are seen as a sign of weakness in both mind and character in this country. And they certainly have absolutely no place in business! I’m glad I wasn’t hoping to recruit Puneet and Anu as coaching clients because I’d sealed a certain “no deal” the moment I shed tears of missing my mother and sister at the dining table on my second evening here. What I’ve learned in nine short days, is that if I can’t suppress my ‘public display of emotions’ I just shake my head and say while smiling, “I have allergies,” or do the universal hand signal for “I’m congested”, which will quickly put those around at ease.
I Skyped with mom for about 30 minutes, the first seven minutes where taken up with my emotional display of a tremendous wave of homesickness, coupled with fear, uncertainty and those emotions still indescribable to even me. Mum was encouraging, compassionate and more accepting of who I am and what I feel now than I ever knew her to be. I see her journey paralleling mine. Our conversation turned comfortingly generic and then it was time for her to find out who was voted off of So You Think You Can Dance. I asked her to Skype me once more before going to bed, which she did. We signed off in the usual fashion, in which I wait for her to hang up first, so I can enjoy a site for these sore eyes. I watched her image fade to the gray vacant Skype screen and just then Anu came into my little office space she has been allowing me to occupy and said, “if you could leave tomorrow that would be good?”
“Shit,” I have to plan my next designation, reference it with hotels or ashrams and book train tickets. All that on top of the errands I intended to run which included, exchange “Beginners Hindi” to a book shop (too small to call ‘store’) that’s open at the oddest hours (12:00 to 14:30 and reopens again at 17:30 to 22:00 or 23:00—whichever the bookseller fancies) as well as make time to go to the shoe store to get the last American currency changed into rupees and finally locate a cable or chain for my luggage to be secured on the train. Yes, a Shoe Store, which the three “Singhs” (my Seik lunch companions at the Chandigarh Subway) turned me on to the day before. There I was at the high-gloss white counter in the midst of a currency exchange while the woman beside me was purchasing a very trendy Western pump. I wondered how they knew the shoe merchant was moonlighting as a money-changer. We went outside, faced the shoe store and while one Singh pointing at the large glass storefront said, “See there, that will tell you that you can change money here.” I questioned, “See what?” as I looked behind a tall stack cardboard boxes full of new merchandise that was blocking an 8x11 sheet of paper taped to the window advertising that they also serve as a local Western Union office. I surely hope they weren’t expecting too much business from a sign that is 1/100th of the glass window it’s taped. Nonetheless, Indians are very enterprising and always looking for more way to generate income.
“Okay Tracy, assess the situation.” I’ve been on sensory overload for the past few days in attempting to get a most coveted data card to bring Wireless Internet freedom to my life and being cared and cooked for their servant, Busanti, a woman that has treated me as though I was terminally disabled and she’s trying to make my last days of life as pleasant and effortless as possible. But, at 16:30 I had two train vouchers in my hand and knew that I would arrive in Varanasi 8:50 India Standard Time (IST) Friday morning. No hotel reservations, just a full-page list of the many ashrams that the Mobera Systems ‘tech guy” printed out for me. After that I have no idea what the future holds. I put my backpack on and set out to complete my errands. I exchanged the book, exchanged money and went to three places that sold luggage that had no cables or chains. Another book vendor next to the Samsonite store said, “Go to Sector 19 to the hardware store by the post office.
I went to the main roads to hire a touk-touk (a nickname for the motorized rickshaw), to take me to Sector 19 to buy the chain and then ‘home’ in Sector 6 of Panchkula. I bartered with the driver to pay him half of what he quoted for the journey. Most Indians believe that Americans, even over most Westerners, are all wealthy. From my limited perspective of India, the poorest of Americans in fact have so very much more than even the Indian working class.
We arrived Sector 19 in the dark. My touk touk driver pulled to the left side of the curved road and pointed across a busy street that I had to cross to get to the dusty and dirty hardware stalls, each specializing in only one category of tools or equipment relating to plumbing, lumber and metal, which sold chains. I stepped into the staring Indians, greeting them with a friendly “Namaste”, which most respond to very favorably. I mean really could you reject a person if as they approached you they powerfully declared that the ‘God in them recognizes the God in you’? My fair Western skin is known to stop traffic, which also stopped all employees and customers to stop what they were doing and observe me. The metal chain merchant understood what I was looking for and pulled a few feet of chain from a spool under the counter and handed it to me. I put a two or three foot length in my grasp and pulled. Unable to break it, I still didn’t trust it to secure my unattended luggage. I handed one end to the young man behind that counter, motioning for him to pull on it. An older man, I assumed was the owner or manager said, “Strong, this will not break” and nodded for the young man to pull. Just then the chain snapped as we both regained our balance and laughed. All the seven or so men, including nearby voyeurs, laughed out loud. It was a very unifying moment. The owner instructed the young man, in Hindi, to fetch another strength, he resurfaced from the dust and darkness dragging a length of chain that could safely anchor a lengthy sailboat. I laughed, thinking how desperately I’ve been working to lighten my luggage and he brings me my weight a single length of chain. I thank them all and choose the leave this task for when I arrive in Delhi.
I returned to the house on the very dark streets of Sector 6, Panchkula. I couldn’t get anyone to answer the bell from the front of the house so I walked around to the back of the house. As my eyes focused with a new light source I saw Busanti’s 10-year-old daughter, Sonali, running towards me. I’ve befriended this amazing child; to my hosts’ disappointment because our friendship stands to blur the very defined social lines between employer and employee. She swung her arms around my neck in full embrace. I lifted her up knowing what she didn’t--that this in many ways is farewell embrace, possibly for be a long while. I was taken back to find a large truck parked at the gate, a fire burning in an oil drum to warm the many men working. I came through the back gates to see men setting up catering tables covered in very white linen, sparkling wine glasses, white plates and silverware. For a moment I thought my hosts were throwing a party to celebrate my leaving, but in an instant reminded myself that, ‘It’s not always about me.”
Just yesterday, about 9:30 am I was having another pleasant ride to the office with my most recent of gracious hosts when she said, as if discussing the weather, “We’ve guests coming to stay that we are obligated to host because of who they are to us.” I didn’t ask. I know that the room I have been staying in is the only spare quarters in the house. We were both sitting in the backseat and in many ways ignoring the driver as if the car was on autopilot. I’ve yet to get comfortable with what I will refer to as a ‘colonialist’ attitude—ensuring everyone stay neatly within their caste. I knew immediately that I was getting a very gracious heave-ho. I’ve overstayed my welcome, for this phase anyway. She continued, “We thought you would be here for only a couple of days and now that we have others…” I interrupted, “I completely understand and I can make arrangements to leave within the next few days.” She cautioned me, while her hands did the universal sign for slowdown, not to be too hasty. “Let’s wait until Puneet tells me when the guests are coming. We should know something later today.”
I guessed that I had at least a couple of days to arrange, what exactly? I felt my temperature rise and knew not to show the wide array of emotions that were trying to surface. The displays of emotions (fear, tears, or upset of any kind) are seen as a sign of weakness in both mind and character in this country. And they certainly have absolutely no place in business! I’m glad I wasn’t hoping to recruit Puneet and Anu as coaching clients because I’d sealed a certain “no deal” the moment I shed tears of missing my mother and sister at the dining table on my second evening here. What I’ve learned in nine short days, is that if I can’t suppress my ‘public display of emotions’ I just shake my head and say while smiling, “I have allergies,” or do the universal hand signal for “I’m congested”, which will quickly put those around at ease.
I Skyped with mom for about 30 minutes, the first seven minutes where taken up with my emotional display of a tremendous wave of homesickness, coupled with fear, uncertainty and those emotions still indescribable to even me. Mum was encouraging, compassionate and more accepting of who I am and what I feel now than I ever knew her to be. I see her journey paralleling mine. Our conversation turned comfortingly generic and then it was time for her to find out who was voted off of So You Think You Can Dance. I asked her to Skype me once more before going to bed, which she did. We signed off in the usual fashion, in which I wait for her to hang up first, so I can enjoy a site for these sore eyes. I watched her image fade to the gray vacant Skype screen and just then Anu came into my little office space she has been allowing me to occupy and said, “if you could leave tomorrow that would be good?”
“Shit,” I have to plan my next designation, reference it with hotels or ashrams and book train tickets. All that on top of the errands I intended to run which included, exchange “Beginners Hindi” to a book shop (too small to call ‘store’) that’s open at the oddest hours (12:00 to 14:30 and reopens again at 17:30 to 22:00 or 23:00—whichever the bookseller fancies) as well as make time to go to the shoe store to get the last American currency changed into rupees and finally locate a cable or chain for my luggage to be secured on the train. Yes, a Shoe Store, which the three “Singhs” (my Seik lunch companions at the Chandigarh Subway) turned me on to the day before. There I was at the high-gloss white counter in the midst of a currency exchange while the woman beside me was purchasing a very trendy Western pump. I wondered how they knew the shoe merchant was moonlighting as a money-changer. We went outside, faced the shoe store and while one Singh pointing at the large glass storefront said, “See there, that will tell you that you can change money here.” I questioned, “See what?” as I looked behind a tall stack cardboard boxes full of new merchandise that was blocking an 8x11 sheet of paper taped to the window advertising that they also serve as a local Western Union office. I surely hope they weren’t expecting too much business from a sign that is 1/100th of the glass window it’s taped. Nonetheless, Indians are very enterprising and always looking for more way to generate income.
“Okay Tracy, assess the situation.” I’ve been on sensory overload for the past few days in attempting to get a most coveted data card to bring Wireless Internet freedom to my life and being cared and cooked for their servant, Busanti, a woman that has treated me as though I was terminally disabled and she’s trying to make my last days of life as pleasant and effortless as possible. But, at 16:30 I had two train vouchers in my hand and knew that I would arrive in Varanasi 8:50 India Standard Time (IST) Friday morning. No hotel reservations, just a full-page list of the many ashrams that the Mobera Systems ‘tech guy” printed out for me. After that I have no idea what the future holds. I put my backpack on and set out to complete my errands. I exchanged the book, exchanged money and went to three places that sold luggage that had no cables or chains. Another book vendor next to the Samsonite store said, “Go to Sector 19 to the hardware store by the post office.
I went to the main roads to hire a touk-touk (a nickname for the motorized rickshaw), to take me to Sector 19 to buy the chain and then ‘home’ in Sector 6 of Panchkula. I bartered with the driver to pay him half of what he quoted for the journey. Most Indians believe that Americans, even over most Westerners, are all wealthy. From my limited perspective of India, the poorest of Americans in fact have so very much more than even the Indian working class.
We arrived Sector 19 in the dark. My touk touk driver pulled to the left side of the curved road and pointed across a busy street that I had to cross to get to the dusty and dirty hardware stalls, each specializing in only one category of tools or equipment relating to plumbing, lumber and metal, which sold chains. I stepped into the staring Indians, greeting them with a friendly “Namaste”, which most respond to very favorably. I mean really could you reject a person if as they approached you they powerfully declared that the ‘God in them recognizes the God in you’? My fair Western skin is known to stop traffic, which also stopped all employees and customers to stop what they were doing and observe me. The metal chain merchant understood what I was looking for and pulled a few feet of chain from a spool under the counter and handed it to me. I put a two or three foot length in my grasp and pulled. Unable to break it, I still didn’t trust it to secure my unattended luggage. I handed one end to the young man behind that counter, motioning for him to pull on it. An older man, I assumed was the owner or manager said, “Strong, this will not break” and nodded for the young man to pull. Just then the chain snapped as we both regained our balance and laughed. All the seven or so men, including nearby voyeurs, laughed out loud. It was a very unifying moment. The owner instructed the young man, in Hindi, to fetch another strength, he resurfaced from the dust and darkness dragging a length of chain that could safely anchor a lengthy sailboat. I laughed, thinking how desperately I’ve been working to lighten my luggage and he brings me my weight a single length of chain. I thank them all and choose the leave this task for when I arrive in Delhi.
I returned to the house on the very dark streets of Sector 6, Panchkula. I couldn’t get anyone to answer the bell from the front of the house so I walked around to the back of the house. As my eyes focused with a new light source I saw Busanti’s 10-year-old daughter, Sonali, running towards me. I’ve befriended this amazing child; to my hosts’ disappointment because our friendship stands to blur the very defined social lines between employer and employee. She swung her arms around my neck in full embrace. I lifted her up knowing what she didn’t--that this in many ways is farewell embrace, possibly for be a long while. I was taken back to find a large truck parked at the gate, a fire burning in an oil drum to warm the many men working. I came through the back gates to see men setting up catering tables covered in very white linen, sparkling wine glasses, white plates and silverware. For a moment I thought my hosts were throwing a party to celebrate my leaving, but in an instant reminded myself that, ‘It’s not always about me.”
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Day 5: Road to India - London, UK -Part 4
The freestanding transit booth is nothing but concrete and glass on the outside, yet the activity is inside with the two men in obvious important conversation among the piles of reports and schedules piled four to five inches tall. I waited patiently at the round stainless steel opening to allow my inquiry to travel inside a work place that must have been occupied by the men’s grandfathers. After all, in this country the highly sought after security of a government job will usually be inherited to the next generation.
There was a break in their cockney (the accent of native Londoner) and one of the men swilled around in his chair to see only my head and shoulders standing at high window that made this 5’8” woman feel like a child asking for sweets (candy) from an adult. Before I could speak he said, “Jolly good hat. Were’da get ‘it?” “In California”, I replied. “Yeah, it doosn’t louk like anythin’ ya’d get ‘ere.” he said. He was flirting with me? “Sweet!” and not like in candy. I was relieved to know that my journey dedicated to knowing and trusting God hasn’t left me androgynous. This bloke (informal way of referring to a man in the UK) wasn’t bad looking either. I shook my head and got present to my inquiry, even though I wanted to linger to hear more British flattery. “I need to get the train, I mean the Tube, to Victoria Station to pick up a 170 bus to Battersea.” I said. My inquiries were typically comprehensive so that my guide understands exactly where I’m trying to reach. The usual results have been to actually arrive at the point of my destination and not somewhere in the vicinity. He pointed me down the stairs, which would put me right on the platform for a Circle or District line to Victoria Station.
I guided the wheels of my backpack down the stairs making a considerable thump on each of the concrete steps—celebrating that it has wheels and I don’t have to actually carry something designed to be on my back. I can’t remember who was it that told me about backpacks with wheels a month or two before me departure. Simply another angel sent to me to ease what would turn out to be an emotionally heavy journey.
I was now outside, liberated from all the tunnels. I was breathing the fresh clean air of England. I was jumping for joy inside, but maintaining my composure for the only two people waiting with me, who I assumed were Brits by their fair hair and skin. I went to look at the enlarged map of the London Underground to get a sense of where I was. All I could see was a beloved memory of the picture a stranger took of mum and I together in front of a map just like it in the Piccadilly station more than 15 years ago. My eyes started to sweat as I wished she were with me now when I sensed I was blocking someone from seeing the whole map. I took a deep sniff to compose myself, I turned and move aside while excusing myself to find I was addressing a handsome young man of what I believed to be of Indian descent. He wore a pleasant smile and as I passed by him to stand near the tracks I caught a whiff of his cologne and before I knew it I was complimenting him on it. His smile got wider as he thanked me for noticing.
The Circle line pulled into the station and I choose the third car from the front. The seats were situated opposite of the HEX. These were one long upholstered bench on each side facing each other with the occasional bright yellow pole conveniently place so the each rider could hold on if need be. I thought how nice it would be to have upholstered seats on public transportation in San Francisco and New York City, but the contrast displays the civility and charm of the English culture. The higher quality interiors of these trains supposes an expectation of parents to more closely monitor their children’s behavior and for people to be respectful of these public transportation vehicles in general.
I know something about expectation; in my experience it’s fulfilled long before hopes or wishful thinking. I’ve notice that people show up generous and kind because I expect them to and life itself concurs in all the way I believe it will.
The train had more windows than walls affording me a nice view of the sunrise. The car had a continuous stream of advertisements posted just below ceiling level, yet sitting down I had intentionally look up to read them. The car was empty when I boarded, then a lady embarked and went to the farthest seat in the car. I went straight for the abandoned newspaper and turned to find my handsome young friend hoping on just as the doors shut behind him. He came over to me and motioned for permission to sit near me. He said, “You’re so friendly. It’s just that so few people at as approachable as you and I like to meet new people. I have friends in so many parts of the world.” We talked about Los Angeles and how much he’d like to pursue an acting career and to live there. His name is Zack, but spells it “Zed-a-kay”. He’s in London for just a few days to participate in the graduation ceremony of York University. He was awarded his Law Degree a couple of years ago but didn’t ‘walk’ to make it official. He giggled and said, “My diploma folder was empty.”
I asked why he was out and about so early and he explained that he just saw a friend off at Heathrow and that he has another friend to see off in a few hours, who is as unfamiliar with public transportation in London as I am. He’ll be returning ‘home’ tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t have to many classmates left in London as they’ve all splintered off after completing school and wondered if he could help me get reacquainted with London. I jumped at the opportunity to have a new friend show me around an old city. Since he lived in Battersea long ago we agreed to meet on the Battersea Bridge. A bridge I had no knowledge of but I took his word for its existence and agreed with a seize-the-day-attitude to meet at noon. The five hours between would give us time to do what we needed. It was essential that I get settled in my temporary digs and take a speed nap. Zac also told me to get off the train before it reached Victoria Station, “because it will be crowed with commuters that I’d have to compete with on the bus.” I thought, ‘thank god I ran into Zac to help make my journey a bit easier.” I would soon learn that following Zac’s so-called ‘more convenient route’ would actually take me thirty or more minutes out of my way.
I left Zac on the train as I disembarked at Clapham North Station to catch the 345 to the Battersea. I pulled my backpack out of tube station into the dimly lit morning. The sun was waking up so slowly. My mind was also waking slowly. I now had to think about which bus was going in which direction because American cars are operated on the left side and we drive on the right side, but in England that’s all reversed. So if you what to go North in England you stand at the bus stop on the South side of the road. It took me a few minutes and I said to myself, “Bullocks” (which is like saying the F-word in the States. It simply means, the balls of a bull, but it’s been given a highest x-rating for profanity in the UK), “I’ll just ask for directions again.”
When my friends in the states meet my mom, they always comment how much they like to hear her talk. She’s been in the US for at least 40 years and I tend to forget that she’s still carries a British accent. But if these Brits would hear her they’d say she sounds just as much like a Yank as I do. I also forget that most Brits like my American accent as much as I like their English accent, therefore, seldom do they complain when I ask directions. There just happy to her me say just about anything.
I was directed to the right bus stop to get to Battersea, however my gracious guide must have been too compassionate to ask me which Battersea I wanted. I was about to find out that there was Battersea Park Road, Battersea Bridge Road, Battersea High Street and Battersea Church Road. Why didn’t I just follow my original instructions and take the 170 from Victoria? I guess I needed to make this journey even more interesting? I got off on the first stop that had ‘Battersea’ in the name while desperately wishing for a cell phone. There were very few people on the road and they were obviously rushing off to work. They had that “Don’t stop me” expression on their faces. So I didn’t dare. I pulled my luggage Osprey down the cobbled-stone Battersea Church Road, which I thought was hopeful because any road in England with “church” in the name was a sure to have a church on it somewhere. I was wishing my Osprey would take flight and locate St. Mary’s steeple and return to me like a homing-pigeon to show me the way, but instead the weight of it just helped the wheels to lodge into the spaces between the cobblestone. My biceps were getting a workout. After walking, what seemed like a mile for this weary traveler, and not spotting a church I turned around and walked back to the Bridge Road.
I turned the corner and saw the street a Newsagent; a shop where one could buy just about any newspaper or magazine printed in the free world. They also sell sweets, but I was in more need of sleep, than sweets. I tapped on the door realizing that they hadn’t quite opened yet. An averagely attractive 20-something girl of Indian decent, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail, opened the door. I asked for directions to St. Mary Church because Father Paul’s email response to Yvonne said, “Just ask anyone in Battersea where St. Mary’s is and they’ll know where to direct you.” Well I found the one person in Battersea that had no clue where the church was. I asked her if I could use their phone to call the church. With some hesitation she pulled her “mobile” out of a pocket as I extracted my printed-itinerary from a convenient exterior pocket of my travel purse. She dialed the number once and it didn’t go through and almost dismissed me after hitting the ‘end’ button on her phone. I asked her to please try again. She did and we got the double ring, a sign that that call was going through. She handed me the phone and I said, “Father Paul?” but it was still ringing, and then I heard a man’s voice say “ello”. The British tend to drop their H’s all together or at least make them so soft they become no existence. “Father Paul, it’s Tracy, I’m at….” I looked at the young lady to tell me, and she said the “Brigde Road.” I guessed that once in Battersea that one could drop the formal name of every street when referring to them. He said, “Simply go round the corner and walk south down the church road until you pass the church and Vicarage Crescent will be on your left.” I said okay, fearing that I had been on the right road already but didn’t go down far enough. I pulled the heavy, dead bird down the cobbled stones again but much farther than before. “Hallelujah” I can see the steeple of what I already know is a charming small church with creaking doors and worn wooden pews. I rounded the corner and passed St. Mary’s on my right and staying, as instructed, to the left side to find the Vicarage. I walked and walked some more, the sun was getting brighter and the temperature rises to make for a beautiful day for London Bridges.
I was getting a bit frustrated thirty minutes into my journey down the long winding road and decided to turn around and go back to the church to pray. I drug the wheels into the grassy courtyard and thought I was hearing the voice of God, saying “Tracy, I’m here.” I turned full-circle and saw a handsome English gent, early-forty’s with a premature receding hair-line, glasses, clean-shaven, wearing black trousers and shirt with a small bit of white on an all-black collar. Awe, my prayer was answered before my knees even reached the cold St. Mary’s grounds.
to be continued.....
Interesting tidbit: I'm listening to the soundtrack to Love Actually while writing this. Serendipitous, yes?
There was a break in their cockney (the accent of native Londoner) and one of the men swilled around in his chair to see only my head and shoulders standing at high window that made this 5’8” woman feel like a child asking for sweets (candy) from an adult. Before I could speak he said, “Jolly good hat. Were’da get ‘it?” “In California”, I replied. “Yeah, it doosn’t louk like anythin’ ya’d get ‘ere.” he said. He was flirting with me? “Sweet!” and not like in candy. I was relieved to know that my journey dedicated to knowing and trusting God hasn’t left me androgynous. This bloke (informal way of referring to a man in the UK) wasn’t bad looking either. I shook my head and got present to my inquiry, even though I wanted to linger to hear more British flattery. “I need to get the train, I mean the Tube, to Victoria Station to pick up a 170 bus to Battersea.” I said. My inquiries were typically comprehensive so that my guide understands exactly where I’m trying to reach. The usual results have been to actually arrive at the point of my destination and not somewhere in the vicinity. He pointed me down the stairs, which would put me right on the platform for a Circle or District line to Victoria Station.
I guided the wheels of my backpack down the stairs making a considerable thump on each of the concrete steps—celebrating that it has wheels and I don’t have to actually carry something designed to be on my back. I can’t remember who was it that told me about backpacks with wheels a month or two before me departure. Simply another angel sent to me to ease what would turn out to be an emotionally heavy journey.
I was now outside, liberated from all the tunnels. I was breathing the fresh clean air of England. I was jumping for joy inside, but maintaining my composure for the only two people waiting with me, who I assumed were Brits by their fair hair and skin. I went to look at the enlarged map of the London Underground to get a sense of where I was. All I could see was a beloved memory of the picture a stranger took of mum and I together in front of a map just like it in the Piccadilly station more than 15 years ago. My eyes started to sweat as I wished she were with me now when I sensed I was blocking someone from seeing the whole map. I took a deep sniff to compose myself, I turned and move aside while excusing myself to find I was addressing a handsome young man of what I believed to be of Indian descent. He wore a pleasant smile and as I passed by him to stand near the tracks I caught a whiff of his cologne and before I knew it I was complimenting him on it. His smile got wider as he thanked me for noticing.
The Circle line pulled into the station and I choose the third car from the front. The seats were situated opposite of the HEX. These were one long upholstered bench on each side facing each other with the occasional bright yellow pole conveniently place so the each rider could hold on if need be. I thought how nice it would be to have upholstered seats on public transportation in San Francisco and New York City, but the contrast displays the civility and charm of the English culture. The higher quality interiors of these trains supposes an expectation of parents to more closely monitor their children’s behavior and for people to be respectful of these public transportation vehicles in general.
I know something about expectation; in my experience it’s fulfilled long before hopes or wishful thinking. I’ve notice that people show up generous and kind because I expect them to and life itself concurs in all the way I believe it will.
The train had more windows than walls affording me a nice view of the sunrise. The car had a continuous stream of advertisements posted just below ceiling level, yet sitting down I had intentionally look up to read them. The car was empty when I boarded, then a lady embarked and went to the farthest seat in the car. I went straight for the abandoned newspaper and turned to find my handsome young friend hoping on just as the doors shut behind him. He came over to me and motioned for permission to sit near me. He said, “You’re so friendly. It’s just that so few people at as approachable as you and I like to meet new people. I have friends in so many parts of the world.” We talked about Los Angeles and how much he’d like to pursue an acting career and to live there. His name is Zack, but spells it “Zed-a-kay”. He’s in London for just a few days to participate in the graduation ceremony of York University. He was awarded his Law Degree a couple of years ago but didn’t ‘walk’ to make it official. He giggled and said, “My diploma folder was empty.”
I asked why he was out and about so early and he explained that he just saw a friend off at Heathrow and that he has another friend to see off in a few hours, who is as unfamiliar with public transportation in London as I am. He’ll be returning ‘home’ tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t have to many classmates left in London as they’ve all splintered off after completing school and wondered if he could help me get reacquainted with London. I jumped at the opportunity to have a new friend show me around an old city. Since he lived in Battersea long ago we agreed to meet on the Battersea Bridge. A bridge I had no knowledge of but I took his word for its existence and agreed with a seize-the-day-attitude to meet at noon. The five hours between would give us time to do what we needed. It was essential that I get settled in my temporary digs and take a speed nap. Zac also told me to get off the train before it reached Victoria Station, “because it will be crowed with commuters that I’d have to compete with on the bus.” I thought, ‘thank god I ran into Zac to help make my journey a bit easier.” I would soon learn that following Zac’s so-called ‘more convenient route’ would actually take me thirty or more minutes out of my way.
I left Zac on the train as I disembarked at Clapham North Station to catch the 345 to the Battersea. I pulled my backpack out of tube station into the dimly lit morning. The sun was waking up so slowly. My mind was also waking slowly. I now had to think about which bus was going in which direction because American cars are operated on the left side and we drive on the right side, but in England that’s all reversed. So if you what to go North in England you stand at the bus stop on the South side of the road. It took me a few minutes and I said to myself, “Bullocks” (which is like saying the F-word in the States. It simply means, the balls of a bull, but it’s been given a highest x-rating for profanity in the UK), “I’ll just ask for directions again.”
When my friends in the states meet my mom, they always comment how much they like to hear her talk. She’s been in the US for at least 40 years and I tend to forget that she’s still carries a British accent. But if these Brits would hear her they’d say she sounds just as much like a Yank as I do. I also forget that most Brits like my American accent as much as I like their English accent, therefore, seldom do they complain when I ask directions. There just happy to her me say just about anything.
I was directed to the right bus stop to get to Battersea, however my gracious guide must have been too compassionate to ask me which Battersea I wanted. I was about to find out that there was Battersea Park Road, Battersea Bridge Road, Battersea High Street and Battersea Church Road. Why didn’t I just follow my original instructions and take the 170 from Victoria? I guess I needed to make this journey even more interesting? I got off on the first stop that had ‘Battersea’ in the name while desperately wishing for a cell phone. There were very few people on the road and they were obviously rushing off to work. They had that “Don’t stop me” expression on their faces. So I didn’t dare. I pulled my luggage Osprey down the cobbled-stone Battersea Church Road, which I thought was hopeful because any road in England with “church” in the name was a sure to have a church on it somewhere. I was wishing my Osprey would take flight and locate St. Mary’s steeple and return to me like a homing-pigeon to show me the way, but instead the weight of it just helped the wheels to lodge into the spaces between the cobblestone. My biceps were getting a workout. After walking, what seemed like a mile for this weary traveler, and not spotting a church I turned around and walked back to the Bridge Road.
I turned the corner and saw the street a Newsagent; a shop where one could buy just about any newspaper or magazine printed in the free world. They also sell sweets, but I was in more need of sleep, than sweets. I tapped on the door realizing that they hadn’t quite opened yet. An averagely attractive 20-something girl of Indian decent, with long black hair tied back in a ponytail, opened the door. I asked for directions to St. Mary Church because Father Paul’s email response to Yvonne said, “Just ask anyone in Battersea where St. Mary’s is and they’ll know where to direct you.” Well I found the one person in Battersea that had no clue where the church was. I asked her if I could use their phone to call the church. With some hesitation she pulled her “mobile” out of a pocket as I extracted my printed-itinerary from a convenient exterior pocket of my travel purse. She dialed the number once and it didn’t go through and almost dismissed me after hitting the ‘end’ button on her phone. I asked her to please try again. She did and we got the double ring, a sign that that call was going through. She handed me the phone and I said, “Father Paul?” but it was still ringing, and then I heard a man’s voice say “ello”. The British tend to drop their H’s all together or at least make them so soft they become no existence. “Father Paul, it’s Tracy, I’m at….” I looked at the young lady to tell me, and she said the “Brigde Road.” I guessed that once in Battersea that one could drop the formal name of every street when referring to them. He said, “Simply go round the corner and walk south down the church road until you pass the church and Vicarage Crescent will be on your left.” I said okay, fearing that I had been on the right road already but didn’t go down far enough. I pulled the heavy, dead bird down the cobbled stones again but much farther than before. “Hallelujah” I can see the steeple of what I already know is a charming small church with creaking doors and worn wooden pews. I rounded the corner and passed St. Mary’s on my right and staying, as instructed, to the left side to find the Vicarage. I walked and walked some more, the sun was getting brighter and the temperature rises to make for a beautiful day for London Bridges.
I was getting a bit frustrated thirty minutes into my journey down the long winding road and decided to turn around and go back to the church to pray. I drug the wheels into the grassy courtyard and thought I was hearing the voice of God, saying “Tracy, I’m here.” I turned full-circle and saw a handsome English gent, early-forty’s with a premature receding hair-line, glasses, clean-shaven, wearing black trousers and shirt with a small bit of white on an all-black collar. Awe, my prayer was answered before my knees even reached the cold St. Mary’s grounds.
to be continued.....
Interesting tidbit: I'm listening to the soundtrack to Love Actually while writing this. Serendipitous, yes?
Monday, December 7, 2009
Day 5: Road to India - London, UK -Part 3
I needed to get to Victoria Station, the heart of London’s transportation system. Victoria supports England’s railroad system, the London Underground--referred to as the ‘Tube,’ a nickname it was given around the late 1800s due to its shape--and the coaches and buses servicing Greater London. I followed the signs for the Heathrow Express (HEX) that took me on a long walk through a series of well-lit clean white-tiled-walled tunnels with posters advertising a wide array of products I celebrate no longer needing, until I reached the HEX Ticket Agent. This agent replaced questions for a passionate desire to help me get to my destination. He even saved me some Pound Sterling (the official name for U.K. currency) by selling me a ‘Return’ (British term for Round Trip) for thirty-two pounds. Cool, or “brilliant” as the Brits say, I have my passage back to Heathrow when I leave for Southeast Asia.
I asked directions to the appropriate platform. On this journey I’m glad not to be a stereotypical male because I stop and ask directions a lot. I have learned that it’s better to stop three or even five people to ask or confirm directions than to carry my still-heavy worldly possessions a long way only to have to return. I have come to enjoy asking for help. It allows me to interact with the people that inhabit the part of the world I find myself in. Engaging them is to include them and to allow their journey and mine to become one, even if it’s for a brief moment in time.
“People enter our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime,” is a mantra I come to live by. The catch is for us is to be careful not to force a person to stay for a lifetime when they are only come for a season. When that’s a bit too philosophical for me I remember the chemical rush that our bodies get when we show kindness to each other. Serotonin; or happy-juice as I like to refer to it, is secreted from the hypothalamus when we help or when we witness someone being compassionate or kind to another. This happy juice also strengthens our immune system. This is evident in my health and energy level since I’ve been a journey-woman. It sure does help cure the jetlag. My sister would say, “it’s because of who you are, Tracy,” referring to my positive mental attitude that attracts like-minded and generous people who want to help me. I believe that’s partly the case, but I also believe that people are basically good and it’s natural for us to want to support our fellow human beings.
I reach the HEX about 06:00, which is waiting with doors open for its fortunate passengers. The HEX is a more dear (expensive) way to travel to and from Heathrow and those more knowledgeable and fungal passengers typically choose other modes, which do take longer. I realized this a bit late, but I’m happy to go this way because in a way my sister and my mother were my travel agents. While I was in New York City Yvonne goggled my London destination from their Beach House in Imperial Beach, California and looked at the necessary web pages together, but mom and Yvonne’s heads were clearer so I simply took notes and followed their instructions.
Mum and Yvonne had gone to the Beach House to spend precious time together after I left. I’m sure they needed some downtime considering how emotional it was for us to say ‘good-bye’. It’s always been a rare occasion to have Yvonne all to oneself. We have a small but large family, that for the most part is very close, something we all owe to Yvonne. She has a passionate desire to keep us all together and have us ‘get over’ our differences so we can get back to being together, especially to go on holiday together. That’s adventure nearly pales in comparison to the one I’m on.
There are fourteen of us to fit for the latest vacation tee shirt from one to seventy-three in age and from petite to triple X in size, that identifies us as the fun-loving-band-of-crazies that we truly are. We are a varied clan that can cut deep with disdain and yet will show up with titanium strength when we needed. I’ve been drawing from that strength for the last few days when the waves of culture shock swirled with the sands of loneliness find their way into the days and nights. (I’m in India as I write this.)
I stepped aboard the HEX, noticing I didn’t need to ‘mind the gap’ that is between most platforms and the trains in the UK. The stainless steel walls and doors are spotless and the seats are upholstered with deep-ocean blue high-quality fabric freckled with red flakes. They have high backs and might be too comfortable for the weary transcontinental travelers who need to disembark soon. But not me, I’m almost on the edge of my seat in anticipation of what I might see even though it’s still dark. There are several conspicuously placed LCD screens showing commercials to sell me more unnecessary products. The car was deserted with exception of me and a businessman in a wrinkled dark grey suit who sat across the isle one row back. I think we both wanted to enjoy some expanded personal space. I wondered if this was a maiden voyage across tracks that were laid a hundred years ago. I felt safe and still very energized. A state I tend to stay in until I reach my temporary resting place, at which time I sleep harder than Henry the Eighth after a huge meal, and yes, I probably do some real snoring.
I had to transfer to the Tube at Paddington Station which would take me to Victoria where I’ll needed to catch a 170 bus to Battersea, a suburb of London. The HEX train made another one of it’s stops and because I was still getting use to the accents of the ticket agents and announcers in the airport and train stations, I nearly missed my stop. I followed the exit signs to the London Underground, which is hard to miss once you’ve seen their logo. It’s a red donut with a horizontal cobalt blue stripe with UNDERGROUND written in white text over the circle. That striped changed from a teal the cobalt in 2007, but I’m not sure why. Yet, if you stand on any London street-corner and turn 360 degrees around and don’t see a sign to one of 270 tube stations then you just aren’t looking.
I pulled my luggage from the HEX train and this time I did ‘mind the gap’ heaving and swinging my luggage onto the platform. With a sigh of relief I paused and scan the area to get my bearings to see that I was in yet another maze of tunnels. I could hear Bob Parker saying, “Will it be tunnel number one, two or three?” Time to ask directions, again. The conductor pointed me down tunnel number two and at the end I came to a London Transport ticket stand with a lovely black woman behind the bullet proof Plexiglas. With no cue, due to the earliness of the hour, I stepped up to the window. I don’t know why, but I always feel the need to raise my voice so that the person behind that thick Plexiglas can hear me. Logic says they can hear a normal tone of voice but it plays a game with my left brain, which assumes that even my loud mouth can’t be heard through anything that thick. So I kind of yelled and either she heard me just fine or was just being polite to this Yank who has obviously traveled far. After all, I was in “the land of good manner.” Whichever she remained pleasant and sold me an Oyster Card, a hard plastic key card tucked inside a yellow and blue plastic holder supplied by Ikea, which is great product placement to something 3.4 million weekday riders carry in the pockets, purses or briefcases. The Oyster Card will allows passage on any one of the eleven lines and all Greater London buses. The pass was twenty-three pounds, which would be very heavy if I had to bring that many pounds of silver to buy it, but no fear since almost all currency is no longer backed by gold or silver. I’ve been using my debit card to purchase these tickets since I haven’t seen an ATM or “Cash Machines” yet.
I figured I’ll go to a Thomas Cook travel agency, which I hold a fond childhood memory of those rare occasions we’d return to England with my mum (Brit for Mom) to visit my grandparents. It’s interesting to observe the sentimental memories of long ago I have stored up and now find myself attempting to reconnect with them. Why am I inclined to go to a business with people behind the desks that have absolutely no connection to me other than the memory of following my mother into an all-red storefront with the white block THOMAS COOK lettering? Are other people as sentimental as I and choose a place to patronize based on a precious memory that lasted for a fraction of a moment? If they don’t, I might be the sappiest woman on the planet, but if they do then we are kindred spirits making our way through this beautiful life hoping from one sentimental cloud to another.
The nice lady directed me on to a station that had to be built around the time my grandfather was a boy. Actually the first section of the London Underground opened in 1863 and was the first system of its kind in the world and starting in 1890, England was the first to operate electric trains. Old maybe, but I loved it. I said, “Tracy, welcome to back to England!” It was cooler in England that NY, but I can’t say it was cold. As I was leaving the train I caught my reflection in the window to see that I was sporting a full-on Alfalfa so I put on my pink angora cap. I stepped to the ticket agent box to find out where I must go next. Again, if I got on the train going the wrong way it might be hours before I got the Battersea.
To be continued....
I asked directions to the appropriate platform. On this journey I’m glad not to be a stereotypical male because I stop and ask directions a lot. I have learned that it’s better to stop three or even five people to ask or confirm directions than to carry my still-heavy worldly possessions a long way only to have to return. I have come to enjoy asking for help. It allows me to interact with the people that inhabit the part of the world I find myself in. Engaging them is to include them and to allow their journey and mine to become one, even if it’s for a brief moment in time.
“People enter our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime,” is a mantra I come to live by. The catch is for us is to be careful not to force a person to stay for a lifetime when they are only come for a season. When that’s a bit too philosophical for me I remember the chemical rush that our bodies get when we show kindness to each other. Serotonin; or happy-juice as I like to refer to it, is secreted from the hypothalamus when we help or when we witness someone being compassionate or kind to another. This happy juice also strengthens our immune system. This is evident in my health and energy level since I’ve been a journey-woman. It sure does help cure the jetlag. My sister would say, “it’s because of who you are, Tracy,” referring to my positive mental attitude that attracts like-minded and generous people who want to help me. I believe that’s partly the case, but I also believe that people are basically good and it’s natural for us to want to support our fellow human beings.
I reach the HEX about 06:00, which is waiting with doors open for its fortunate passengers. The HEX is a more dear (expensive) way to travel to and from Heathrow and those more knowledgeable and fungal passengers typically choose other modes, which do take longer. I realized this a bit late, but I’m happy to go this way because in a way my sister and my mother were my travel agents. While I was in New York City Yvonne goggled my London destination from their Beach House in Imperial Beach, California and looked at the necessary web pages together, but mom and Yvonne’s heads were clearer so I simply took notes and followed their instructions.
Mum and Yvonne had gone to the Beach House to spend precious time together after I left. I’m sure they needed some downtime considering how emotional it was for us to say ‘good-bye’. It’s always been a rare occasion to have Yvonne all to oneself. We have a small but large family, that for the most part is very close, something we all owe to Yvonne. She has a passionate desire to keep us all together and have us ‘get over’ our differences so we can get back to being together, especially to go on holiday together. That’s adventure nearly pales in comparison to the one I’m on.
There are fourteen of us to fit for the latest vacation tee shirt from one to seventy-three in age and from petite to triple X in size, that identifies us as the fun-loving-band-of-crazies that we truly are. We are a varied clan that can cut deep with disdain and yet will show up with titanium strength when we needed. I’ve been drawing from that strength for the last few days when the waves of culture shock swirled with the sands of loneliness find their way into the days and nights. (I’m in India as I write this.)
I stepped aboard the HEX, noticing I didn’t need to ‘mind the gap’ that is between most platforms and the trains in the UK. The stainless steel walls and doors are spotless and the seats are upholstered with deep-ocean blue high-quality fabric freckled with red flakes. They have high backs and might be too comfortable for the weary transcontinental travelers who need to disembark soon. But not me, I’m almost on the edge of my seat in anticipation of what I might see even though it’s still dark. There are several conspicuously placed LCD screens showing commercials to sell me more unnecessary products. The car was deserted with exception of me and a businessman in a wrinkled dark grey suit who sat across the isle one row back. I think we both wanted to enjoy some expanded personal space. I wondered if this was a maiden voyage across tracks that were laid a hundred years ago. I felt safe and still very energized. A state I tend to stay in until I reach my temporary resting place, at which time I sleep harder than Henry the Eighth after a huge meal, and yes, I probably do some real snoring.
I had to transfer to the Tube at Paddington Station which would take me to Victoria where I’ll needed to catch a 170 bus to Battersea, a suburb of London. The HEX train made another one of it’s stops and because I was still getting use to the accents of the ticket agents and announcers in the airport and train stations, I nearly missed my stop. I followed the exit signs to the London Underground, which is hard to miss once you’ve seen their logo. It’s a red donut with a horizontal cobalt blue stripe with UNDERGROUND written in white text over the circle. That striped changed from a teal the cobalt in 2007, but I’m not sure why. Yet, if you stand on any London street-corner and turn 360 degrees around and don’t see a sign to one of 270 tube stations then you just aren’t looking.
I pulled my luggage from the HEX train and this time I did ‘mind the gap’ heaving and swinging my luggage onto the platform. With a sigh of relief I paused and scan the area to get my bearings to see that I was in yet another maze of tunnels. I could hear Bob Parker saying, “Will it be tunnel number one, two or three?” Time to ask directions, again. The conductor pointed me down tunnel number two and at the end I came to a London Transport ticket stand with a lovely black woman behind the bullet proof Plexiglas. With no cue, due to the earliness of the hour, I stepped up to the window. I don’t know why, but I always feel the need to raise my voice so that the person behind that thick Plexiglas can hear me. Logic says they can hear a normal tone of voice but it plays a game with my left brain, which assumes that even my loud mouth can’t be heard through anything that thick. So I kind of yelled and either she heard me just fine or was just being polite to this Yank who has obviously traveled far. After all, I was in “the land of good manner.” Whichever she remained pleasant and sold me an Oyster Card, a hard plastic key card tucked inside a yellow and blue plastic holder supplied by Ikea, which is great product placement to something 3.4 million weekday riders carry in the pockets, purses or briefcases. The Oyster Card will allows passage on any one of the eleven lines and all Greater London buses. The pass was twenty-three pounds, which would be very heavy if I had to bring that many pounds of silver to buy it, but no fear since almost all currency is no longer backed by gold or silver. I’ve been using my debit card to purchase these tickets since I haven’t seen an ATM or “Cash Machines” yet.
I figured I’ll go to a Thomas Cook travel agency, which I hold a fond childhood memory of those rare occasions we’d return to England with my mum (Brit for Mom) to visit my grandparents. It’s interesting to observe the sentimental memories of long ago I have stored up and now find myself attempting to reconnect with them. Why am I inclined to go to a business with people behind the desks that have absolutely no connection to me other than the memory of following my mother into an all-red storefront with the white block THOMAS COOK lettering? Are other people as sentimental as I and choose a place to patronize based on a precious memory that lasted for a fraction of a moment? If they don’t, I might be the sappiest woman on the planet, but if they do then we are kindred spirits making our way through this beautiful life hoping from one sentimental cloud to another.
The nice lady directed me on to a station that had to be built around the time my grandfather was a boy. Actually the first section of the London Underground opened in 1863 and was the first system of its kind in the world and starting in 1890, England was the first to operate electric trains. Old maybe, but I loved it. I said, “Tracy, welcome to back to England!” It was cooler in England that NY, but I can’t say it was cold. As I was leaving the train I caught my reflection in the window to see that I was sporting a full-on Alfalfa so I put on my pink angora cap. I stepped to the ticket agent box to find out where I must go next. Again, if I got on the train going the wrong way it might be hours before I got the Battersea.
To be continued....
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Day 5: Road to India, arriving UK - Part 2
November 17, 2009
My days are no longer marked by a beginnings or endings. I’m a time traveler now, jetting over time zones as my internal GPS downloads new geo-data. MY flight to London left LaGuardia at 2130 EST and landed Heathrow at 4:40 GMT, more than an hour early, leapfrogging me over five hours.
As the pilots began the descent the flight attendant passed out the customs forms. Groggy passengers dropped their tray tables, wiping sleep from their eyes to focus on the task at hand. Flight attendants serving coffee, tea and water, while another collects trash to ready the cabin for the next group of excited and exhausted passengers, if they’re anything like us.
I removed the hard copy of my itinerary from my travel purse, which I created just days before leaving. It’s pretty exciting to look at with its list of flight numbers, departure and arrival times, public transportation directions and as more addresses than I’ve had in the last 10 years. Yet the most usual is the address to my ‘home base’ in, which is a numbered sector within Panchkula, a subsidiary of the city state of Chandijarh (pronounced chan-di-gar).
The pilots set the transatlantic ship down easy and before I knew it I was stepping on to British soil. I began to feel a surge of energy as I stepped onto the concourse. I believe the chromosomes that held my British DNA were happy to breathe in the jolly ol’ air from an ancient land that I haven’t visited in over ten years.
I cued up (stood in line) for customs with Mooshi and her mother. The cue was very long and the non-British citizens were kept organized by the Disneyland-style-ropes. Mooshi and I continued our pop culture banter about our favorite TV shows. Her pre-med education doesn’t allow her to follow shows like Lost and Survivor, bit luckily she has a close friend that can find pretty much anything on the web. That’s when I learned about freetv.com and missedashow.net. I was so happy there was a way I could follow season six of So You Think You Can Dance and season one of Flashforward, a new program I discovered while surfing iTunes. Each episode is about $2.99 to download and since I’m being very frugal with my current funds, which are only meant to support me on this journey, I will refrain from incurring further download fees.
I handed Mooshi a small slip of paper with my name, URL to my Blog and my Skype name. I’m so grateful to Jim, a member of Riverside Community Center for Spiritual Living (RCCSL), who produced about a hundred of these little slips for the attendees of my farewell party. The rest I have been using to stay in touch with the amazing people I meet along my Road to India.
I was first to a customs counter and noticed Mooshi and her mother stepping to desks at opposite sides of me. I agent began to ask me a litany of questions, similar to those I answered to post my eHarmony profile. Is he hitting on me or does this country really need to know how I met (or in this case, not met yet), the people I’ll be staying with in London? “It’s a vicarage, not a terrorist cell, for All Saints’ sake!” I remember Pat Spencer, one of my mentors, working on her Ph.D. telling me that her dissertation was finished, not when she completed it, but when one of her advisors says, “Okay, you’re done.” Now, I know what she was referring to, because I had no idea how long the essay questions would last and if I was providing adequate answers. There I was in mid-answer to about the twentieth question and the agent’s stamped my passport and dismissed me.
I put my passport in my travel bag for safekeeping and turned around expecting to see Mooshi and her mother, but they vanished into one of the many corridors. Surely they had to make their way to the next gate for the continuation of their long journey to India for her sister’s wedding. I think she said they have four connections before reaching their home state in India, and I thought I had an intense itinerary. Their hectic journey is exactly what I believed I was avoiding by stopping in New York and London.
It’s obvious that I’m no longer in Kansas by the signage. “Water closet” is not where one fills an empty water bottle. That closest is more for making deposits than withdrawals. I followed the “Baggage Re-Claim” signs and when I reached the turn-style for my flight I saw only passengers with terribly wrinkled clothes impatiently peering down the beltway. As the silver slats expanded and retracted to make the continuous circle, I took the opportunity to chat up any human beings that are in earshot. After all there weren’t any trees around. Toria, my longtime friend and college roommate in San Francisco, would describe me as someone who, “Would talk to a tree, if it would only talk back.”
A lovely British couple who have been “on holiday” in Newport Beach, California, were my choice de jour. Americans go “on vacation” and the English go “on holiday”. I love the concept of taking a vacation from work and calling it a ‘holiday’. I wonder what they call an American legal holiday that gives us a single day off of work, a “vacation”?
The luggage eventually came and we said our farewells. I was off to follow to get a train to Victoria Station and they had a car service waiting for them. I silently hoped they would offer me a ride into London, yet had they; my first day in the U.K. might have been just okay.
My days are no longer marked by a beginnings or endings. I’m a time traveler now, jetting over time zones as my internal GPS downloads new geo-data. MY flight to London left LaGuardia at 2130 EST and landed Heathrow at 4:40 GMT, more than an hour early, leapfrogging me over five hours.
As the pilots began the descent the flight attendant passed out the customs forms. Groggy passengers dropped their tray tables, wiping sleep from their eyes to focus on the task at hand. Flight attendants serving coffee, tea and water, while another collects trash to ready the cabin for the next group of excited and exhausted passengers, if they’re anything like us.
I removed the hard copy of my itinerary from my travel purse, which I created just days before leaving. It’s pretty exciting to look at with its list of flight numbers, departure and arrival times, public transportation directions and as more addresses than I’ve had in the last 10 years. Yet the most usual is the address to my ‘home base’ in, which is a numbered sector within Panchkula, a subsidiary of the city state of Chandijarh (pronounced chan-di-gar).
The pilots set the transatlantic ship down easy and before I knew it I was stepping on to British soil. I began to feel a surge of energy as I stepped onto the concourse. I believe the chromosomes that held my British DNA were happy to breathe in the jolly ol’ air from an ancient land that I haven’t visited in over ten years.
I cued up (stood in line) for customs with Mooshi and her mother. The cue was very long and the non-British citizens were kept organized by the Disneyland-style-ropes. Mooshi and I continued our pop culture banter about our favorite TV shows. Her pre-med education doesn’t allow her to follow shows like Lost and Survivor, bit luckily she has a close friend that can find pretty much anything on the web. That’s when I learned about freetv.com and missedashow.net. I was so happy there was a way I could follow season six of So You Think You Can Dance and season one of Flashforward, a new program I discovered while surfing iTunes. Each episode is about $2.99 to download and since I’m being very frugal with my current funds, which are only meant to support me on this journey, I will refrain from incurring further download fees.
I handed Mooshi a small slip of paper with my name, URL to my Blog and my Skype name. I’m so grateful to Jim, a member of Riverside Community Center for Spiritual Living (RCCSL), who produced about a hundred of these little slips for the attendees of my farewell party. The rest I have been using to stay in touch with the amazing people I meet along my Road to India.
I was first to a customs counter and noticed Mooshi and her mother stepping to desks at opposite sides of me. I agent began to ask me a litany of questions, similar to those I answered to post my eHarmony profile. Is he hitting on me or does this country really need to know how I met (or in this case, not met yet), the people I’ll be staying with in London? “It’s a vicarage, not a terrorist cell, for All Saints’ sake!” I remember Pat Spencer, one of my mentors, working on her Ph.D. telling me that her dissertation was finished, not when she completed it, but when one of her advisors says, “Okay, you’re done.” Now, I know what she was referring to, because I had no idea how long the essay questions would last and if I was providing adequate answers. There I was in mid-answer to about the twentieth question and the agent’s stamped my passport and dismissed me.
I put my passport in my travel bag for safekeeping and turned around expecting to see Mooshi and her mother, but they vanished into one of the many corridors. Surely they had to make their way to the next gate for the continuation of their long journey to India for her sister’s wedding. I think she said they have four connections before reaching their home state in India, and I thought I had an intense itinerary. Their hectic journey is exactly what I believed I was avoiding by stopping in New York and London.
It’s obvious that I’m no longer in Kansas by the signage. “Water closet” is not where one fills an empty water bottle. That closest is more for making deposits than withdrawals. I followed the “Baggage Re-Claim” signs and when I reached the turn-style for my flight I saw only passengers with terribly wrinkled clothes impatiently peering down the beltway. As the silver slats expanded and retracted to make the continuous circle, I took the opportunity to chat up any human beings that are in earshot. After all there weren’t any trees around. Toria, my longtime friend and college roommate in San Francisco, would describe me as someone who, “Would talk to a tree, if it would only talk back.”
A lovely British couple who have been “on holiday” in Newport Beach, California, were my choice de jour. Americans go “on vacation” and the English go “on holiday”. I love the concept of taking a vacation from work and calling it a ‘holiday’. I wonder what they call an American legal holiday that gives us a single day off of work, a “vacation”?
The luggage eventually came and we said our farewells. I was off to follow to get a train to Victoria Station and they had a car service waiting for them. I silently hoped they would offer me a ride into London, yet had they; my first day in the U.K. might have been just okay.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Day 5: Road to India (Somewhere over the Atlantic) Part 1
November 16 & 17, 2009
I attempted to sleep once more but became alerted by the considerable fidgeting of seatmate to the left. I was present to my irritation several times during the whole ordeal and before I gave her the international “you’re disturbing me” expression complete with a deep sigh, I said yet another prayer. “God please forgive me for my unwillingness to embrace this moment. Please grace me with compassion and patience and help me to see what this telling me about myself. I trust that everything that shows up on this journey is for my expansion. I choose to fully embrace this moment. I pray that I will soften and be of service to this beautiful expression of God that has appeared to the left of me. Amen”
I completed my prayer and looked over at her with a “How can I help you?” expression to discover that she become trapped in her aisle seat. The opening had become too small for her frame, especially with the passenger seat in front of her fully reclined. She was sweating and only ensnared herself even worse by her intense struggle. It reminded me of a recent wildlife program, which showed the dramatic rescue of a helpless polar bear cub that had gotten snared by a trap. It too fought hard to free itself only to increase the chance for injury. “I must do something! I can’t let this innocent creature suffer for one more minute.”
Knowing that aisle seat armrests are suppose to lift up, I got on my knees in my seat and lean into her round mass to locate the release button to free her. She somehow realized I was attempting to her, yet she continued to struggle. The commotion finally alerted our cabin steward and he too attempted to release the armrest without success. He reached for her to take his hands so that he could free her, but she pulled away from him lifting her arms as if she was protecting herself from a blow. How is it that any transatlantic flight attendant is unaware of the cultures they serve? When he became frustrated by her refusal to accept his assistance, I said, “She can’t touch you! Her culture prohibits a woman being touched by any other male, like a husband or son. The man in front of her woke and straightened his chair as her mass exploded into the aisle. We had drawn many onlookersduring this melodrama, which all breathed a sign of relief as she was freed, much like I did as I saw the small cub running across the ice to its mother after being freed by a few brave human beings.
Buddha-lady went to the restroom and I took the opportunity too or I’d have to crawl over Mooshi, her mother and another passenger to exit right, if I should have to use the facilities later. While in the galley I asked to be moved to an open aisle seat to prevent another entrapment. The flight attendant said. “Look around, there are no aisle seats available.” I took the long way back to my seat in hopes of finding an open seat. I did. It was an aisle seat several rows in front of ours. I asked the handsome longhaired European man, who witnessed the recent commotion, if the seat next to was vacant. The tray table was down holding an uncollected dinner tray so I wasn’t sure. He looked at me with such disgust you’d think I asked him to hold a fresh bag of pooh. I told him it would be me sitting next to him since it would be difficult for me to get in and out of my seat should I need. He softened and agreed. I was thinking how nice it would be to sit next to such a hottie and what amazing conversation we might have. But before I could collect my belongings, the flight attendant was already moving Buddha-lady into the vacant seat I had found. He had come behind me to ensure that the armrest would release. So instead of my belongings, I picked up her shoes from the floor with my left hand (very important that left hand is used for unclean things in her region of the world) and brought them to her when she went into a series of bows as if she was having a “darshana” (Sanskrit for seeing an avatar or holy person). She thanked me, but Mister European-Calvin-Klein-model just glared at me as though I set him up. I went back to my seat and wondered what he might be resisting that the present of Buddha lady would assist him in letting go? Again, his journey!
I went back to my seat, now on the aisle and stretched out thinking I might be able to sleep now. No go. I sat up, pulled a little battery-operated pin light with a clip, pulled the Velcro loose on the seat back in front of me and clipped the light to illuminate my journal. The overhead reading lights are just too bright and would disturb my fellow passengers in their slumber. I wrote in my journal for a long time and then pulled out the laptop to work on a video of the little Jewish angel I saw yesterday in Lower Manhattan.
Before too long the flight attendants were making their way through the cabin with water. People stirred as blinds began to open. I was hoping for light, but it was still dark. We were landing early, about 4:40 am, so I should be ahead of the morning commuters.
I attempted to sleep once more but became alerted by the considerable fidgeting of seatmate to the left. I was present to my irritation several times during the whole ordeal and before I gave her the international “you’re disturbing me” expression complete with a deep sigh, I said yet another prayer. “God please forgive me for my unwillingness to embrace this moment. Please grace me with compassion and patience and help me to see what this telling me about myself. I trust that everything that shows up on this journey is for my expansion. I choose to fully embrace this moment. I pray that I will soften and be of service to this beautiful expression of God that has appeared to the left of me. Amen”
I completed my prayer and looked over at her with a “How can I help you?” expression to discover that she become trapped in her aisle seat. The opening had become too small for her frame, especially with the passenger seat in front of her fully reclined. She was sweating and only ensnared herself even worse by her intense struggle. It reminded me of a recent wildlife program, which showed the dramatic rescue of a helpless polar bear cub that had gotten snared by a trap. It too fought hard to free itself only to increase the chance for injury. “I must do something! I can’t let this innocent creature suffer for one more minute.”
Knowing that aisle seat armrests are suppose to lift up, I got on my knees in my seat and lean into her round mass to locate the release button to free her. She somehow realized I was attempting to her, yet she continued to struggle. The commotion finally alerted our cabin steward and he too attempted to release the armrest without success. He reached for her to take his hands so that he could free her, but she pulled away from him lifting her arms as if she was protecting herself from a blow. How is it that any transatlantic flight attendant is unaware of the cultures they serve? When he became frustrated by her refusal to accept his assistance, I said, “She can’t touch you! Her culture prohibits a woman being touched by any other male, like a husband or son. The man in front of her woke and straightened his chair as her mass exploded into the aisle. We had drawn many onlookersduring this melodrama, which all breathed a sign of relief as she was freed, much like I did as I saw the small cub running across the ice to its mother after being freed by a few brave human beings.
Buddha-lady went to the restroom and I took the opportunity too or I’d have to crawl over Mooshi, her mother and another passenger to exit right, if I should have to use the facilities later. While in the galley I asked to be moved to an open aisle seat to prevent another entrapment. The flight attendant said. “Look around, there are no aisle seats available.” I took the long way back to my seat in hopes of finding an open seat. I did. It was an aisle seat several rows in front of ours. I asked the handsome longhaired European man, who witnessed the recent commotion, if the seat next to was vacant. The tray table was down holding an uncollected dinner tray so I wasn’t sure. He looked at me with such disgust you’d think I asked him to hold a fresh bag of pooh. I told him it would be me sitting next to him since it would be difficult for me to get in and out of my seat should I need. He softened and agreed. I was thinking how nice it would be to sit next to such a hottie and what amazing conversation we might have. But before I could collect my belongings, the flight attendant was already moving Buddha-lady into the vacant seat I had found. He had come behind me to ensure that the armrest would release. So instead of my belongings, I picked up her shoes from the floor with my left hand (very important that left hand is used for unclean things in her region of the world) and brought them to her when she went into a series of bows as if she was having a “darshana” (Sanskrit for seeing an avatar or holy person). She thanked me, but Mister European-Calvin-Klein-model just glared at me as though I set him up. I went back to my seat and wondered what he might be resisting that the present of Buddha lady would assist him in letting go? Again, his journey!
I went back to my seat, now on the aisle and stretched out thinking I might be able to sleep now. No go. I sat up, pulled a little battery-operated pin light with a clip, pulled the Velcro loose on the seat back in front of me and clipped the light to illuminate my journal. The overhead reading lights are just too bright and would disturb my fellow passengers in their slumber. I wrote in my journal for a long time and then pulled out the laptop to work on a video of the little Jewish angel I saw yesterday in Lower Manhattan.
Before too long the flight attendants were making their way through the cabin with water. People stirred as blinds began to open. I was hoping for light, but it was still dark. We were landing early, about 4:40 am, so I should be ahead of the morning commuters.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Day 4: Road to India - Bronx, NY, USA to London, UK
November 16, 2009
I woke about 8:00 and putts around a bit before I got serious about closing my backpack. I was in consolidation mode with my toiletries and condiments. I really must wean myself off the sugar substitutes and the powered creamer. I was going to bring the small jar of Metamucil, but it held me up at security at the Long Beach Airport so better make it smooth sailing, which is what it for anyway. Ironic….
I was on yet another skype calls with mum and Yvonne as I zipped my bag closed with some strenuous effort. It’ll all flatten out soon and the teeth of the zipper will go from a tight smile to a casual frown.
I looked at the clock with un-made-up-eyes and panic set in. I putts alright! I had to be out of the flat in 20 minutes. Okay, here comes the all-natural Tracy out in the world. Man, I remember a day when the thought of going out in public without make-up would mortify me. Not these day. I love showing up just as God intended me to at this age. I mean after all wouldn’t a tube of mascara be there at the cutting of the umbilical cord if our creator didn’t do the job well enough? I spent over two decades coloring my hair only to choose a journey that doesn’t support carrying a bottle of Clairol around with me to discover that my Creator did a ‘bang up job’ (I’m in England as I write this ;-). Now, people stop me on streets, buses, trains and planes to ask me for the name of my hairdresser, my response, “GOD, she’s very talented isn’t she?”
I gifted my special hostess with “The Laws of Spirit”, an amazing book by Dan Millman and a starfish on a silver chain. These items were mine but I realize now that some of what I brought with me was always intended for others. I felt the vibration of that necklace and book shift to another frequency that was no longer the one I was vibrating on.
Carrie helped me to the train station to be sure I was going the right way. Good thing too, as I headed for the ‘Uptown’ platform. Carrie yelled from outside the black heavy gates of the subway “No, go Downtown!” I will get off at 125th Street station in Harlem where I need to catch the M60 to LaGuardia.
I came out of the subway and thought ‘Now what?” and saw other luggage-toting folks and turned to follow them. Sure enough, they led me to the M60, which was at the bus stop. I ‘dipped’ my pass in the slot and it popped up signaling that it was okay to board. I spied an open seat right at the front across from Camika. She is dressed in many bright colors, with 6 inch-round transparent plastic rainbow loop earrings I’ve ever seen. She conceals some of her colors with a black and white tweed coat and black suede slouch boots. She’s voluptuous with a friendly and welcoming smile. I begin to chat her up and learn that she’s off the Columbus, Ohio only until February, because as she says, “it’s hard to go from fast to slow” so she has every intention to return to New York City.
We exchange emails and promise to become friends on Facebook. We approached the airport, which I’m completely unfamiliar with, since I always used JFK. Yet, I remind myself that God is always guiding, directing and protecting me! I’m walking through this journey with a peaceful presence that speaks to me in the stillness. As Camika and I almost step off too early I hear that presence speak to me through another. I thought that there were wise people and they speak with wisdom and there are not so wise people who speak nonsense; and I’ve listened to both. I never realized until now that God speaks to me through everyone and not every message has to be ‘wise’ or ‘profound’. Now I realize I needed that wisdom of that lovely man that said, “This isn’t your stop! Wait and I’ll tell you when it’s time to get off.” I intuitively knew that was God. Gandhi says, if you don’t see God in the next person, do not take another step.” Me, I keep walking. Man, does God look and sound great!
I take a short flight in a very small plane to Dulles and get a bite to eat in the food court before proceeding to security. Matt and Jeff are at the next table taking about all things male and mid-20ish. Jeff is in the Air Force after examining his life purpose (so profound for his age), which had him in the Baltic’s helping people rebuild their communities and lives. He really ‘got himself’ while servicing others and now his friend, Matt, from Queens, is inspired to be an officer and not so much to follow his friend’s footsteps but to set his own.
They joined me at my four-top table and sat for about half an hour and we talked about the possibilities of leading an epic life. All though out communing Jeff called me “Ma’am” and each time I heard it I thought about how I probably look the age of their mothers and yet I just don’t feel like a ‘ma’am’, I’m not even sure I know how to ‘feel’ like a ‘ma’am’. They said their good-bye’s and I called Yvonne and mom to tell them I’d skype them in the Dulles Airport. As Jeff shook my hand he said, “Ma’am, you sure do inspire me!” Funny, because he really moved me and gave me the opportunity to look at what I’m doing in the big way as he sees it!
I read “Soul Identity” on my Kindle and before I knew we were down. I exited the small plane and walked around those who collected their carry-on luggage at the bottom of the stairs. Even the smallest carry-ons were to big to fit in the overhead compartments. I surveyed my surrounds from where I stood. Peeped out a monitor and noted my gate. I had to take an shuttle, which looked more like was a prop leftover from one of the Star Wars movies. It was a box-like train car without a protruding driver’s area you see on most people movers, and moved with robotic jerks. I mentioned it to the lady next to me and she laughed out loud as she thought about it, never being able to place what they truly resembled until now.
I knew that I was now in the larger part of the airport. Hundreds of people walking so fast you think someone yelled ‘fire’. “Really people, slow down for your heart’s sake.” I thought.
I used the facilities and looked for an outlet to top off the charge of my laptop. I wasn’t the only one. I was having difficulty getting online and asked the people around me if the airport had free Wifi. Mostly they chuckled and turned away, except for Mesha, (spelled phonetically) who said, “Here, use my laptop.” There was God again!! I asked if he had skpye, he did, brought it up, I signed on and was talking to mum and Yvonne again. We chatted until Mesha had to board his flight that left earlier than main. He was on his way home to Seattle ( I think). He was in some amazing warm place with his girlfriend, which he was able to go because he telecommutes from home, which he can do wherever ‘home’ might be as long as there’s Internet access. I really must keep my pen and pad handy at all times. I will ask him where he visited when we connect on Facebook sometime soon.
They called my flight and as I stood in line to hear the call my boarding group I got a ‘message’ to use the restroom one more time so that when I get settled in my seat and the Melatonin begins to take effect, I can go right to sleep. That wasn’t the ‘plan’ at all. I was in the middle of the center row of seat in the back of the plane and when I got to my row there was a lovely Buddha-round Indian woman in a ivory Sari with only a black fleece hoddie to keep her warm when she lands on the cool and windy side of the pond. She was on her cell, which I’m sure every passenger that had board thus far was aware of. She was speaking with such passion in a language that I’ll soon get accustomed to hearing on a regular basis. I didn’t learn any Hindi before leaving, yet I’m hoping the children that I help to know English will help me speak their language. I stood for some time motioning that I needed to get in, but she just continued her call. There was great fear in her voice an emotion that needs no translation. After a few minute a male flight attendant approached me with an impatient, “what’s the hold up” expression. Finally she ended ‘this’ call to allow me to climb in to my seat. She had put her two pillows and blanket in my seat, for safe-keeping I guess, so when I lost my footing and fell into my seat I had a lovely soft landing.
The plane began to fill up and I knew that we were about loaded and would take off soon. I missed the traditional last “I love you and will call when I land.” phone call to a loved one before the plane doors close. When the doors close it also indicates the “no more cell phone use” status that few heed. So I had my seatmate to the left, who will be to my right? Just then an Indian mother and her 20-something daughter climbed into the seats to my right. This young woman would become my next ‘best friend’ which his what my great niece, Ava, says whenever she meets a new friend. Ava has a world full of potential best friends. I’ve come to adopt that mindset. I love that I borrowed it from her.
Mooshi, is 25 and has been studying to be a doctor like her father that immigrated from India to Tennessee, but he no longer practices “due to his age when he immigrated”. Mooshi and her mother speak Hindi as well as the dialect from her region (or state) in India. Mooshi also speaks some Spanish. She’s lovely and so very vibrant. Her mother is obviously devoted to her and desires to protect her and reveres her as she listens carefully as Mooshi speaks fluent English with such ease. Mooshi was born and raised to about 13 years old in India and then they came to the states. Why Tennessee, I didn’t think to ask at the time because we were busy talking about pop culture, traveling (US and in India), boys and men (she’ll marry an Indian because she says, “she loves and is loyal to her culture”). She smiles and pushes her long black hair away from her face.
My seatmate on the left is solo and is terrified of flying. She’s on the phone with her daughter again and as soon as she sees another Indian she gives her a quick bio and hands her cell phone to Mooshi’s mother. She has a quite extensive conversation with sad Buddha-lady’s daughter and hands her back the phone, without terminating the call. These loud conversations go on for a few minutes as all the passengers get situated and buckled in. Each time this freighted woman dramatically adds to her story and in doing so she leans across my seat as if I’m not even in it. I say a quick prayer that God will calm her heart and mind for the journey and like the tiger who jumps through the ring of fire, will realize that she’ll come down safely on the other side. After the third-or-so talk with the woman’s daughter Mooshi’s mom is starting to get a bit impatient. Yet, I’m learning that Indian patience go way beyond the patience of the average Westerner, which since I’m one and will go easy on my fellow Americans, but truly they would have told the woman to “get over herself and chill so they could enjoy the flight.” So the line up is this, Buddha lady on my left, Mooshi’s mom on my right and Mooshi on the right of her mother. So we’ve got two sets of women caring on conversations over other women, and somehow we’re making it work. Finally, Mooshi and her mother change places “so that Mooshi and I can talk and her mom can sleep.” My frightened seatmate is now further away from her touchstone.
Mooshi and I begin planning our flying time entertainment schedule, which movies we’ve seen which ones we hope will be available, have dinner, a potty break and off to sleep. I love schedules these days, because I only make them to break them. I glance at my seatmate as I settle down to watch the first season’s episode of “Flashforward” on my iPod, because there were no movies on that I hadn’t seen or wish to see again. I look over and gently lean forward to confirm that I was seeing tears running down Buddha lady’s cheek. She fidgets and leans into the aisle as one would lean out into the road when waiting for a bus to come. I assume that she’s waiting for the dinner service, which might take her attention off her dilemma, but as the cart makes her way she tells Mooshi that she is fasting today. When the male flight attendant assigned to our area comes by with dinner cart filled with trays and the plastic and foil containers disguised as dishes half full with just enough to make you want to ask for more, I happy to be of service to her and tell him she’s not eating.
I’m thinking, “Great if she’s fasting I’ll take hers and mine, which might make a whole meal." I’m hungry but seconds later I think that eating too much would interrupt my sleep. Now I wished I had taken hers too, because I was wide awake the whole flight. “Pasta or chicken” the flight attendant asked. I took chicken and Mooshi choose pasta. Taking one look at her pasta I thought I choose wrong. Still guided and directed, the chicken was amazingly tasty. I polished of the salad, diced chicken in red peppers and stashed my packaged chocolate brownie into the seat pocket in front of me for later.
Buddha lady watched us all eat which a drooling expression. Her devotion to God is stronger than her desire to eat. They picked up the trays and begin to put the cabin to bed. I saw Buddha-lady peer into the screen of my iPod, and I turned it in her direction to help her see the screen. She looked away. I pointed to the TV screen in the seatback in front of her, pulled her headphones out of her seat pocket and hand-motioned that I would help her find something to watch. She waved me off with a half-nameste’ bow. “Okay” I thought, leave her alone and let her be with her fears. This is her journey just as yours is yours.
I woke about 8:00 and putts around a bit before I got serious about closing my backpack. I was in consolidation mode with my toiletries and condiments. I really must wean myself off the sugar substitutes and the powered creamer. I was going to bring the small jar of Metamucil, but it held me up at security at the Long Beach Airport so better make it smooth sailing, which is what it for anyway. Ironic….
I was on yet another skype calls with mum and Yvonne as I zipped my bag closed with some strenuous effort. It’ll all flatten out soon and the teeth of the zipper will go from a tight smile to a casual frown.
I looked at the clock with un-made-up-eyes and panic set in. I putts alright! I had to be out of the flat in 20 minutes. Okay, here comes the all-natural Tracy out in the world. Man, I remember a day when the thought of going out in public without make-up would mortify me. Not these day. I love showing up just as God intended me to at this age. I mean after all wouldn’t a tube of mascara be there at the cutting of the umbilical cord if our creator didn’t do the job well enough? I spent over two decades coloring my hair only to choose a journey that doesn’t support carrying a bottle of Clairol around with me to discover that my Creator did a ‘bang up job’ (I’m in England as I write this ;-). Now, people stop me on streets, buses, trains and planes to ask me for the name of my hairdresser, my response, “GOD, she’s very talented isn’t she?”
I gifted my special hostess with “The Laws of Spirit”, an amazing book by Dan Millman and a starfish on a silver chain. These items were mine but I realize now that some of what I brought with me was always intended for others. I felt the vibration of that necklace and book shift to another frequency that was no longer the one I was vibrating on.
Carrie helped me to the train station to be sure I was going the right way. Good thing too, as I headed for the ‘Uptown’ platform. Carrie yelled from outside the black heavy gates of the subway “No, go Downtown!” I will get off at 125th Street station in Harlem where I need to catch the M60 to LaGuardia.
I came out of the subway and thought ‘Now what?” and saw other luggage-toting folks and turned to follow them. Sure enough, they led me to the M60, which was at the bus stop. I ‘dipped’ my pass in the slot and it popped up signaling that it was okay to board. I spied an open seat right at the front across from Camika. She is dressed in many bright colors, with 6 inch-round transparent plastic rainbow loop earrings I’ve ever seen. She conceals some of her colors with a black and white tweed coat and black suede slouch boots. She’s voluptuous with a friendly and welcoming smile. I begin to chat her up and learn that she’s off the Columbus, Ohio only until February, because as she says, “it’s hard to go from fast to slow” so she has every intention to return to New York City.
We exchange emails and promise to become friends on Facebook. We approached the airport, which I’m completely unfamiliar with, since I always used JFK. Yet, I remind myself that God is always guiding, directing and protecting me! I’m walking through this journey with a peaceful presence that speaks to me in the stillness. As Camika and I almost step off too early I hear that presence speak to me through another. I thought that there were wise people and they speak with wisdom and there are not so wise people who speak nonsense; and I’ve listened to both. I never realized until now that God speaks to me through everyone and not every message has to be ‘wise’ or ‘profound’. Now I realize I needed that wisdom of that lovely man that said, “This isn’t your stop! Wait and I’ll tell you when it’s time to get off.” I intuitively knew that was God. Gandhi says, if you don’t see God in the next person, do not take another step.” Me, I keep walking. Man, does God look and sound great!
I take a short flight in a very small plane to Dulles and get a bite to eat in the food court before proceeding to security. Matt and Jeff are at the next table taking about all things male and mid-20ish. Jeff is in the Air Force after examining his life purpose (so profound for his age), which had him in the Baltic’s helping people rebuild their communities and lives. He really ‘got himself’ while servicing others and now his friend, Matt, from Queens, is inspired to be an officer and not so much to follow his friend’s footsteps but to set his own.
They joined me at my four-top table and sat for about half an hour and we talked about the possibilities of leading an epic life. All though out communing Jeff called me “Ma’am” and each time I heard it I thought about how I probably look the age of their mothers and yet I just don’t feel like a ‘ma’am’, I’m not even sure I know how to ‘feel’ like a ‘ma’am’. They said their good-bye’s and I called Yvonne and mom to tell them I’d skype them in the Dulles Airport. As Jeff shook my hand he said, “Ma’am, you sure do inspire me!” Funny, because he really moved me and gave me the opportunity to look at what I’m doing in the big way as he sees it!
I read “Soul Identity” on my Kindle and before I knew we were down. I exited the small plane and walked around those who collected their carry-on luggage at the bottom of the stairs. Even the smallest carry-ons were to big to fit in the overhead compartments. I surveyed my surrounds from where I stood. Peeped out a monitor and noted my gate. I had to take an shuttle, which looked more like was a prop leftover from one of the Star Wars movies. It was a box-like train car without a protruding driver’s area you see on most people movers, and moved with robotic jerks. I mentioned it to the lady next to me and she laughed out loud as she thought about it, never being able to place what they truly resembled until now.
I knew that I was now in the larger part of the airport. Hundreds of people walking so fast you think someone yelled ‘fire’. “Really people, slow down for your heart’s sake.” I thought.
I used the facilities and looked for an outlet to top off the charge of my laptop. I wasn’t the only one. I was having difficulty getting online and asked the people around me if the airport had free Wifi. Mostly they chuckled and turned away, except for Mesha, (spelled phonetically) who said, “Here, use my laptop.” There was God again!! I asked if he had skpye, he did, brought it up, I signed on and was talking to mum and Yvonne again. We chatted until Mesha had to board his flight that left earlier than main. He was on his way home to Seattle ( I think). He was in some amazing warm place with his girlfriend, which he was able to go because he telecommutes from home, which he can do wherever ‘home’ might be as long as there’s Internet access. I really must keep my pen and pad handy at all times. I will ask him where he visited when we connect on Facebook sometime soon.
They called my flight and as I stood in line to hear the call my boarding group I got a ‘message’ to use the restroom one more time so that when I get settled in my seat and the Melatonin begins to take effect, I can go right to sleep. That wasn’t the ‘plan’ at all. I was in the middle of the center row of seat in the back of the plane and when I got to my row there was a lovely Buddha-round Indian woman in a ivory Sari with only a black fleece hoddie to keep her warm when she lands on the cool and windy side of the pond. She was on her cell, which I’m sure every passenger that had board thus far was aware of. She was speaking with such passion in a language that I’ll soon get accustomed to hearing on a regular basis. I didn’t learn any Hindi before leaving, yet I’m hoping the children that I help to know English will help me speak their language. I stood for some time motioning that I needed to get in, but she just continued her call. There was great fear in her voice an emotion that needs no translation. After a few minute a male flight attendant approached me with an impatient, “what’s the hold up” expression. Finally she ended ‘this’ call to allow me to climb in to my seat. She had put her two pillows and blanket in my seat, for safe-keeping I guess, so when I lost my footing and fell into my seat I had a lovely soft landing.
The plane began to fill up and I knew that we were about loaded and would take off soon. I missed the traditional last “I love you and will call when I land.” phone call to a loved one before the plane doors close. When the doors close it also indicates the “no more cell phone use” status that few heed. So I had my seatmate to the left, who will be to my right? Just then an Indian mother and her 20-something daughter climbed into the seats to my right. This young woman would become my next ‘best friend’ which his what my great niece, Ava, says whenever she meets a new friend. Ava has a world full of potential best friends. I’ve come to adopt that mindset. I love that I borrowed it from her.
Mooshi, is 25 and has been studying to be a doctor like her father that immigrated from India to Tennessee, but he no longer practices “due to his age when he immigrated”. Mooshi and her mother speak Hindi as well as the dialect from her region (or state) in India. Mooshi also speaks some Spanish. She’s lovely and so very vibrant. Her mother is obviously devoted to her and desires to protect her and reveres her as she listens carefully as Mooshi speaks fluent English with such ease. Mooshi was born and raised to about 13 years old in India and then they came to the states. Why Tennessee, I didn’t think to ask at the time because we were busy talking about pop culture, traveling (US and in India), boys and men (she’ll marry an Indian because she says, “she loves and is loyal to her culture”). She smiles and pushes her long black hair away from her face.
My seatmate on the left is solo and is terrified of flying. She’s on the phone with her daughter again and as soon as she sees another Indian she gives her a quick bio and hands her cell phone to Mooshi’s mother. She has a quite extensive conversation with sad Buddha-lady’s daughter and hands her back the phone, without terminating the call. These loud conversations go on for a few minutes as all the passengers get situated and buckled in. Each time this freighted woman dramatically adds to her story and in doing so she leans across my seat as if I’m not even in it. I say a quick prayer that God will calm her heart and mind for the journey and like the tiger who jumps through the ring of fire, will realize that she’ll come down safely on the other side. After the third-or-so talk with the woman’s daughter Mooshi’s mom is starting to get a bit impatient. Yet, I’m learning that Indian patience go way beyond the patience of the average Westerner, which since I’m one and will go easy on my fellow Americans, but truly they would have told the woman to “get over herself and chill so they could enjoy the flight.” So the line up is this, Buddha lady on my left, Mooshi’s mom on my right and Mooshi on the right of her mother. So we’ve got two sets of women caring on conversations over other women, and somehow we’re making it work. Finally, Mooshi and her mother change places “so that Mooshi and I can talk and her mom can sleep.” My frightened seatmate is now further away from her touchstone.
Mooshi and I begin planning our flying time entertainment schedule, which movies we’ve seen which ones we hope will be available, have dinner, a potty break and off to sleep. I love schedules these days, because I only make them to break them. I glance at my seatmate as I settle down to watch the first season’s episode of “Flashforward” on my iPod, because there were no movies on that I hadn’t seen or wish to see again. I look over and gently lean forward to confirm that I was seeing tears running down Buddha lady’s cheek. She fidgets and leans into the aisle as one would lean out into the road when waiting for a bus to come. I assume that she’s waiting for the dinner service, which might take her attention off her dilemma, but as the cart makes her way she tells Mooshi that she is fasting today. When the male flight attendant assigned to our area comes by with dinner cart filled with trays and the plastic and foil containers disguised as dishes half full with just enough to make you want to ask for more, I happy to be of service to her and tell him she’s not eating.
I’m thinking, “Great if she’s fasting I’ll take hers and mine, which might make a whole meal." I’m hungry but seconds later I think that eating too much would interrupt my sleep. Now I wished I had taken hers too, because I was wide awake the whole flight. “Pasta or chicken” the flight attendant asked. I took chicken and Mooshi choose pasta. Taking one look at her pasta I thought I choose wrong. Still guided and directed, the chicken was amazingly tasty. I polished of the salad, diced chicken in red peppers and stashed my packaged chocolate brownie into the seat pocket in front of me for later.
Buddha lady watched us all eat which a drooling expression. Her devotion to God is stronger than her desire to eat. They picked up the trays and begin to put the cabin to bed. I saw Buddha-lady peer into the screen of my iPod, and I turned it in her direction to help her see the screen. She looked away. I pointed to the TV screen in the seatback in front of her, pulled her headphones out of her seat pocket and hand-motioned that I would help her find something to watch. She waved me off with a half-nameste’ bow. “Okay” I thought, leave her alone and let her be with her fears. This is her journey just as yours is yours.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Day 3: Road to India (Bronx, NY, USA)
November 15, 2009
Today, I woke up with freedom on mind. I remembered how I felt oddly homesick the days leading up to my departure. I asked a few people close to me if it’s possible to be homesick without leaving home? They would hug me and made some audible “awe” sound, as if to say “isn’t that sweet” and “I have no idea what you’re taking about but your leaving and allowed to be a little weird” and we’d move on to whatever we were doing.
Up until a few days ago I took it for granted that I knew what it meant to be homesick, but now I realize I don’t have a clue. It’s not what I felt at 19 years old as lay crying in my rack in the dark of night in a squad bay that held the 50 some young women marines that made up the platoon 5A. I cried then because I was feared that I might not be able to keep up with the demands of being someone I had yet to become and of the five Drill Instructors that wouldn’t think twice of kicking my ass to be sure I became her. It would have been so much easier to be home with mom so I cried, and someone decide to diagnosis me as ‘homesick.” So what is it? I guess it’s what one feels when they are afraid of feeling the growing pains of becoming something more than they are now, or simply know they can be more.
I’m not homesick today! Today I woke up steady and grounded in the faith and trust I have come to know as the center of me. Here I am in all my glory, one healthy 51-year-young poised woman who lives life each day with the wonderment and optimism of a child. Not knowing whom I’ll meet or even what I might do today, but with all the confidence that it will be good, no matter whoever I meet and whatever I do!
I blogged after the usual pee and tea about 10:30, which could be considered early since I finally falling asleep at 3:30ish. I skyped, showered and dressed knowing I would be going into the City for last time for who knows how long. It’s all about this precious and blessed moment in time, right now! It was 14:00 when I made my way to the ‘D’ train headed for downtown, and then my stride straightened as the picture of Lower Manhattan came to my right brain. I knew immediately that was my destination and said, “Yes” probably audibly for my fellow subway passengers to hear. I rode the vibration of the train listening to a ‘mixed tape’ on my iPod that my friend Dan made for me when the thought “I need to change trains” came and instead of checking my subway map tucked into the back pocket of my travel purse my friend Irma gave me, I jump off the train at the next stop. I asked a platform conductor to direct me to my destination and he said, “Oh Yes, all you need to do is cross over and catch the ‘A’ train to Chambers”. My heart sang and I looked up to God, my prayer of gratitude penetrating the yards of steel and concrete between the sky and me. I’m beginning to feel quite sure that God has sent instructions to every earthly angel to roll out the ‘convenient’ carpet (what color is that anyway?) to ease my every step.
I went straight to Ground Zero, camera ready, iPod playing one of “Dan’s favorites”, which has become one of mine. I don’t know the name of the angel that’s singing the words in my ears (“be still and know that even when you are lost and lonely and hope is gone you’re not alone. Through the darkness see there’s a light, remember that God loves you.”) I scanned Ground Zero with my video camera from my perch atop marble planter in front of the Millennium Hotel, I began to weep as I thought about the great sadness that fell on this place only eight short years ago. I want to tell them “through the darkness see the light and remember God loves you.” Thank you Dan for choosing this song to carry me on my journey.
It was 68 degrees at 15:00 in Manhattan in the middle of November. The gods are happy! I walked around the corner and saw a mother and her young son sitting on the concrete steps. There was some teaching going on, maybe for their faith or religion because he wore a small black cap on his of his head with a beautiful braiding on it and he was mimicking his mom. It was something out of a old-world Jewish fairytale. As I walked by them I was swept into their endearment. I filmed them and eventually walked on. It was difficult because the energy there was clean and Godly.
I went to the nearby park with the fountain and old flamed lanterns. I’ve never known the name of this graceful place. I walked along filming the trees, which are changing late in the year, another one of my mysterious gifts. I’ve had every intention to come here for the changing of the leaves/season, since Christmas of 2008.
I left there with an equally graceful farewell. I’m comfortable with telling things and places ‘farewell’ for I share this world with them too. I made my way into the subway and was redirected to 59 Street by the interrupted train schedule due to reconstruction of the tracks. I embraced those ‘interruptions’ and heed them as co-creations with the divine. I exited the station and went straight for Central Park as the sun was setting. I picked up a few leaves (one is in my journal and the other is now on it’s way to Yvonne for her scrapbook). There’s a café just as you enter the park and I returned to it for a cup of tea and to sit at a small tabled lit by the café’s bright lights. I sat for over an hour journaling until my fingertips became chilled (I wore the fingerless gloves mom gave me). The Starbucks, that mom spotted Raquel Welch at in 2002, was right behind me. I first stood in line for the restroom and when it was mine turn I entered and locked the door behind me and then noticed an official looking set of keys still in the storeroom door. I finished my business and return the keys to the barista. His mouth dropped open and said a passionate ‘thank you’. The manager said what can we get you. I got a chai tea and coffee cake on the house. There’s wasn’t an open seat when I entered but as soon as collected my treats I saw that someone was leaving a large table. I pulled out my laptop and skyped mom and Yvonne and when she saw my leaf she requested and since I was completing my thank-you cards I dropped the small one into her card. I was happy to share my large table with August, from Africa, but now a Manhattan-ite.
This is my last evening in NYC and thought it might make sense to get home for a good nights sleep so I headed for the subway after a quick stop at the mailbox at 61st. I got a call from my friend, Krista, so I stopped at the entrance of the 59th Street station (Columbus Circle) to hold the call. I was chatting away and saw a familiar face coming out of the subway. He paused and a few seconds later we placed each other. It was Aaron, an eHarmony match that I dated in the Inland Empire, coming out of the station. He was there on unplanned vacation. He asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be in India?” I explained and we said our good-byes and I went into the station in perplexity.
What does this mean? What do I want to make it mean? Especially since running into David, an old boyfriend I dated 13 years ago, in a Riverside CVS drugstore two-days before I leaving. (we are both single.) At that moment I thought, what am I missing here? I let it go and went on my journey and now I have run into another man whom I thought had the potential to be my life partner. After some soul-searching, I see that there’s something that these men have in common, besides me of course, and that’s how held a belief that something will prevent these men from wanting me and if they don’t, I’ll generate it. I have an amazing opportunity to transform this, if I haven’t already with my most recent liberation.
Today, I woke up with freedom on mind. I remembered how I felt oddly homesick the days leading up to my departure. I asked a few people close to me if it’s possible to be homesick without leaving home? They would hug me and made some audible “awe” sound, as if to say “isn’t that sweet” and “I have no idea what you’re taking about but your leaving and allowed to be a little weird” and we’d move on to whatever we were doing.
Up until a few days ago I took it for granted that I knew what it meant to be homesick, but now I realize I don’t have a clue. It’s not what I felt at 19 years old as lay crying in my rack in the dark of night in a squad bay that held the 50 some young women marines that made up the platoon 5A. I cried then because I was feared that I might not be able to keep up with the demands of being someone I had yet to become and of the five Drill Instructors that wouldn’t think twice of kicking my ass to be sure I became her. It would have been so much easier to be home with mom so I cried, and someone decide to diagnosis me as ‘homesick.” So what is it? I guess it’s what one feels when they are afraid of feeling the growing pains of becoming something more than they are now, or simply know they can be more.
I’m not homesick today! Today I woke up steady and grounded in the faith and trust I have come to know as the center of me. Here I am in all my glory, one healthy 51-year-young poised woman who lives life each day with the wonderment and optimism of a child. Not knowing whom I’ll meet or even what I might do today, but with all the confidence that it will be good, no matter whoever I meet and whatever I do!
I blogged after the usual pee and tea about 10:30, which could be considered early since I finally falling asleep at 3:30ish. I skyped, showered and dressed knowing I would be going into the City for last time for who knows how long. It’s all about this precious and blessed moment in time, right now! It was 14:00 when I made my way to the ‘D’ train headed for downtown, and then my stride straightened as the picture of Lower Manhattan came to my right brain. I knew immediately that was my destination and said, “Yes” probably audibly for my fellow subway passengers to hear. I rode the vibration of the train listening to a ‘mixed tape’ on my iPod that my friend Dan made for me when the thought “I need to change trains” came and instead of checking my subway map tucked into the back pocket of my travel purse my friend Irma gave me, I jump off the train at the next stop. I asked a platform conductor to direct me to my destination and he said, “Oh Yes, all you need to do is cross over and catch the ‘A’ train to Chambers”. My heart sang and I looked up to God, my prayer of gratitude penetrating the yards of steel and concrete between the sky and me. I’m beginning to feel quite sure that God has sent instructions to every earthly angel to roll out the ‘convenient’ carpet (what color is that anyway?) to ease my every step.
I went straight to Ground Zero, camera ready, iPod playing one of “Dan’s favorites”, which has become one of mine. I don’t know the name of the angel that’s singing the words in my ears (“be still and know that even when you are lost and lonely and hope is gone you’re not alone. Through the darkness see there’s a light, remember that God loves you.”) I scanned Ground Zero with my video camera from my perch atop marble planter in front of the Millennium Hotel, I began to weep as I thought about the great sadness that fell on this place only eight short years ago. I want to tell them “through the darkness see the light and remember God loves you.” Thank you Dan for choosing this song to carry me on my journey.
It was 68 degrees at 15:00 in Manhattan in the middle of November. The gods are happy! I walked around the corner and saw a mother and her young son sitting on the concrete steps. There was some teaching going on, maybe for their faith or religion because he wore a small black cap on his of his head with a beautiful braiding on it and he was mimicking his mom. It was something out of a old-world Jewish fairytale. As I walked by them I was swept into their endearment. I filmed them and eventually walked on. It was difficult because the energy there was clean and Godly.
I went to the nearby park with the fountain and old flamed lanterns. I’ve never known the name of this graceful place. I walked along filming the trees, which are changing late in the year, another one of my mysterious gifts. I’ve had every intention to come here for the changing of the leaves/season, since Christmas of 2008.
I left there with an equally graceful farewell. I’m comfortable with telling things and places ‘farewell’ for I share this world with them too. I made my way into the subway and was redirected to 59 Street by the interrupted train schedule due to reconstruction of the tracks. I embraced those ‘interruptions’ and heed them as co-creations with the divine. I exited the station and went straight for Central Park as the sun was setting. I picked up a few leaves (one is in my journal and the other is now on it’s way to Yvonne for her scrapbook). There’s a café just as you enter the park and I returned to it for a cup of tea and to sit at a small tabled lit by the café’s bright lights. I sat for over an hour journaling until my fingertips became chilled (I wore the fingerless gloves mom gave me). The Starbucks, that mom spotted Raquel Welch at in 2002, was right behind me. I first stood in line for the restroom and when it was mine turn I entered and locked the door behind me and then noticed an official looking set of keys still in the storeroom door. I finished my business and return the keys to the barista. His mouth dropped open and said a passionate ‘thank you’. The manager said what can we get you. I got a chai tea and coffee cake on the house. There’s wasn’t an open seat when I entered but as soon as collected my treats I saw that someone was leaving a large table. I pulled out my laptop and skyped mom and Yvonne and when she saw my leaf she requested and since I was completing my thank-you cards I dropped the small one into her card. I was happy to share my large table with August, from Africa, but now a Manhattan-ite.
This is my last evening in NYC and thought it might make sense to get home for a good nights sleep so I headed for the subway after a quick stop at the mailbox at 61st. I got a call from my friend, Krista, so I stopped at the entrance of the 59th Street station (Columbus Circle) to hold the call. I was chatting away and saw a familiar face coming out of the subway. He paused and a few seconds later we placed each other. It was Aaron, an eHarmony match that I dated in the Inland Empire, coming out of the station. He was there on unplanned vacation. He asked, “Aren’t you supposed to be in India?” I explained and we said our good-byes and I went into the station in perplexity.
What does this mean? What do I want to make it mean? Especially since running into David, an old boyfriend I dated 13 years ago, in a Riverside CVS drugstore two-days before I leaving. (we are both single.) At that moment I thought, what am I missing here? I let it go and went on my journey and now I have run into another man whom I thought had the potential to be my life partner. After some soul-searching, I see that there’s something that these men have in common, besides me of course, and that’s how held a belief that something will prevent these men from wanting me and if they don’t, I’ll generate it. I have an amazing opportunity to transform this, if I haven’t already with my most recent liberation.
Day 2: Road to India - Bronx, NY, USA - Part 3
November 14, 2009
It didn’t much begin considering the time that Day 2 “ended”. It was 12:30 am (EST) when I was still on one of many Skype calls with my sister and mom. Mummy with her maternal Blair Witch in the camera sweetly saying, “Go the bed, you must get your rest!”. I hung up with mum believing I was off to sleep, but I had the video bug. I had such a wonderful day and evening that I thought surely my vicarious travel-mates would enjoy the wonders I experienced. So there I was speeding down the technological learning curve and my geek-car was handling “like it was on rails.” I was slicing and dicing my NYC video clips like a true IT chef, as I matched my evening with “I got a feeling” by the Black Peas. I was sharing my evening and it was pure joy!
I was so excited for those loved ones who have shared NYC experiences with me to see the video. As I watched the end of the video when Mr. Yellow M&M knocks on the screen, I wanted to tell him, “yes, I’m here enjoying the moment like no other.”
Wow, I was away from home and feeling such joy, how could this be? Less than three years ago home was where I hung my many hats, but now that I have a deeper and more abiding love for my family home is now wherever they are and that could be in Timbuktu and it would still be home for me. I have always ‘loved’ my family, that come with the chromosomes, yet the love I have for them now is so expansive that when totally present to it I begin to well-up and “my eyes sweat”. This love is too big for my body and it escapes like a sweet perspiration that those with similar emotional bonds instinctively know they got a whiff of that precious home that lives deep within their souls.
Friday, Chuck stayed back to allow Yvonne and mom to be alone with me as I departed, I assume this is the case, but I’m even grateful for the assumption that it could be so. When it was time to say “good bye” we walked toward each other, and as he approached me I said, “there’s only one thing I want…” and before I could say that I wanted a two-armed hug, I was already in them both! This meant so very much to me and I welled up and made a quick move to dawn my sunglasses so not to make him uncomfortable by my tears. I love every member of my family equally, yet the way I express it is unique to each member.
The next noise I heard was the familiar and comforting sound of keys unlocking the door (my “roommate” Carrie, is home!). This is one of my favorite sounds lately since I had been living with others over the past two months. I’ve been surprised by my many new favorite tastes, both literal and figuratively, lately.
I was glad the Star, a name I’ve taken to calling her since I know her aspirations, was home and I was excited to show her cameo appearance in my first completed YouTube video. She laughed in her usual joyful way that includes an innocent shyness with head going back and hands coming forth as if trying to regulates how much escapes her reservoir of happiness. This can make you forget that there’s a bold black woman there that makes her appearance especially when giving a New York taxi driver explicit direction to her Bronx flat, “You were suppose to turn right there and that’ll be coming out of your tip!” I wonder if someone told her not to be “so loud and expressive” when she laughs? If so, they did her and all of us a disservice!
We watched the video and chatted about the day and evening, work and play, dreams and fears until after 2 am. I was so split; should I roll with the fun or obey my mother and go to be. I laid down and stared wildly at the ceiling. I shifted from one side to the other, but my body said, “You’ve past the threshold Lady, better think of something else.” So I did. I remembered the Tylenol PM mom gave me in the convenient hard-to-open packet. I took only one, boiled water for some Vata tea Sue gave me, and reached for the book, ‘Becoming Human’ Shannon gave me and read the first chapter on “Being Simple” and there it was! I forgot that I’m ‘processing’ the latest detachments from earlier that evening. After a magical and almost weightless experience in the glistening lights of Time Square I return ‘home’ and became heavy again. I knew it was time to go into the dark caves of my psyche, which needs to hold on to things to sustain its existence, and purge yet again. I opened the wings of my Osprey backpack and pulled out all they held. Knowing that I chosen to have only ONE bag. That meant that two had to go. I began by making two piles, what I needed, and what I could live without. I dug deep and pulled open three small space bags. Each one took a deep inhale as if holding its breathe and I did the same and rescued the wrinkled clothes as I heard mom’s inquiry, “You really need that many tops?” as I split them between the two piles.
In my defense, I have no idea how to live this new existence, as I ignored mum’s warnings and shoved them tightly into my bag the night before I left. It took me to haul all this to NYC to come to realize that all I clung to was helping me cling to the past or better yet, what I knew of life up until to now. I could just hear my ego crying out, “ If you don’t have that Ado(red) tank top how will people know that you’re one of those ‘socially conscious individual’ who pays $29 for a cotton tank to show you care?” As the discard pile got taller I realized that I was purging what made me who I was to the external world and I felt my own wings expand revealing more of who I am internally. I thought I was as liberated as I could be, yet now I know I can go deeper, bringing light to those dark corners of my mind while opening my soul!
I realize I’ve been listening to “Psalm 23” over and over again as I journal, not just this time but while I’ve written every entry since I started my “road to India” journaling. I don’t feel like I’m walking through the ‘valley of the shadow of death’ but some darkness, yes, certainly. I am comforted by the fact that I am “God’s forever.”
Another quote from my journal:
“I travel a lot; I hate having my life disrupted by routine.” – Caskie Stinnett
It didn’t much begin considering the time that Day 2 “ended”. It was 12:30 am (EST) when I was still on one of many Skype calls with my sister and mom. Mummy with her maternal Blair Witch in the camera sweetly saying, “Go the bed, you must get your rest!”. I hung up with mum believing I was off to sleep, but I had the video bug. I had such a wonderful day and evening that I thought surely my vicarious travel-mates would enjoy the wonders I experienced. So there I was speeding down the technological learning curve and my geek-car was handling “like it was on rails.” I was slicing and dicing my NYC video clips like a true IT chef, as I matched my evening with “I got a feeling” by the Black Peas. I was sharing my evening and it was pure joy!
I was so excited for those loved ones who have shared NYC experiences with me to see the video. As I watched the end of the video when Mr. Yellow M&M knocks on the screen, I wanted to tell him, “yes, I’m here enjoying the moment like no other.”
Wow, I was away from home and feeling such joy, how could this be? Less than three years ago home was where I hung my many hats, but now that I have a deeper and more abiding love for my family home is now wherever they are and that could be in Timbuktu and it would still be home for me. I have always ‘loved’ my family, that come with the chromosomes, yet the love I have for them now is so expansive that when totally present to it I begin to well-up and “my eyes sweat”. This love is too big for my body and it escapes like a sweet perspiration that those with similar emotional bonds instinctively know they got a whiff of that precious home that lives deep within their souls.
Friday, Chuck stayed back to allow Yvonne and mom to be alone with me as I departed, I assume this is the case, but I’m even grateful for the assumption that it could be so. When it was time to say “good bye” we walked toward each other, and as he approached me I said, “there’s only one thing I want…” and before I could say that I wanted a two-armed hug, I was already in them both! This meant so very much to me and I welled up and made a quick move to dawn my sunglasses so not to make him uncomfortable by my tears. I love every member of my family equally, yet the way I express it is unique to each member.
The next noise I heard was the familiar and comforting sound of keys unlocking the door (my “roommate” Carrie, is home!). This is one of my favorite sounds lately since I had been living with others over the past two months. I’ve been surprised by my many new favorite tastes, both literal and figuratively, lately.
I was glad the Star, a name I’ve taken to calling her since I know her aspirations, was home and I was excited to show her cameo appearance in my first completed YouTube video. She laughed in her usual joyful way that includes an innocent shyness with head going back and hands coming forth as if trying to regulates how much escapes her reservoir of happiness. This can make you forget that there’s a bold black woman there that makes her appearance especially when giving a New York taxi driver explicit direction to her Bronx flat, “You were suppose to turn right there and that’ll be coming out of your tip!” I wonder if someone told her not to be “so loud and expressive” when she laughs? If so, they did her and all of us a disservice!
We watched the video and chatted about the day and evening, work and play, dreams and fears until after 2 am. I was so split; should I roll with the fun or obey my mother and go to be. I laid down and stared wildly at the ceiling. I shifted from one side to the other, but my body said, “You’ve past the threshold Lady, better think of something else.” So I did. I remembered the Tylenol PM mom gave me in the convenient hard-to-open packet. I took only one, boiled water for some Vata tea Sue gave me, and reached for the book, ‘Becoming Human’ Shannon gave me and read the first chapter on “Being Simple” and there it was! I forgot that I’m ‘processing’ the latest detachments from earlier that evening. After a magical and almost weightless experience in the glistening lights of Time Square I return ‘home’ and became heavy again. I knew it was time to go into the dark caves of my psyche, which needs to hold on to things to sustain its existence, and purge yet again. I opened the wings of my Osprey backpack and pulled out all they held. Knowing that I chosen to have only ONE bag. That meant that two had to go. I began by making two piles, what I needed, and what I could live without. I dug deep and pulled open three small space bags. Each one took a deep inhale as if holding its breathe and I did the same and rescued the wrinkled clothes as I heard mom’s inquiry, “You really need that many tops?” as I split them between the two piles.
In my defense, I have no idea how to live this new existence, as I ignored mum’s warnings and shoved them tightly into my bag the night before I left. It took me to haul all this to NYC to come to realize that all I clung to was helping me cling to the past or better yet, what I knew of life up until to now. I could just hear my ego crying out, “ If you don’t have that Ado(red) tank top how will people know that you’re one of those ‘socially conscious individual’ who pays $29 for a cotton tank to show you care?” As the discard pile got taller I realized that I was purging what made me who I was to the external world and I felt my own wings expand revealing more of who I am internally. I thought I was as liberated as I could be, yet now I know I can go deeper, bringing light to those dark corners of my mind while opening my soul!
I realize I’ve been listening to “Psalm 23” over and over again as I journal, not just this time but while I’ve written every entry since I started my “road to India” journaling. I don’t feel like I’m walking through the ‘valley of the shadow of death’ but some darkness, yes, certainly. I am comforted by the fact that I am “God’s forever.”
Another quote from my journal:
“I travel a lot; I hate having my life disrupted by routine.” – Caskie Stinnett
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Day 2: Road to India - Bronx, NY, USA - part 2
November 14, 2009
What's left of my worldly possessions is still too much! They are still heavy on my back and now I realize they are too heavy on my mind and my attention. I don't want to have to focus on what I have and what I must carry to the next place. I realize my holding on to that extra weight represents the debris left exposed after the initial purging and detachment. Oh what fun, I get to dig deeper and excavate more of what I haven't dealt with. I welcome it! The Spring-cleaning of my heart and soul of all that impedes it is a process I could embrace.
I only hope that after it's done I'll have at least one pair of shoes, some undies, a shirt and a pair a comfortable jeans. I don't see myself as someone who would shed all her clothes, cover my body with ash and sit by the road chanting and giving blessings to the occasional passer-by. What I'm sure of is that there's more detachment for me to do.
What's left of my worldly possessions is still too much! They are still heavy on my back and now I realize they are too heavy on my mind and my attention. I don't want to have to focus on what I have and what I must carry to the next place. I realize my holding on to that extra weight represents the debris left exposed after the initial purging and detachment. Oh what fun, I get to dig deeper and excavate more of what I haven't dealt with. I welcome it! The Spring-cleaning of my heart and soul of all that impedes it is a process I could embrace.
I only hope that after it's done I'll have at least one pair of shoes, some undies, a shirt and a pair a comfortable jeans. I don't see myself as someone who would shed all her clothes, cover my body with ash and sit by the road chanting and giving blessings to the occasional passer-by. What I'm sure of is that there's more detachment for me to do.
Day 2: Road to India (Bronx, NY, USA)
November 14, 2009
I woke with some sinus pressure which I released pretty quickly with a couple of tylenols and applying pressure to my sinus bones with my index fingers. I got up at 6:44 am to do the usual pee, tea and a quick sort out of what I'm purging today. My bags are just too heavy!
I'm at my new friend, Carries' apartment in the Bronx. It's beautifully basic, without a hint of pretension. I love its simplicity. Carrie is a rising star, it even says so in the bathroom on a handwritten affirmation taped to the mirror. It's a small, well situated one bedroom minus adequate closet space that found typical of NYC apartments. (An alarm sounds that I first think is the alarm of a huge truck backing up on the narrow street just outside, but realize that it's coming from the bedroom. It continues for a long minute which tells me I didn't need to do the tip-toeing I did while putting the kettle on for tea. I clanged a few cups together and thought "eeekkk I'm going to wake my gracious hostess from her slumber!" I realize now that she, like me in my 20s, would wake if a mac truck plowed right through the middle of my home.
The first cupboard I opened was where I would have put mugs if I had lived her. Bingo, right in front was an obvious favorite, with the smaller mugs to the back. You know those ones that feel somewhat awkward in the hand, but this one is yellow (the fung shui color of health) it's round with a perfect handle to slide 3 of 4 fingers into while holding the mug with the left for the occasional hand-warming on a NY winter morning.
(The alarm sounds again for the third time.) back to the simplicity of my temporary resting place. The walls are landlord-white and somewhat bare except for the few chromed famed posters having something to do with plays, actors and the awards they when. There's a lanyard hanging with my host's full name printed about the title "actor". The TV is small and just barely holds the cable box perched on top. It sits on a box draped with a gold silk curtain or table cloth and in front of that is my backpack, carry-on bag-now only half full after a quick purge as my tea brews-and my laptop bag. A book shelf made of light wood holds books about enlightenment and screenwriting, a box labeled "Playbills" and two Absolute bottles collecting pennies.
I love this place, it's functional nature is so honest! There's a purity here, no place to hide oneself, an authenticity that makes it a welcomed home that sincerely says, "come as you are!" I look forward to getting to know my generous host more over the next two and half days. Being in this place reminds me of what Rumi said, "Wherever you are, be the soul of the place" and that's what and who I'll be. I go to London in a few days. yet the riddle I've taught my niece, Ava, comes to mind, "What time is it? and Where are you?" allowing her to use only one word for each answer, "Now & Here", and if not I am no where.
I woke with some sinus pressure which I released pretty quickly with a couple of tylenols and applying pressure to my sinus bones with my index fingers. I got up at 6:44 am to do the usual pee, tea and a quick sort out of what I'm purging today. My bags are just too heavy!
I'm at my new friend, Carries' apartment in the Bronx. It's beautifully basic, without a hint of pretension. I love its simplicity. Carrie is a rising star, it even says so in the bathroom on a handwritten affirmation taped to the mirror. It's a small, well situated one bedroom minus adequate closet space that found typical of NYC apartments. (An alarm sounds that I first think is the alarm of a huge truck backing up on the narrow street just outside, but realize that it's coming from the bedroom. It continues for a long minute which tells me I didn't need to do the tip-toeing I did while putting the kettle on for tea. I clanged a few cups together and thought "eeekkk I'm going to wake my gracious hostess from her slumber!" I realize now that she, like me in my 20s, would wake if a mac truck plowed right through the middle of my home.
The first cupboard I opened was where I would have put mugs if I had lived her. Bingo, right in front was an obvious favorite, with the smaller mugs to the back. You know those ones that feel somewhat awkward in the hand, but this one is yellow (the fung shui color of health) it's round with a perfect handle to slide 3 of 4 fingers into while holding the mug with the left for the occasional hand-warming on a NY winter morning.
(The alarm sounds again for the third time.) back to the simplicity of my temporary resting place. The walls are landlord-white and somewhat bare except for the few chromed famed posters having something to do with plays, actors and the awards they when. There's a lanyard hanging with my host's full name printed about the title "actor". The TV is small and just barely holds the cable box perched on top. It sits on a box draped with a gold silk curtain or table cloth and in front of that is my backpack, carry-on bag-now only half full after a quick purge as my tea brews-and my laptop bag. A book shelf made of light wood holds books about enlightenment and screenwriting, a box labeled "Playbills" and two Absolute bottles collecting pennies.
I love this place, it's functional nature is so honest! There's a purity here, no place to hide oneself, an authenticity that makes it a welcomed home that sincerely says, "come as you are!" I look forward to getting to know my generous host more over the next two and half days. Being in this place reminds me of what Rumi said, "Wherever you are, be the soul of the place" and that's what and who I'll be. I go to London in a few days. yet the riddle I've taught my niece, Ava, comes to mind, "What time is it? and Where are you?" allowing her to use only one word for each answer, "Now & Here", and if not I am no where.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Day 1: The Road to India (Riverside, CA, USA)
November 13, 2009
1:41 am - Today began by being awakened by my mum going to the restroom. She came back to bed to fall asleep almost immediately. I was glad because, as she reported yesterday, she was 'exhausted'. I laid there in the bed I have shared with my beloved mother on and off for two months, a pattern broken only by a week or two of housesitting for my sister and brother-in-law, caring for their large house and their small dog, Noka, allow them to travel worry-free. I digress.
I laid there listening to Ash purr on my right (a cat I've come to affectionately love from merely tolerating a few short months ago) and mom on my left doing her own kind of purring as each exhale is pushed through closed lips making a kind of puffing sound. A sound that my sister just admitted that she recently woke up doing that same puffing-snore. "Mirror, mirror on the wall, I am my mother after all." Not such a bad plight I think.
I laid there a bit more and reached for mom's hand and held it while I said a silent prayer that she would be able to find herself-her true self as she examines her life. This after confessing that she has somehow gotten lost in the lives of others. Who is she beyond the mother of Tracy and Yvonne, or Gigi to Ava, Haylee, Paige and the new baby on its way? I believe this is an exciting time for her as well.
I let go of her hand and sat up disturbing Ash only slightly as he resettled on my now vacant pillow. I pulled the bedroom door closed enough to prevent the light in the kitchen from seeping into the bedroom as I put the kettle on for tea. I switched on the lamp aside the sofa to begin this journal entry. I poured some water into a small glass and dropped an Airborne tablet into it thinking that it would would keep my immune strong as I get weak from rising so very early.
When I first got up and begin switching on the lights I crabbed my Kindle (a gift from my new yet life-long friend, Sue) thinking I would read, but the call of the crisp pages of this new journal (another gift from my beloved friend, Ester) was calling to me much louder. I wasn't going to take this journal with me due to the added weight it would give to my already heavy bags. But the thought of re-gifting it (probably to mom as much of what I choosing to leave behind is going to her) just didn't seem--not 'right' so much as the desire to have a wonderful connector to such an adored friend as she. I also picked up mom's guestbook that was laid open last Sunday at the potluck, farewell birthday party for me. I want to pull out the pages that hold the precious sentiments of my loved ones and take them with me, but that too doesn't make sense after purging a third of what I thought would fit in my 28" Osprey backpack (man, am I relieved it has wheels!) I will soon come to learn that if truth be known I'll only need a third of what's in it now. What I find profound is that the last entry in the guestbook was penned by my own hand nine years and two days ago, which reads, "Saying it is one thing, but living it is something else entirely. I wish this new [Shirley Valentine] group will empower us all to fulfill our potential!" I find that to be more than a coincidence and feel certain that I am moving closer and closer to fulfilling my own potential. I thumbed through the eight pages that contain the most encouraging words ever bestowed on me. (I almost wrote 'ever given' then an ever so brief argument with my ego which accused me of using 'bestowed' to impress. It lost the battle as I retorted "word of this nature are not given! They can only be 'bestowed' because they are said based on the way the recipient is 'being'." This is what is so humbling about what has been written on those pages. It's proof that I made it out of the cocoon and I'm ready to fly. I replaced the copy of the invitation to the party in between the pages for safe-keeping and as I closed the book I felt a sense of responsibility to fulfill the wishes of the authors of those words.
I'm so enjoying my second to last cup of tea (2nd to last considering we won't leave for Yvonne's for our drive to the airport of another six hours and anticipate having another). This one is perfectly sweetened with just the right amount of creamer for the long brew I gave it.
--This journal has inspiring quotes written on every forth page. The two that accompany this post are;
"Adventure is worthwhile." Amelia Earhart
and
"Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." Ralph Waldo Emerson
1:41 am - Today began by being awakened by my mum going to the restroom. She came back to bed to fall asleep almost immediately. I was glad because, as she reported yesterday, she was 'exhausted'. I laid there in the bed I have shared with my beloved mother on and off for two months, a pattern broken only by a week or two of housesitting for my sister and brother-in-law, caring for their large house and their small dog, Noka, allow them to travel worry-free. I digress.
I laid there listening to Ash purr on my right (a cat I've come to affectionately love from merely tolerating a few short months ago) and mom on my left doing her own kind of purring as each exhale is pushed through closed lips making a kind of puffing sound. A sound that my sister just admitted that she recently woke up doing that same puffing-snore. "Mirror, mirror on the wall, I am my mother after all." Not such a bad plight I think.
I laid there a bit more and reached for mom's hand and held it while I said a silent prayer that she would be able to find herself-her true self as she examines her life. This after confessing that she has somehow gotten lost in the lives of others. Who is she beyond the mother of Tracy and Yvonne, or Gigi to Ava, Haylee, Paige and the new baby on its way? I believe this is an exciting time for her as well.
I let go of her hand and sat up disturbing Ash only slightly as he resettled on my now vacant pillow. I pulled the bedroom door closed enough to prevent the light in the kitchen from seeping into the bedroom as I put the kettle on for tea. I switched on the lamp aside the sofa to begin this journal entry. I poured some water into a small glass and dropped an Airborne tablet into it thinking that it would would keep my immune strong as I get weak from rising so very early.
When I first got up and begin switching on the lights I crabbed my Kindle (a gift from my new yet life-long friend, Sue) thinking I would read, but the call of the crisp pages of this new journal (another gift from my beloved friend, Ester) was calling to me much louder. I wasn't going to take this journal with me due to the added weight it would give to my already heavy bags. But the thought of re-gifting it (probably to mom as much of what I choosing to leave behind is going to her) just didn't seem--not 'right' so much as the desire to have a wonderful connector to such an adored friend as she. I also picked up mom's guestbook that was laid open last Sunday at the potluck, farewell birthday party for me. I want to pull out the pages that hold the precious sentiments of my loved ones and take them with me, but that too doesn't make sense after purging a third of what I thought would fit in my 28" Osprey backpack (man, am I relieved it has wheels!) I will soon come to learn that if truth be known I'll only need a third of what's in it now. What I find profound is that the last entry in the guestbook was penned by my own hand nine years and two days ago, which reads, "Saying it is one thing, but living it is something else entirely. I wish this new [Shirley Valentine] group will empower us all to fulfill our potential!" I find that to be more than a coincidence and feel certain that I am moving closer and closer to fulfilling my own potential. I thumbed through the eight pages that contain the most encouraging words ever bestowed on me. (I almost wrote 'ever given' then an ever so brief argument with my ego which accused me of using 'bestowed' to impress. It lost the battle as I retorted "word of this nature are not given! They can only be 'bestowed' because they are said based on the way the recipient is 'being'." This is what is so humbling about what has been written on those pages. It's proof that I made it out of the cocoon and I'm ready to fly. I replaced the copy of the invitation to the party in between the pages for safe-keeping and as I closed the book I felt a sense of responsibility to fulfill the wishes of the authors of those words.
I'm so enjoying my second to last cup of tea (2nd to last considering we won't leave for Yvonne's for our drive to the airport of another six hours and anticipate having another). This one is perfectly sweetened with just the right amount of creamer for the long brew I gave it.
--This journal has inspiring quotes written on every forth page. The two that accompany this post are;
"Adventure is worthwhile." Amelia Earhart
and
"Do not go where the path may lead; go instead where there is no path and leave a trail." Ralph Waldo Emerson
Day 0: "Disclaimer"
Notice:
I use to blog to attract new coaching clients and in general to impress others. I detach from the need to impress you or anyone else that reads this blog. This blog is a personal undressing of my life. Anyone who reads it will be merely voyeurs peering through the window to witness the exposure of my soul.
I welcome your comments but I do not rely on them to gage the value of my life or my journey. It may sound harsh but there it is. you get to deal with that as I deal with the dismantling of my past to leave it just there, in the past.
I use to blog to attract new coaching clients and in general to impress others. I detach from the need to impress you or anyone else that reads this blog. This blog is a personal undressing of my life. Anyone who reads it will be merely voyeurs peering through the window to witness the exposure of my soul.
I welcome your comments but I do not rely on them to gage the value of my life or my journey. It may sound harsh but there it is. you get to deal with that as I deal with the dismantling of my past to leave it just there, in the past.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
What is silence?
What is silence? It’s not the quiet you find in any location because pretty much wherever you are there will be a barking dog, a meowing cat and always bird song or the chirp or a cricket, and if there is none of that you’ll always have the chatter of the mind making comments like, “isn’t this peaceful” or “you know you should be going.”
I think silence just might be not a where but a when. Silence is when we embrace the un-embracable. When we are in full cooperation of whatever sounds or thoughts we hear. Silence can only be experienced when one is in harmony with the dogs, cats, birds or the constant chipping of the mind. There’s nothing more peaceful than the silent created by the unconditional acceptance of the whole world before us, no matter if it’s dressed in its coat or war or a saffron robe.
This is my world just as it is right now, in the whine of the freeway, the clang of a teacup placed not so gently on the glass patio tabletop. Silence is the yellow-orange juice seeping out of frozen mango squares into the bottom of the bowl—can you hear it? It’s varied and distant bird song and the constant hum of the vibration of my physical body reminding me I’m an energy being adding my harmonic instrument to the universal orchestra of life.
I think silence just might be not a where but a when. Silence is when we embrace the un-embracable. When we are in full cooperation of whatever sounds or thoughts we hear. Silence can only be experienced when one is in harmony with the dogs, cats, birds or the constant chipping of the mind. There’s nothing more peaceful than the silent created by the unconditional acceptance of the whole world before us, no matter if it’s dressed in its coat or war or a saffron robe.
This is my world just as it is right now, in the whine of the freeway, the clang of a teacup placed not so gently on the glass patio tabletop. Silence is the yellow-orange juice seeping out of frozen mango squares into the bottom of the bowl—can you hear it? It’s varied and distant bird song and the constant hum of the vibration of my physical body reminding me I’m an energy being adding my harmonic instrument to the universal orchestra of life.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Has the view ever made you cry?
In the movie Last Holiday, Queen Latifah plays Georgia Byrd. There’s a scene in which Georgia is checking into a five star hotel in the French Alps. She’s standing at the front desk and looks up at the ceiling and finds herself in awe of the beauty overhead. She turns to the desk clerk and asks, “Does that ceiling ever make you want to cry?” The desk clerk replies without looking up, “I’ve never really noticed.”
How much beauty has always been around you that you’ve simply been unaware of until someone comes to visit and pauses to give it the reverence it deserves? How many people, places, or events have gone by that you took for granted? I lived in three apartments in San Francisco over a period of 13 years and each one was better than the last and what I know is that I created my home improvement circumstances with my focus and faith.
The first place was just outside the City itself and it had a view of a lush wooded area. My ultimate goal was a view of one of San Francisco’s bridges. What I did each day—sometimes twice a day—was stand at the window looking into the wooded area and say ‘thank you’ and admire the beauty and fresh smell of pine just there outside my window. I had a goal of living someplace in the city limits within two years. I would go into the City and walk the downtown streets confidently looking for my new address. I was walking around Nob Hill on Leavenworth Street with a friend and stopped and said, “I like this building. I think I’ll live here next!” He laughed at me with an almost dismissive tone as he walked on. I laughed too, but my laughter was in thanksgiving for my future home. I lived in the apartment by the woods for only 18 months when I moved into my new studio flat on Leavenworth Street, which was only one building South of the one I stopped at four months earlier.
My Leavenworth flat didn’t have a view of a bridge, yet it had a charm I couldn't help be grateful for. Mind you, I didn’t give up my dream of having a view of a San Francisco bridge. Yet, each time I would arrive home I’d take my shoes off and slide around on the wood floors in my socks and do a sort of Risky Business-type dance in gratitude. I spoke appreciation to my little flat daily as I described the many reasons I loved being there. The flat became a meeting place for spiritual groups and soon it was considered New Thought Central. At times my 400 square foot studio, with my queen-sized bed in the walk-in closet for more space, held as many as 15 people discussing ways of achieving higher consciousness. They might have taken the elevator up four flights to get to me but their departing journey surely took longer.
One lady that frequented our group was being called home to New York City and wasn’t sure she’d even return to San Francisco but planned to sublet her place in the Marina District until she felt sure the relocation was permanent. She had placed ads and told everyone of her desire for a sublet—except for me. She had become discouraged and she told me about her dilemma as I drove her home after one of our Course in Miracles meetings. Once she realized she hadn’t told me she invited me in to see if I’d be interested. I walked up the three flights of stairs behind her thinking where’s the elevator? I remember entering as I scanned my brain for people who where looking for an apartment. I rounded the bedroom door and crossed the room and stopped at the window. I saw lights sparkling in the night and asked her, “Is that the Golden Gate Bridge?” One month later I was living there paying the same as I did for my studio downtown. Yet this time I spent reverent mornings at the window with a hot cup of tea, watching San Francisco's moody weather reveal and conceal the golden-orange bridge. Many times I’d look out and at the view and shed tears of joy and appreciation.
How much beauty has always been around you that you’ve simply been unaware of until someone comes to visit and pauses to give it the reverence it deserves? How many people, places, or events have gone by that you took for granted? I lived in three apartments in San Francisco over a period of 13 years and each one was better than the last and what I know is that I created my home improvement circumstances with my focus and faith.
The first place was just outside the City itself and it had a view of a lush wooded area. My ultimate goal was a view of one of San Francisco’s bridges. What I did each day—sometimes twice a day—was stand at the window looking into the wooded area and say ‘thank you’ and admire the beauty and fresh smell of pine just there outside my window. I had a goal of living someplace in the city limits within two years. I would go into the City and walk the downtown streets confidently looking for my new address. I was walking around Nob Hill on Leavenworth Street with a friend and stopped and said, “I like this building. I think I’ll live here next!” He laughed at me with an almost dismissive tone as he walked on. I laughed too, but my laughter was in thanksgiving for my future home. I lived in the apartment by the woods for only 18 months when I moved into my new studio flat on Leavenworth Street, which was only one building South of the one I stopped at four months earlier.
My Leavenworth flat didn’t have a view of a bridge, yet it had a charm I couldn't help be grateful for. Mind you, I didn’t give up my dream of having a view of a San Francisco bridge. Yet, each time I would arrive home I’d take my shoes off and slide around on the wood floors in my socks and do a sort of Risky Business-type dance in gratitude. I spoke appreciation to my little flat daily as I described the many reasons I loved being there. The flat became a meeting place for spiritual groups and soon it was considered New Thought Central. At times my 400 square foot studio, with my queen-sized bed in the walk-in closet for more space, held as many as 15 people discussing ways of achieving higher consciousness. They might have taken the elevator up four flights to get to me but their departing journey surely took longer.
One lady that frequented our group was being called home to New York City and wasn’t sure she’d even return to San Francisco but planned to sublet her place in the Marina District until she felt sure the relocation was permanent. She had placed ads and told everyone of her desire for a sublet—except for me. She had become discouraged and she told me about her dilemma as I drove her home after one of our Course in Miracles meetings. Once she realized she hadn’t told me she invited me in to see if I’d be interested. I walked up the three flights of stairs behind her thinking where’s the elevator? I remember entering as I scanned my brain for people who where looking for an apartment. I rounded the bedroom door and crossed the room and stopped at the window. I saw lights sparkling in the night and asked her, “Is that the Golden Gate Bridge?” One month later I was living there paying the same as I did for my studio downtown. Yet this time I spent reverent mornings at the window with a hot cup of tea, watching San Francisco's moody weather reveal and conceal the golden-orange bridge. Many times I’d look out and at the view and shed tears of joy and appreciation.
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