Shanti, Mrs. Whatsit, and the opposite of despair

Students’ morning prayer, in Jalgaon.

At the end of many prayers in which I participate here, I hear and sing, or chant, “shanti, shanti, shanti.” “Peace, peace, peace.” May there be peace in this place, peace for those who hear the bells, peace for our community, peace for the world.

I am always reminded of the prayer of St. Julian of Norwich, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well.”

How do I pray such a thing, in the midst of poverty, inequalities in education, and stories of female feticide, rapes, and murders of women?

How do I pray that, on a smaller scale, when I am still hurt, jaded, and cynical from my classroom teaching experiences? When I cannot say for certain that the schools in which I taught could ever be truly a “safe space”?

And yet, what kind of teacher—or human, or Christian—am I if I give up hope? Sr. Carla Mae once told me that the opposite of faith is not doubt; the opposite of faith is despair.

For the last few months, I’ve been thinking about what happens when teachers “burn out.” I wrote a paper for my multi-religious contemplative capacities course entitled, “Ahimsa Practices for Tramautized/Tramautizing Teachers: How to Restore Peace-full Teaching.” In these three weeks, I’ve been listening carefully to the stories of teachers, and attending to what the schools here feel like. Do the teachers have warmth and regard for their students, or contempt and disdain? Are students energized and joyful, or reciting rote and fearful?

What meditative or restorative practices can heal teachers who work in circumstances where systematic injustices and dehumanizing bureaucracies discourage voice (read: vocation)?

We live in a world where peace feels frequently elusive, impossible, a nice quote to pin on an inspiration board before returning to sarcasm, individual competitiveness, black-and-white thinking, and practices that leave us feeling increasingly dead inside. Gandhi and the Reverend King are heroes, far removed from the kind of daily injustices we face. Unless our voices touch millions, we fear, it’s unlikely for us to see peace—or justice—in our lifetimes.

***

I had a long conversation with Prof. P. last week. Last year, I attended part of the funeral of his father. Twenty days before his father died unexpectedly, his teenaged nephew drowned. It was a hard summer for his family.

We sat together on a porch in Jalgaon, overlooking green hills and orchards. I told him that I had held his family in my prayers all year, and asked how they were.

Prof. P. mentioned how devout his sister-in-law is, how ordinary and good the lives of his families are, how the thousands drowned in sudden floods were at worship. And yet, he pointed out, thieves and looters live and thrive. We were talking about the problem of theodicy. Both of us used the phrase, “…in this life.” As in, “We just can’t understand the purpose of such loss, in this life.” Or, “…there are different kinds of karma, that we can’t understand, and it doesn’t make sense, the way things happen, in this life.”

I recited again a quote that is dear to me, from the Reverend King: “…the arc of justice is long, but it bends toward mercy.”

Jain cosmology, with its radically different sense of time, reminds me again and again that my mind is finite. The universe, and God, are infinite. Maybe I will be blessed with a few golden glimmers of Truth, of Possibility, where I understand, for one goosebumpy and numinous moment—the bending.

***

Remember how in A Wrinkle in Time, Charles Wallace thinks he faces evil alone—a quick path to despair.

Mrs. Whatsit shares with him a glimpse of our planet Earth, seen from afar. A dark, pulsing cloud covers most of it. It is like a tumor, a living, present thing. Mrs. Whatsit and Mrs. Who reminds Charles Wallace and his friends that we are one of millions of those who work against the dark, who work knowing their tiny acts of light will not be overcome.

Charles Wallace is surprised; he didn’t realize this battle has been fought long before his particular pain. Mrs. Whatsit and Mrs. Who offer reminders; L’Engle writes:

‘And we’re not alone, you know, children.’ came Mrs. Whatsit, the comforter.

‘All through the universe it’s been fought, all through the cosmos, and my, but it’s a grand and exciting battle. I know it’s hard for you to understand about size, but there’s very little difference in the size of the tiniest microbe and the greatest galaxy. You think about that, and maybe it won’t seem strange to you that some of our very best fighters have come right from your own planet, and it’s a little planet, dears, out on the edge of a little galaxy. You can be proud that it’s done so well.’

‘Who have our fighters been?’ Calvin asked.

‘Oh, you must know them, dear,’ Mrs. Whatsit said.

Mrs. Who’s spectacles shone out at them triumphantly. “And a light shineth in darkness; and the darkness comprehended it not.”

‘Jesus!’ Charles Wallace said. ‘Why of course, Jesus!’

‘Of course!’ Mrs. Whatsit said. ‘Go on, Charles, love. There were others. All your great artists. They’ve been lights for us to see by.’

‘Leonardo da Vinci?’ Calvin suggested tentatively. ‘And Michelangelo?’

‘And Shakespeare,’ Charles Wallace called out, ‘and Bach! And Pasteur and Madame Curie and Einstein!’

Now Calvin’s voice rang with confidence. ‘And Schweitzer and Gandhi and Buddha and Beethoven and Rembrandt and St. Francis!’ (65-66).

The mundane, daily, and systematic examples of injustice work to make us think that our impulses toward community, toward collaboration, and toward life-affirming action are silly, wrong-headed, and bound to fail.

As children of God, we are made to be light-carriers. If we tend to our spiritual selves and work in communities that can help us identify and remember our calling, we are better equipped to work against despair.

***

Practicing mindfulness may seem a selfish, tiny act—how is cultivating gratitude going to help my students in their poverty and hunger? And yet, we find that over time, the cultivation of a new kind of flexibility in the mind prepares us to be prepared and willing.

From childhood—ourselves threatened and made afraid from nursery school—we have been raised up in a posture of fear and despair. We forget so quickly our true potential. Even understanding that the history upon which we build assumptions may be faulty can change the position of our posture.

In Engaging the Powers, Walter Wink writes, “Learning the history of nonviolence is another way of rehearsing it. Furthermore, our ability to act may depend every bit on our knowledge of nonviolent methods and spirituality as on our fortitude” (300).

If I had to teach again, in such a situation, and I pray I will, I will do the following to begin with. I would teach the history of nonviolence, including the history and voices of those in the American Civil Rights Struggle and for every nation represented by my students. For my own good, as for theirs. I would commit to never using sarcasm, ridicule, or threats with my students—and would be forthright with them why I make this choice, and why it is difficult. I would share this challenge with my teaching peers.

I know from experience that when I have been honest with my students—in joy and humor, and in tricky times, admitting when things are hard and “right answers” far and few between, the energy in the room is one of deep community and connection. I didn’t know that when I engage with young people from my centeredness as a child of God, I am tugging a bit at the veil of despair that conceals our true natures that will help, one day, to upend it forever.

***

I pray that I will always have hope, and a healthy, noisy, thriving hope that fills my blood with oxygen and keeps me sharp and eager to work. I pray that I can grow in practices that help me see light, help me recognize peace when I see it, and keep me mindful of that arc of justice, ever ending toward the light.

All will be well. We are made for more than competition, poverty, sarcasm, and hopelessness. We are made to be in relationship, to heal one another, broken shard to broken shard, small light to small light.

It’s a good thing to recite “Peace, peace, peace,” many times a day. To take time to sharpen my eyes in looking for it, to reminding myself to not abandon it. I do believe that all will be well, and all shall be well.

I’m not sure how peace will come about, and in what forms it will take, but I trust that arc of justice, bending long to justice. I can see it and feel it, and I will not despair.

***

Portions of this reflection got their start in a paper I wrote for class in 2011, called, “Lights for Us to See By: A Critical Review of Engaging the Powers.”

Rocks, ritual

I had e-mailed with some of them beforehand, or answered questions on Facebook. But really, they were strangers—13 other women, mostly from the US, mostly schoolteachers.

I had returned to Delhi on the night train from Varanasi; most of the scholars from the six week program had departed or were in the process of departing. In charge of this last journey, I had gone back and forth between our four cars, checking and double checking that everyone had a seat, was settled, had dinner, had water, and was calm. I answered questions about lodging for the last night before they went to the airport. I answered questions about wifi, food, availability of ATMs, printing boarding passes, pick ups from the train station, and cost of auto-rickshaws. I mediated a few little conflicts, mostly cranky and tired nerves, and people weary of one another after six long weeks of travel and complicated academic research.

We said our farewells. One student was vomiting, sick. Another student had missed a flight due to visa problems. I kept problem-solving, sharing wipes, water, medicine, reassuring words, information.

The start of the teachers’ program: new people, new energy, new questions. Finally, an art teacher led us in a simple activity. We each chose a small rock. She had provided paintbrushes and acrylic paint. In silence, we were each to paint our rock, however we liked.

What a simple task. I don’t think I’ve done something so simple since I left home in May.

I looked at the colors, and chose white, pearl, bronze, dark copper, and pale pink. I painted my entire rock white, first, and then waited while it dried. I immediately found a flat side of the rock, and thought about ways to use that side, and whether I wanted to paint words, or a design, or another object.

It felt so good to paint! Everyone painted, including both Jain professors. The room was quiet for a long time. I loved seeing the pearlized surface of the rock once I used the pearl color, and then appreciated—my mouth watered—the sensation of laying down the paint with the wet curve of my cheap paintbrush.

It was so satisfying to see the surface of the rock change, to make my creative mark on it, to be left alone to work with pretty shades of paint, chosen only by me.

The rocks are radically different. One person painted a really great tiny portrait of a face, another did an elegant and minimal flower, following the grain of the marble in the rock. Some people used every primary colors, others used restraint. Each morning, we bring our rocks and place them on white cloth. At night, we take them back to our rooms with us.

Sometimes, I place my rock colored-side down so only the golden-pearl side shows up. Sometimes, I put my rock so it slightly touches my roommate’s. It’s such a tiny ritual, and it’s not very intellectual or complicated at all…and yet, it satisfies me.

One of the challenging things about travel is that we have so little of our familiar home routines. And actually, this can be transformative, as we practice the posture of hands open, ceding control.

It’s a kind of balance: I always decorate whatever room I’m staying in. I hang maps and make collages out of wrapping paper, newspapers, and mantra cards. I put up photographs, patterned paper, and letters above my bed. I hang scarves and put out objects, stacking my books under a make-shift paperweight. I like to walk into my room and see something home-like, something recognizable as “Stephanie’s room.”

And small rituals reassure us. It’s interesting that something as elemental as rocks, paint, silence, and routine (carrying home, carrying back) can provide a touchstone for the group, a marked beginning and a little melody to carry us through the day.

My rock, with the pearl coat drying.

 

Disequilibrium and delight

At the train station; in addition to the packed lower class cars, young men climb up top.

Throughout my work in education and inter-religious dialogue, I refer to Piaget’s idea of “disequilbrium.” The uncertain, nerve-wracking, unpleasant feeling that happens when we encounter something new in the world.

I think my knowledge is intact, I encounter something previously unknown, and things shift for me…eventually, I am able to incorporate my new understanding, and then I have learned it. We cannot learn without disequilibrium.

India is a place par excellence for experiencing disequilibrium. And yet, I also experience so many moment so grace, or delight, or unexpected pleasure. Some examples:

Moments of disequilibrium:

• Eating the same brown chipati and cooked vegetables at every meal
• Wanting to stick to a time schedule, but things running too long, later, or not happening at all
• Sitting on my bed and watching a woman clean my floor by hand, crouched constantly, wiping every bit of the surface
• Being stared at, hearing “hello, hello,” by vendors and touts who want to get my attention, being photographed with or without my permission
• Haggling: the weary, constant pressure of not knowing if I’m paying too much, compounded by the guilt that I could probably may more than they ask
• Having access to places poor Indians or other women are not allowed, given my status as a white, Western woman
• Not having any control over where or when or what I eat
• Attending very long lectures with no discussion, not the educational style that is common for me
• Communicating with the few Hindi words I’ve used, and few English words a driver or cook (for example) know, and feeling exhausted, unsure, and frustrated all at once
• Riding in a bicycle rickshaw: feeling too heavy, guilty as we go up hills, a deep and panicked guilt that another human is sweating and straining to carry my weight—and yet, he eagerly sought out my business, and is happy to receive my fare
• When I buy a votive from a little boy on the ghats, and a little girl of age seven, also selling votives, says to me accusingly (and correctly), “Oh buying from the boy but not the girl! That is not right!”
• Hearing of progressive campaigns in the north that work to educate families that “Two girls equal one boy”
• Feeling guilty when I throw trash on the street at the train station, but I don’t feel guilty when I throw larger amounts of garbage away in the US because I don’t see it
• Begging: being told that we shouldn’t give money to child beggars, but they touch my hand and follow me when I avoid looking at them
• Hearing that the woman who cleans my room has had to remove her daughter from school because she can no longer afford tuition; yearly tuition is $200 US
• The washerman won’t wash my underwear; he will wash men’s underwear only
• I am restricted from visiting temples if I’m on my period
• Sour yogurt drink: I don’t like it, but people seem happy and eager to give it to me, so I drink it
• The bird hospital: I don’t see the point of keeping dying and injured birds (mostly pigeons) alive and feeding them
• Educational style: I feel torn between wanting to give advice on how things could be “corrected” (ie, made more Western) and learning to get along in a new style
• I don’t like taking off my shoes to go into the dining room and eat. I hate the feeling of food and dirt on my feet as I stand in line to get food.
• Non-Western toilets, especially on the train

The Jaipur chef preparing golgappa for us. I was definitely unsure about eating these, especially after he dips them by hand into spicy water…but they are delicious and I can eat ten at a time.

Moments of delight:

• Finding food I like, complimenting the cook, and he remembers that I like it and makes it again
• Coming across a wedding procession
• Talking to children about their school, showing them pictures of my family and home, sharing songs
• Fresh mangoes that have been chilled all afternoon
• Clean sheets on the train, falling asleep and sleeping soundly on an overnight train
• Strangers anticipating my question or need for directions, and helping me
• The reverence for books: the highly cared-for libraries, with old texts behind lock and key, the solemnity with which the librarians let me take out individual books
• Being welcomed into worship at the temple every time I go, getting to anoint the statues, placing fruit, singing, clapping, and praying
• Looking at children’s work and art in schools
• Feeling grateful for my healthy body
• Feeling grateful for my education and opportunities
• Feeling inspired to teach and learn
• Having a shop-keeper move heaven and earth to find me a container of peanut butter
• Experiencing Bollywood movies
• Following Gandhi’s footsteps at the place of his martyrdom
• Meeting teachers in their 70s and 80s who still have a deep passion for teaching peace and justice
• Singing old gospel songs along with table and saringi

When I look at this list, the moments of discomfort seem small, individually, but being so long in a strange place—they all add up. They all work together to remind me, constantly, that I am [not yet?] at home here. I can encounter something completely unexpected at any given moment, and so must maintain a posture of possibility.

And, it’s this openness to possibility, paradoxically, that leads to many of the things that delight me. A willingness to try to keep talking, or to sing, or to dance, or to sit down and talk to children. To try yet another new food. To get on the train, the boat, the rickshaw, without knowing where it goes next.

One of my professors wrote a book about social activism; she posits that those who spend a great deal of time outside of their own country become fundamentally changed. This change informs the way they work for justice. I pray that I will not lose my willingness to try new things; basically, I hope that each day, I am conscious enough of delight to live through the disequilibrium.

Pilgrim feet?

Flirting with the unknown

 

“Travel flirts with the unknown—that’s why we do it. There are a lot of responses to the unfamiliar. Fear is only one of them: there’s also resistance, denial, delight, hope, attention.

 

Tourists respond to the unknown by consuming it, whether by purchasing artifacts or doing ghost walks or buying postcards. Pilgrims respond to the unknown by simply being there.” –Martha Stortz, The Progress of Pilgrimage

First of all, I love postcards. Even when I was having worship-full moments at the cave churches in Turkey, I was now and then thinking, “I hope they have a postcard of this!”

I want to keep something, to hang on to it, to use it later for a gift card or tuck it into my hope chest. I want proof that I’ve been there, to see it on my refrigerator every morning as I get milk for my coffee, to say, “I was at a holy place and it was beautiful and I have lived in the world.”

I love the tangible, the physical, the keepsake. I want photos of my friends and loved ones. I got my ears pierced a second time the first week I was in Oxford—it was so dreamy, and crazy, and overwhelming. I wanted a spot to rub on my body to mark the occasion. Last year, I got my nose pierced during 48 hours alone in Varanasi. I felt floaty, like I wouldn’t remember what I had experienced (despite blogging, photographs, prayer beads, books) and I wanted that moment of nerves and [dirty] steel.

I’ve been thinking about pilgrimage these past few weeks, here in India. I’ve been trying to both help my classmates, and wondering about what helps someone have a good experience when traveling in a new place.

The idea of “pilgrim” is helping me frame this. I like to be in control. I don’t like days or trips where I don’t know what is going to happen. And yet, in India… one pilgrim suggests, “Prepare carefully, and then prepare to change all your plans.”

It’s hard to do this, especially when we carry with us our “stuff.” My stuff includes: I am [relatively] wealthy, I am used to getting my way, and I have agency. Like, if I’m sitting in a table I don’t like in a restaurant, I have the wherewithal and means to get a different seat. I can change apartments, wall color, beds, city in which I live. I can save up to by a car, or a scooter. I can take Spanish lessons, or scuba diving lessons. If I see it in a magazine, I can find it and purchase it. This is crazy—the amount of things I have access to and means to get.

And so, when I come to India, it feels like I don’t have agency anymore. Someone else makes my food choices, books my train tickets, creates the agenda for visits, lectures, holy time, and free days. This should be a gift, it could be. And yet, my habitual response is to think about ways I would do it differently, what I would like to do or eat [instead] and to chafe against all the unknown.

And yet, when I think about the holiest, most mind-blowing and blessed times of my life, they are often when I was not in charge. Moments sitting in the choir, in my home church, next to a dear friend…in prayer and song, being completely physically overcome.

Late, late nights with friends, when I had trusted them to choose the drive, choose the music, follow the conversation, and know that I was no longer judged—a bliss, a rest, a sensation all over my skin of belonging.

Of reading a book come recommended, that I didn’t know I would like, and finding a character who stays with me always, changing one way I see even myself.

Following a professor’s advice, following a new path along the river in Oxford, climbing the highest temple staircase…all against my first thought, and then arriving—like popping a particularly thick-skinned soap bubble—into a new understanding of my-self in the world.

I didn’t have control over any of those things. And yet, I wouldn’t be who I am without them. This is a strange tension—when to let go, when to try and steer.

I haven’t figured it out. The word “practice” gives me hope. Contemplative practice, teaching practice, “setting up a practice,” “practicing” yoga… I have some tools: I read. I take advice. I listen to old people, young people, dear friends—and try to connect all of the advice, and stories into something that helps me make sense of the world. I am willing to try, even if I make a fool of myself. I’ll try the new phrase, the new dance move, the daal.

As I said after I led the dancing for Mother Mataji this year, “It’s not that I’m a great dancer, but I make up for it in enthusiasm.”

***

I once had a therapist point out to me that, physiologically, anxiety/fear is the same sensation as excitement. Sometimes, when I’m feeling the adrenaline, I check in with myself. I say, “Is it possible you’re a little excited about this? Is it possible this is a good thing that part of you is eager for?”

That happens a lot in travel. I feel the nerves ringing, and check, “This is kind of scary. But is it possible this is also…delightful? Worth noticing, at least for a moment, before you run away?”

“Practicing pilgrimage.” This is what I’m thinking about, here in the rain near the Ganges. I’m covered by bug bites, and beginning to tire of mangoes. I would give Rs. 500 for a fresh, Golden Delicious apple.

I start to get impatient with my classmates. I think, “Just try it. Be grateful. Don’t be afraid!” And then I remember a time when I’ve burst into tears because the restaurant I had hoped about all week is closed and my plans have to change. I don’t like new things! I resist the unexpected. Maybe it’s part of our human-ness. Hence: practice.

The Jains believe that every living thing has a soul, and every soul is on its own path to omniscience. I’m not better than you, or better than a tree, because each of our souls is learning, striving, growing…on its own. Maybe you can offer me some tips, some compassion, some hints for enlightenment.

Like a honeycomb of musical practice rooms, all of us going over the tunes we’ve been assigned, stretching our fingers, correcting our posture, trying again. And again, practice.

And then, sometimes, it’s time for a recital. I put on my ball gown (true story) and nervously practice one more time before getting on the train. You bring a picnic, a bottle of wine, some Whitman to celebrate afterwards. We all gather, to listen to one another: an appreciative audience sometimes shepherds miracles.

Small children can fiddle circles around me, but I do my best. I am relieved, and excited; we are happy and feel invigorated, walking to the park afterwards, several conversations swirling around, about bravery, audiences, making mistakes, good teachers.

I want to practice pilgrimage because I’m greedy for those moments: invigorated, talking together, courage, mistakes, appreciating miracles.

Reluctance

One of the last days in Jaipur, several of the group wanted to do a tour of three Jain temples; we needed to send a staff person with them, and I was the only one available. Sigh. I didn’t want to go. I had seen the temples. I was tired of coordinating, of answering questions, talking to the driver, figuring out food and water… I wanted to stay in one place, get work done, and not sweat.

But of course, I was “happy” to go. Of course I want my colleagues to see these amazing temples, and besides: this is why I am here. I put on extra deodorant, baby-powdered my entire body, got two bottles of water and money for the driver, and headed out.

I once read a bit of CS Lewis where he talks about doing things one doesn’t want to do. He framed it beautifully, by first asking about one’s love for and commitment to God. He helps us imagine how we would rush to do any single thing for Jesus, if he only needed and asked. And I can imagine that–walking great distances to bring expensive perfume, or staying up all night in a garden. Of course I would do the very thing God asks me to do.

And then Lewis reminds us: What if the thing God asks you to do is this? To sit in class, for hour after hour, and study even when you hate the subject? To stay up with the baby, rocking and rocking, even when you are so, so tired? To listen for a little longer to the tiresome woman at coffee hour after church? To help your neighbor move, even though it’s hot outside and you’ve worked overtime every day this week.

I’ve often thought of this, in long lectures, long train trips, during stressful or tiresome conversations. I say, “This, this moment/chore/conversation/task: this is what I am asked to do, in this moment and on this day.” It helps me feel the whole picture–that all of the little things I do are connected to bigger things–and to remind me not to just do the brave/exciting/laudable things, but also to tend to the mundane.

So I called this to mind. I said, “Stephanie, this is the thing you need to do, today. This is the one thing you are here to do.”

It was a truly great day. At the first temple, on a huge hill overlooking the city, the rain clouds swept in. I sat on a bench and watched the green of the trees and the white marble turn bright and odd, as the gray storm light swept in. I knew my camera would never capture it, so I tried to tell my brain, “Remember, remember, remember.” The wind was cool and the leaves turned their backs.

By the time we got to the second temple, the rain had ended, but the air was cool and no one else was at the temple. We had it to ourselves. I wandered around, and found that alone, with the cool air, it was like entering a temple for the first time. I felt blessed and lucky to have access to such a holy place. With the sun hidden, the votives seemed more essential.

I found an empty part, either under construction or abandoned. A metal and stone dome covered the space. Either I was talking to myself, or praying out loud, because I realized the echo was fantastic.

And so, with no one around, I began to sing. Oh, it was the best acoustics I’ve ever experienced. If I held out a note long enough, and my voice was directed dead ahead, the echo would hold out the note long enough for me to harmonize with myself. I sang “Beulah Land,” an old hymn I always find near to mind.

When my grandmother died, my sister and I sang at her funeral. The night before, in my grandparents’ old farmhouse bedroom, we practiced. I had never really sung with my sister before, unless it was along to a radio or tape, or maybe in church. Her voice sounded like mine. Sitting next to her on the bed, I felt like our voices were the same–it was so strange, hearing two of the same voice.

I remembered that moment, and other times I’ve sung that hymn, as I sang there under the dome. I love that even when I am wrong-headed and stubborn, and reluctant to do something, I can still end up having an amazing experience.

By the time we got to the third temple, the light was changing again, for evening time. I had the rooftop to myself, and enjoyed peeking through the temple vimanas (towers) at the surrounding buildings.

I have sort of been taking for granted that I’m in India again. I’m distracted by logistics, by making sure things are going smoothly, with answering e-mails and preparing for the next group. And there are fewer surprises: I was expecting the smells, sounds, crowds, and heat. And yet, of course–this being India–delight and awe catch me up short, when I least deserve it.

“A thousand hugs,” and a hug

Yesterday, six of us left the Heritage Walk on our way to find the Wind Palace. We walked, through shops opening on Sunday morning, selling silver bowls, hammered food containers, shoes, fried food, statues of gods and goddesses, tee shirts, textiles, fabric, saris, and bangles.

When we thought we were close to the correct gate, but couldn’t find a sign or entry place, I asked a street vendor. Before the vendor could answer me, another man came up to tell us. He offered to take us to the gate, which I took to mean we would need either to pay him, or come to his shop, in return. I was relieved to see that we could actually see the gate from where we were standing, so we wouldn’t actually need to give him anything in return.

It turned out that he did need something from us. He said, “I need your help. I speak English, but I cannot write it. I want you to write a letter to a women in England.”

We agreed, and followed him. On the way to a quiet space with a place for me to sit and write, he got a newspaper so I’d have something clean to sit upon. We borrowed paper from one of my classmates, and as we all sat with him, he began to dictate a letter.

He asked me to write in block capitals; he intended afterwards to re-copy it in his own handwriting.

He dictated his love for Celia, how much he missed her, and how he looked forward to being together again. He asked her to send her flight information, so he could pick her up next month in Delhi. He asked our advice for any good phrases in English that would convey his love for her.

When I finished, he had me read it aloud, so he could hear how it all sounded together. How strange, to be reading aloud to some Celia, from a quiet alley in the Pink City.

Of course, nothing is uncomplicated in India. My effusiveness during the writing and re-reading of the letter must have given a wrong impression. There’s a reason we suggest to visiting students that they keep their distance from men, including male classmates, and avoid smiling at strangers.

When I finished reading, the man wanted to give me a hug; I accepted, and he tried, three times, to kiss me on the mouth. I avoided it by doing a double-cheek air kiss, and finally said, “Enough!” as my classmates also said, “Okay, okay, enough!”

I forget myself easily. And then, I am grateful that I live and work in a place—even with plenty of injustices, inequities, and difficult conditions for many women, nearly all of my experiences with men have been safe and positive. The encounters that have been unsafe, wrong, or frightening are in the minority, and no one would say they are my fault. Not that my effusiveness here brings anything that happens to me on myself. It’s difficult to try and parse out responsibility, physical safety, and cultural differences.

I don’t regret writing the letter. And I felt safe because I was surrounded by friends, male and female. But I again tell newcomers, as I will tell the teachers who arrive next month: be more modest, and more subdued, and less interactive, than you would normally be. Not because what might happen is related to anything we do or say, but because it’s hard enough to navigate many differences and misunderstood intentions without sending signals we may not understand.

Free gift with purchase

Speaking of cosmetics, this statue of Shiva, in an artisan’s workshop, is resplendent with eye make-up and lipstick. Even his toenails and fingernails are painted, and the snake detailed with gold glitter.

I love make-up. I love the little pots and brushes, the colors and textures. I have long loved the “makeover” sessions you can do with saleswomen in department stores. When I had my first play produced, I went to a Clinique counter in St. Louis and said I wanted my eyes to look like tropical butterflies, when I blinked, for opening night. Two of the women at the Clinique counter and I had such a good time, as I told them all about my play, choosing greens and purples. Other women stopped by to watch what they were doing to my eyes, and by the end, a whole crowd of us were excited to send me off to the opening night of my play.

It’s strange, these intimate encounters—a stranger’s hands next to your eyeballs. You can smell her breath and hairspray. She might tell you about a boyfriend she used to have, who went to your school. You might confide you’re nervous about something. A stranger walks by to compliment your eyelashes.

I’m always excited to explore beauty salons and fashion magazines in new places. For two years, I got my hair cut and highlighted in a little salon in the Bronx. Most of the other women were getting their hair relaxed and straightened. The first time I got my highlights, some sort of mistake happened, and four women came, peered underneath the foils into my hair in the sink, and had an argument in Spanish about how they should fix it. (I think; I don’t speak Spanish. My hair turned out okay, after much drama and consultation.) Very different from getting my hair cut on the Upper West Side; different music, presence or absence of children or significant others, of food brought in from the street, of how crowded/energetic the salon feels.

The second time I went to Haiti, my Mom came with me. She happened to bring along lots of shades of nail polish and make up. At first, I though, “Why in the world would you bring nail polish to an orphanage in Haiti?” The orphanage, in addition to having [somewhat] trained teacher and director, also employs several women to feed and clean the children, and take care of the facilities.  I don’t know how they made the connection, but the ladies and my mother had several nail painting sessions, chatting like old friends after the children had been put to bed.

Two days ago, I went to the mall across the street from our mandir here in Jaipur. Somehow, I ended up at the make-up counter at the department store. I complimented the eyeshadows that two of the women had used; they offered to help me do an eye makeover.

And so, I found my hand in another woman’s hand, as she showed me shade after shade of eyeliner, shadow, and lip gloss. With two other women, and a gentleman standing by, we discussed evening shades, daytime shades, and the fact that my eyes are blue. I wanted to know how to keep my hair from becoming a dusty bird’s nest after riding a tuk tuk—why was their hair all so sleek and glossy, when we were all in the same humid, dusty climate? We exchanged beauty tips and imagined different places we could wear the different colors of gloss. Sometimes, the man would provide a translation when we got stuck.

I purchased an eyeliner, a stick of eye shadow, and a lipgloss. After I paid, they presented me with an evening bag, a chocolate brown clutch lined with rhinestones. Free gift with purchase! I posed with the bag, and said, “Now I have an evening bag, and new make-up, I need someone to go out with tonight!” And one of the women said, “Oh, you must come out with me!” and we all laughed.

Maybe this isn’t authentic bazaar shopping in Jaipur. I’ll certainly take a spin around the marketplace within the pink walls before I go on the Varanasi. But I love stopping by the mall for coffee and seeing friendly faces, greeting again my kindred spirits from the make-up counter.

Entitlement, humility (with singing)

A 22 hour train ride is no small thing. You have to prepare for it—I purchased peanut butter, crackers, chocolate, three bottles of water, and magazines. I made sure my phone (with music and books) was charged, as was my Nook.

I tried to help everyone else prepare. I said, “The train station will be crazy, crowded, noisy, entire families, no room, hot. We might have to wait for hours. We will try to stay together on the train. Use the toilet a lot early in the trip, because it will get filthier as the hours roll by.”

And even so, even in a group of good-hearted, relatively seasoned travelers, most of us committed to the environment, or animals, or teaching, or human rights (ie, we’re not a bunch of Scrooges), we get cranky. And the hotter it is, the faster we get unhappy.

I’ll speak for myself.

The third class AC cars have compartments, with six beds; three bunks on each side. When you’re with a group of friends or classmates, it’s pretty fun. You can watch a movie, or listen to music, play cards, share food.

For this trip, from Delhi to Jalgaon, we were unable to get tickets all together. In my compartment, there were four of us. In the neighboring compartment, there were only two students from our group.

So of course, I get it into my head that when the final two strangers arrive to our compartment, we should ask them to switch with the two students next door, and then six of us can be together.

When they—a woman and her middle-school aged daughter—arrived, she did not want to switch. I had Sushil, a colleague, ask her in three different ways.

I was so irritated! What did it matter to her? She had two beds, either way. She didn’t know anyone, what difference did it make whether she was with us, or with four others next door. She was ruining my whole plan for a great 22 hours.

I fumed. I occasionally stared at her over my Nook, wondering what her problem was. I told myself that we deserved to be all together. I even wondered if she would move if we gave her money.

I know; awful. How quickly I become selfish (despite all the Jain lectures on Self!) when I don’t get my way.

Of course, we eventually start talking to the woman and her daughter. She holds a PhD in geology, and teachers. Her daughter’s English is very good. We swap Indian fashion magazines. I put on my Hindi-learning tapes, and they laugh, correcting me as I try to say, “Please listen. Do you understand English? I am American.”

If you’ve ever heard me try to speak in another language, you might know that I tend to get really loud, and gesticulate even harder than usual, to make you understand what I’m saying. As if to make up for my mispronunciation. The geology professor laughed and said, “Not so much personality. A little less. Be more quiet.” We were roaring with laughter at her encouraging me to be quieter in my Hindi.

*

Today we went to a new school, grades 1 through 4 (adding a grade each year since its founding) funded by a local Jain. It was fantastic. Another warm, caring environment, filled with art, color, and adults who care for the children.

Today was the first day back from a three week holiday; to welcome the students back, the teachers had lined every single hallway floor with flowers. Here are some facts we learned from the director:

All of the students come from the slums surrounding Jalgaon. Everything is fully funded. The school day is all day, to provide two meals and because most of the parents—if they have work—need to work all day.

They have more applications than they have open spots; they try to take the most destitute. They visit the homes and interview parents in order to determine who can come.

Usually, siblings do not attend—because each family benefits so much from having a student there (and who will learn English, and prepare for college), they try to spread that around to as many families as possible. They make exceptions: there is a girl currently enrolled with a brother at home. Their parents are both HIV positive. Next year, when he is old enough, he will also come to school.

They believe that each child is his/her own person, and that teachers shouldn’t force children to be people they are not. They believe emotional nourishment is important, especially for these children.

They weigh the students as part of taking care of their health. After a three week holiday like the one that has passed, most of the children have lost weight; there is not enough food at home.

The children sang for us (“The Wheels on the Bus,” and “The 12 Days of Christmas”), and so we sang for them (“Itsy Bitsy Spider,” because it has hand motions, and we ended in three part harmony and a big, slow, flourishy finish.)

They children had made us bookmarks. They lined up, so each child could take a turn giving each of us a bookmark. As one handed my bookmark to me, he said, “Welcome, Madame,” and then kissed his hand, touched my feet, and touched his heart, before running shyly to the back of the line.

Who am I, to be treated so well? Just 24 hours ago, I was thinking dark thoughts on the train, acting spoiled and thinking only of myself. Even though I’ve been treated with care and luxury every single place I’ve been in this country.

Life long learning, right? God willing, I have many years to soften my heart, to think the best before I think the worst of someone—even when I’m uncomfortable. Especially when I’m uncomfortable.

We visited a classroom with little crescent tables. They can be joined together to make a circle; all the students sit on the floor. Also near the floor, around the room, are chalkboards hung at five-year-olds’ level. The director said, “The teacher scribbles on the big board, we’ve found the children like to scribble on the little boards.”

I thought about the long journey, in the rain and mud today, from wherever their houses are. How did their smocks stay so clean? How did their hair stay so neat? Did they like dance more, or science? Do they teach their baby siblings at home the counting and letter songs they learn at school?

One of the paradoxes of going to places like schools in India is that even though I am supposed to be the honored guest, I actually receive so much. They are so happy we are there, they give us gifts and mango juice. And really, I should be giving something in return for all I receive.

What do we do with such gratitude? How can I hold on to it, and let it seep into my actions and intentions? Like, I want to be the thick (the thickets, really expensive, heavy-pressed) watercolor paper, and let these experiences saturate me, soak the ridges and pockets of my-self.

History intact in stone, in hands

A cross carved into the outside of a cave church in Cappadocia.

Even though I studied history, I was never interested in dates, battles, kings, economics, politics. I have a terrible mind for dates and facts. Individual lives interested me, saints and their close friends, who became their biographers. Villagers who encountered the holy, and built shrines, documenting their own faiths into history. Grandmothers’ trunks reopened after Communism, the old icons and prayers intact in their hands and memories.

So many places in history are heavy with this kind of weight. What did Faulkner say about history? The past is never dead?

I remember looking at the “maps of the holy land” in the back of my mint green, Precious Moments Bible, during particularly long sermons. The maps were mostly brown and beige, with small bits of river. I couldn’t imagine those places as real.

At Harran, a city that has been continuously inhabited for thousands of years. The earliest mention of Harran in records is from 2300 BCE.

Never would I have imagined I’d go to Ephesus, and walk where Paul preached. Or see the kind of cave churches early Christians imprinted with carvings. Stone dining tables remain, as do trenches for wine, and holes in the wall where they might have hung cradles.

The faces of Christ are often rubbed off. Imagine the centuries of pilgrim hands, touching, caressing the stone, bringing prayers and desperate wishes. Imagine the Christians taking over the caves from pagans, and—first thing—carving a cross on the walls.

Inside on of the cave churches, an ancient painting of the Last Supper.

For me, the numinous wasn’t a tiger or a mighty spirit in another room, it was red paint on stone, or a damp cave, or a dark place for prayer. I entered Abraham’s cave on the women’s side, full of Muslim women and girls praying, where once Abraham spent ascetic years. I saw Job’s well, where God finally blessed him with holy water to heal his afflictions. I ran my hand over stone carvings from the earliest Christian period. I saw where pre-Christian families worked and lived.

Recreation of a traditional mud house, interior, in Harran.

Maybe nobody should try to study history until they can picture the food, the sunrise, the dust, and the fireplaces of those who lived it. I think about everything I know about Abraham—from the Bible camp song “Father Abraham,” to the promise illuminated by countless stars in the sky, to his wife laughing outside the tent—and then imagine him, and old man, praying in a cool cave. I prayed in that cave—my mind reels at the connecting point.

Inside Abraham’s cave.

This might be the biggest blessing and take-away from my trip to Turkey, that I got to be, in all tactile glory and physicality, in places of history and beauty. I should dig up my Bible, find those sterile beige maps, and recolor them. I can collage on photographs, and write in impressions.

Paintings of crosses, Christ, and saints at Cappadocia.

Next time I teach Sunday school, I won’t bring out the felt board, I’ll bring in rocks, and sand, wool, cooking ingredients, red paint, terracotta, blankets for the floor, and make a cave. We’ll pretend we’re pilgrims (and aren’t we?), with all our doubts, idiosyncrasies, needs, and desires. We’ll touch, dream, articulate, and pray—and then read about Father Abraham, Prophet Job, and letters from Ephesus. Maybe we can somehow tie knots in our strand of history back into those stories, and realize them better.

Children peeking into Job’s well.

 

 

Classrooms, service, and hope

Two girls at an after-school tutoring program organized by the movement.

The hizmet movement places education—for all—at the foundation of its philosophy. Early in the movement, Gulen met with students, and the organization grew in places of study, with young activists and thinkers. The hizmet movement supports schooling at every level, and you don’t have to be Turkish, or Muslim, to attend their schools or receive support for education.

Visiting their schools in Turkey, and hearing about the importance of education, I was moved to think about my own education. In my mind, I call the librarians, teachers, and Sunday school teachers who taught me “a golden chain.” I was so often given extra time, extra books and materials, extra places to sit alone, and read and write. Teachers took the time to comment on poems I wasn’t assigned to write, to help me understand books I undertook to read on my own, and to give me used textbooks and class novels to build my own library.

The church I went to as a child drove many miles to pick me up every Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday evening, so I could come learn, read, and sing with the congregation. All of this has shaped me. When I teach, I try to give extra hours as well—at lunchtime, at recess, sharing extra books and time tutoring. How else can I pass on the wealth I’ve been given?

Children doing a Turkish folkdance; the girls are sowing seeds.

We visited one school, the oldest school founded by the hizmet movement. I was so, so struck by the warmth with which the children were treated. As we ate breakfast, we watched a kindergarten group having breakfast as well. They chatted and moved around freely; teachers peeled their hard-boiled eggs and helped them get milk; the kids got as much bread as they wanted. As they finished, they went out to recess, but they could take as much time as they needed to eat. This in contrast to the public schools where I’ve worked, where even the very young students are rushed through meals, sometimes have no time to finish, and are yelled at or made to keep silent.

The students also all participate in arts, dance, sports, and the school day ends at 2PM so they can have after-school activities. And—these students regularly produce the best national test scores of any in Istanbul. Top scores on tests, but the focus is on warmth and a variety of activities.

The front of the school for Syrian children.

We also visited an empty school, brand new and waiting for Syrian refugees from across the border. I was frustrated by questions from my colleagues about what kind of textbooks, and how much materials would cost, and where the students would go after this school. In my limited experience in Haiti, and with refugee students in the US—the traumas and needs are so great. We’re beyond talking about the number of materials. It is enough to have them in a safe building, physically intact. In Haiti, we used bits of cloth and chunks of concrete to teach sorting activities. In St. Louis, the students from Somalia often seemed unreachable—they had been through so much, so many unfathomable things—what did our inadequate public school have to offer? I was overwhelmed by the thought of what these Syrian students and teachers would bring, and need, and face.

By now, this classroom is full; the students and Syrian teachers arrived last week.

Almost despairing—why even try, when the odds seem insurmountable? Matt said, “Because you have to at least start.” You have to build the building, get the desks, give the teachers a whiteboard and markers. Get lunches, and some kind of school nurse, and establish a routine. Reading and writing, some sustenance, a semblance of order.

I think I’ve written here before about faith, doubt, and despair. Sr. Carla Mae taught me long ago that the opposite of faith is not doubt, but despair. Doubt still has in it a seed of engagement, the possibility to learn and relate further. But despair is a giving-up, a disengagement, a [false] belief that all is lost.

My experiences in Turkey gave me a great deal of hope—every family, teacher, business person, parent, organizer, scholar—every single one had a commitment to hospitality, to meeting and engaging with the other, and to education and humanitarian work. Most of them said, in some way, “Even if this is all that I can do, in the face of the world’s need, I will do it.” All believed that greater peace is possible, especially through education and relationship-building.

I am writing from Delhi, where I am also daily faced with great poverty, hunger, homelessness, and separation of the classes. Sometimes, driving through slums, I am tempted to think: “No amount of education or peace-building work on my part can ever make a difference, in this life.” And yet, I just came from Turkey, where I saw glimpses of a different kind of possibility. In gratitude to my hosts and new Turkish friends, I will try to keep embodying the possibility of hope.

This girl, full of energy and spunk, not only took the opportunity of our interrupting her tutoring session to chat and pose for photos, but leaped at the chance to play teacher and teach us “good morning” in Turkish.