Listening

Haven't we all discussed on some level the existential question: If a tree falls in the woods and no one is around to hear it, does it make any noise?
My question is: If you're walking in the woods and a leaf falls, will you hear it?
When your 17 year old daughter says her friend wants to buy a new car because her bumper's messed up, will you hear she's telling you they had an accident together and you need to ask her about it?
When your husband asks if you want him to read to you while you're making dinner, will you hear he wants to spend time with you -- and he wants you to want him to spend time with you?
Sometimes our teenagers ask if they can go out with friends, then let us know they want us to say "no" so they can tell their friends their parents wouldn't let them.
I'd like to recommend a good book. It's called The Other Way to Listen by Byrd Baylor. Enjoy!

Fashion (continued)

It's funny how people make assumptions about what they see. I have a towel that I bought in South India when the one I brought got left in the hotel. It is not terry cloth, but works great as a travel towel to pull out of your bag at opportune moments. It's checked cotton with tassels. People who see me carrying it think I'm going to pray, another of my basic needs.
When I check out at Kohls twice or three times a year, I can't figure out how people spend enough money to make a frequent shopper card worthwhile. What's the story with the lady dressed up in a suit who comes to collect food at the free pantry? Aren't people who come for free food supposed to wear dirty sweats?
It just goes to show, you can't tell a person's story unless you ask.

Peepal Tree

Japanese Strawberry is the street name for the dogwood (Kousa Dogwood) that's dropping its fall fruit in my neighborhood. The enticingly bright berries look as though people at some place in history may have thought they were a great treat to eat. Now they just make a mess on the sidewalk. Even the squirrels are not interested. They are much more enamored of the huge quantity of acorns in the tree next door. Under that oak tree is not a safe place to wait for your bus this time of year.
The long-stemmed "strawberries" remind me of the Peepal fruits. Featuring in a lot of mythology, the huge Peepal trees are also central to village life in Nepal. The hugest ones often grow at strategic spots along major trading and travel routes--which came first, I wonder, the tree or the road? Often there is a strategic tea shop right across the trail. Called chautara, the raised stone and mud mortar platform built around the trunk is just the right height for traders or shoppers, or relatives carrying a patient to the hospital, to rest their dokus on, bamboo woven baskets used for transporting things in the Himalayas.
They're not just good for resting travelers. The best thing about Peepal is they're great for climbing. I spent many contemplative hours as a child and teenager hidden in the cool, leafy branches. You can also make a whistle out of a Peepal leaf, an art that I never mastered no matter how many friends showed me how easy it is. It was really a boys' craft; maybe they showed me the wrong way on purpose!
Ghosts are known to hang out under Peepal tree trunks and among the hanging roots of their cousins the Banyan trees. That never stopped me -- we Christian kids glibly believed we weren't susceptible to Hindu ghosts. Now, looking back, I know all of us humans (dead AND alive) are a lot more connected than I thought then.
A few squashy berries took me there.

Something More

Wednesdays there's free produce on 13th St. People come in to our building to use the bathroom. A couple weeks ago a lady came in. She was gone a long time, and when I went to check she was taking a bath at the sink. I imagine she doesn't have a better place to do that. You know that dream you have about needing to use the bathroom and all the doors are missing?
This morning a gentleman came in; gone a long time. I heard yelling. When I went to investigate, it was a baby crying. Mom and baby were waiting outside. Pretty soon she comes in to use the bathroom, and he watches the baby.
I feel a profound sadness. I wish there was something more we could do for people in need, besides letting them use the bathroom. (That is more than a lot of places would offer.) I ended up holding the door when they left.
Some people think they brought it upon themselves. I think differently. There are a few who live irresponsibly, but the majority of people who need to wait in line to pick up their vegetables on the street don't have a lot of other options. It wouldn't be their choice to live that way. The combinations of forces that got them to that place are not overcome in a day or two, with a little soap and water and paper towels. The mom from this morning's encounter is blind.
Sometimes I give away my all-day pass for the bus, if somebody needs it.
My dad as a young man (I was a baby) came home from work one day and told my mother he thought they needed to do something more. They spent the next thirty years in overseas mission building schools in a developing nation.
I heard my daughter say she wants to do something more. She was talking about her job.
What did you end up doing last time you felt like you should be doing something more?

Style

The goth girl at the supermarket check-out complemented my skirt and my bag. Last time I wore that skirt, a white-haired lady in a quilted vest came up to me on the street and asked about it. Said she loved it. One time last year a jeans-and-sweatshirt mom at the gas station noticed it and asked how it was made. I bought it at "Handy Ups and Downs" about ten years ago.
I like to shop at Goodwill and consignment shops. A lot of my clothes also come from street markets in Pattaya and Bangkok, Delhi and Anjuna, Tibetan markets in the Himalayas and the US, Otavalo and Amazonas, Schwartzwald, the New Castle weekend market.When I was growing up, like many other overseas workers we got the Sears catalog by boat, and my grandparents would order something vaguely fashionable. I still remember the purple jeans I wore in sixth grade. Or we got the tailor to copy the picture in my size.
Basically, I dress hippie. As my sense of self has developed over the years, so has my sense of style, and my confidence to wear something that doesn't necessarily fit current "fashion trends" or acceptable "professional attire" but makes me feel good. So I end up with an outfit that pleases both a goth teenager and a crafty grandmother. I have developed many significant conversations in the check out line at Joann Fabrics.
I don't enjoy shopping at Kohl's, with racks and racks of the same fashion statement in different sizes. How are you supposed to develop your self ?

This Is What Was At The Top

I took that trail...

It was worth it!

The Path I Did Not Take

Next time I will...

Neighbors

On the first hot day this summer, I looked out the kitchen window and saw people walking on my lawn. Then I saw them walk down the driveway and through the back yard, and climb down the bank to the creek in back of our house. I went out to meet them, and  it turns they just bought the house down the block, on the other side of the street from the creek. They should have asked before walking on OUR property!
Last time we saw someone walking on our property, we were robbed the next week. You never know these days.
In Nepal, all the foot trails go through people's door yards, or their rice paddies, or the temple court. That's just the way to get from one place to another. Someone is always home, so you just call out that you're walking through. Someone on the porch, or in the kitchen will probably ask, "Where are you going?" just to be polite. They might know somebody there where you could stay, or maybe they need a letter carried over there. They might know a shortcut you didn't know about, or at the very least will tell you how long it takes to get there. They might even have some hot tea on the fire you could share with a snack.
Last night I watched Ever After. The king's guards rode their horses right through Danielle' orchard when they were looking for the runaway prince. It was expected. It was the way people kept in touch with their neighbors; maybe one of them had seen a prince.
When was the last time you talked to one of your neighbors? Or greeted on of them at the mail box? Or stopped to talk with someone when they were mowing the lawn, or walking the dog? When was the last time you had a block party? What if we're missing out on something really important?

Personal Space

I got on the Rte 22 bus on Friday evening. It was standing room only.
I clean shaven young Indian man waves me on ahead of him. A homeless white man helps an insecure older woman get off through the crowd at her stop. The young Indian lady whose foot I step on when the bus lurches smiles and quietly says, "You're alright." A couple of school girls next to where I stand are having a hushed conversation in Spanish, and two young men speaking Korean or Chinese on my other side are discussing a book from one of their backpacks. A swarthy Hindi-speaking techie is loudly advising someone on the phone in English and Hindi, his voice the only distinguishable noise on the whole bus except for a couple minutes when a weary-looking traveler tries to overcome a bad telephone connection with Uncle Somebody to arrange a money transfer. A neatly-coiffed African American lady with a baby on her lap gets upset when an African immigrant reaches over her to pull the cord. It's not proper to enter another's personal space, physical or sensory.
On a bus in India we would have been standing much closer, using each other's bodies to stay standing in the bus. The crammed bus would be one of many running the same thoroughfare every five or ten minutes each one as crammed as the next, even until late at night. There's no guarantee all the passengers would be human... The noise level, both inside and outside the bus would be much higher, with honking horns, smoke-belching lorries, crying babies, conversations between co-workers heading to the same neighborhood, the bus driver hollering instructions.
I wonder where each of these passengers will end up tonight.

Choices

On my lunch (half-) hour walk from my downtown office, I took a new path and was faced with the choice of climbing over an ancient rock outcropping on the Brandywine River or walking on the pavement with the chance of a car coming around the curve too close. I chose the pavement.

There was a time in my life--and a place--when I would have climbed the rocks. Disregarding the deer ticks and poison ivy, disregarding the fact that I was wearing a long skirt, disregarding possibly having to blaze my own trail, I would have charged forward, intrepid in the face of a challenge. It all began with my brother taking me on a walk in the mountains, then making me find our way home. He didn't leave me; he just wouldn't tell me which way to go.

I've had lots of walks in the mountains since then. When you go up the mountain, you know you'll get a view at the top. When you go down the mountain, chances are you'll come to rushing water (with lots of rocks to climb). When you walk along the beach, you can look far ahead and set your own goals--plus, your feet get all smooth from the rubbing sand.

In the Himalayas, you really have to put your mp3 away and pay attention to the sounds, sights and smells around you while you walk.

I'll have to take that wrong turn again one day, and climb the rocks next time.

At the Well

My favorite Bible story is the Woman at the Well in John 4.
Jesus is walking along with his disciples (see Hot Tea at Dawn). They come to a well at midday and stop for a rest. There's a tree to sit under (oh, was that just my imagination?), and the disciples trek into town to find something to eat, while Jesus rests. He gets in a conversation with a woman who comes for water. That's strange, because women don't come for water at midday. That's strange because men don't talk to women. But these two end up talking about life-changing issues--the woman goes back to her neighborhood with renewed life; Jesus can continue his journey refreshed with liquid water and fortified by a meaningful interaction.
I can picture the tree, huge, overshadowing the well and the road, with a built up stone platform at the right height for leaning loads on, and for setting out a picnic lunch on. I can picture the water, with women gathering at dawn and dusk chatting as they wait in line to fill, and hoisting their jugs up with water that must last the day. The complex routine of who gets to go first is well-established and practical, to avoid dispute. If you need to do laundry, you have to wait till the end, no matter what your rank. When a man comes by, he jumps the whole line, but he knows better than to linger. He definitely doesn't come to talk. I can picture the well, abandoned and dry at the middle of the day because there is no one to draw the water.
I tried to take a picture of it once, and it broke the camera. There was too much to fit in a print. (I also had the lens pointing directly into the sun. This was the old days, when that mattered.) Imagine what Jesus would talk with you about!

The Glass

A favorite quote from my husband, and he really believes it:
The glass is not half empty or half full, but overflowing!

Peace

The homeless guys outside the soup kitchen got in an altercation after lunch today. Someone must have called Sister Anna Maria (even though the police station is across the street) because before too long--before too many bad words had polluted the air--I heard Sister's voice raised firmly above the rabble. From my office on the other side of the window, I could not hear her words, but she diffused the rancor and shortly I heard conversation and laughter.
On the roadways in India--the Himalayan Highways--if there is an accident or fatality (animal or human), the whole community comes to resolve the issue. If a child or cow gets killed by a speeding vehicle, the neighbors--all witnesses--gather together and decide the culpability and retribution before the police even arrive.
Once when I was quite young, on one of the rare occasions we had a vehicle, my parents were tending to some business and I was waiting in the Land Rover parked on the edge of the street. All of a sudden, the slate roof of the house next to the car collapsed with a crash. One corner landed on the hood of the Land Rover. The neighbors and my parents all came out to investigate and discovered a baby swinging in a  hammock under the corner of the porch that had been caught by the Land Rover. They proclaimed it a miracle--new vocabulary: bachaio = saved. We all raised a collective prayer of thanksgiving.
I grew up and married, and we taught our four kids that they possess within themselves the resources they need to resolve conflicts.

Nails

A long time has passed since I had time to take care of my nails. It's getting embarrassing! Finally, I can't wait and I decide I'll just clip them. I always carry my clippers with me, but the problem is where. Where can you clip your nails and it won't be weird? How can you do it and not gross people out? What do you do with the nails if you clip them in your office? Besides, my office is so close to everyone else's they would all hear me. I can't clip them in the car, because I'm driving . I just get in position and the light changes, and I have to start all over again. And I can't do it in the coffee shop, the library, the lunch room, the doctor's office, or the grocery store.
I finally choose the bus stop. I look all around; nobody is on the sidewalk in either direction. Looking way down the road, I can't see the bus anywhere. But there is a steady stream of cars (and their drivers) passing by within ten feet of my chosen spot. Last week a couple of guys in a dump truck laughed at me for doing up my hair at the bus stop. What would they say about clipping my nails?
I look up and down the road again. My bus isn't due for at least five minutes. So I turn around in the bus stall, so the drivers won't see. I hope their music is turned up so they won't hear. The nails can go on the ground outside. All this bother, just to clip my nails!
It makes me think of traveling by train in India. Everyone in the whole car has to use the two toilets on either end of the carriage. Fortunately, there's a sink outside the toilets in the hall. In the morning, there's a carefully orchestrated arrangement involving the chai wallahs calling their first round of morning tea through the train and the elderly aunties, who automatically get to go first. People on the top bunks either have to be very early risers, or wait until the rush is over, after the third cup of chai. I always try to be polite while I watch young brides change out of their jeans and slip on the sparkle-trimmed salwar-kamiz or purda just before their stop, or sleep-deprived mothers brushing up the little girls' hair with oil and bright hair ties, or dignified gentlemen switching their pajama-kurta for a suit and tie.
Funny thing: everyone just washes their face or brushes their teeth right there in the open, and it's ok. Who would think of not brushing your teeth? Why would you take up precious time inside the toilet? People take full baths inside the toilet compartments  They come out combing their hair and adjusting their pants.
It's silly that it should be embarrassing to clip your fingernails in public.

Play

Riding the bus from downtown, I saw kids playing basketball under the shade of the freeway overpass. Across the street, women sat on their door steps talking, trying to escape the heat inside their cramped apartments. Some big boys were playing marbles against the wall of their row-house.
The snapshot transported me back to the village in Nepal where I grew up. In the warm afternoons, after school was done and before evening chores and dinner, the boys would gather in the village green, along the dirt road, or under the big resting tree to play. They played chase, or soccer (if someone had a ball), or marbles, or a finger football game with players they folded out of discarded cigarette packets. Being a girl, I was never invited, but I didn't have field work or house work to do like most of the other girls, so I watched, never really understanding the rules, or the roles. I watched, fascinated by the interactions, by the insider knowledge of the game and the fierce competition for something that seemed so simple.
As the light of the day grew dim, mothers would start to call for people to come home for dinner. "Oh, Raju!" sang out from a house three streets away. The boys all looked at Raju, who eventually called back to acknowledge that he was coming home, and dawdled a few minutes more for some strategic play in the game. Slowly the boys would drift away, as their mothers called, or if they saw their fathers walking home from work, and the games were put on hold for the next afternoon.
As my bus rumbled on, the stops got fewer and farther between. When I got off at my corner and walked into my neighborhood I did not see anybody out. I saw cars parked in driveways. I could see TV's on behind gauze curtains.
I pick up the trash on my street, one side of the street today and the other side tomorrow. I'll make supper, and we'll all sit down together to eat. After dishes are cleared away, I'll probably play a couple of games of solitaire on the computer. I may or may not win.

Edgehill

I know there are no real hills in Delaware. But there is a street called "Edgehill Ave" in Dover. I wonder what they named it after.
In the hill stations in India, all the houses have names. One large house on the edge of a hill in the first range of the Himalayas bears the name "Edgehill". Nowadays it acts as a dormitory for a prestigious boarding school. Sounds of children playing and the huge dorm dog barking are audible all around the amphitheater of hills. The dorm bell chimes the schedule: wake up, time to leave for school, tea time, study hall, bed time.
Thirty years ago, Edgehill played the role of guest house to visiting parents and families of school children, retired missionaries on holiday, and christian workers who got overheated on the plains before the rains set in. The hostess facilitated informal dinners; mothers relaxed under the broad veranda while their children renewed once a year friendships and played in the clear mountain air; bearers brought buckets of warm water for the morning bath. Just a short walk along the eyebrow of the hill, the bazaar offered mild diversion and basic supplies.
I wonder what life at Edgehill held before that.

Hot Tea at Dawn

When you're trekking in Nepal, you walk from early until mid-morning tea and biscuits, either at the top of a mountain or at the bottom, depending on how you feel. You stop again at the end of the day, at a local goTh or someone's house along the road. You can order dinner with your stay. If your'e lucky, they'll have some fresh meat to go with your rice and dahl, for a few extra rupees. If you're really lucky, there will be a vegetable.
There's no rest like the sleep of exhaustion after a day on the trail. If it's a one-flea establishment, you might get a room for your family apart from the other travelers  They'll let you use your own bedding. If it's a five-flea place, you'll be happy for a few wooden slats between you and the animals. Sometimes those are the best spots. Sometimes that's as far as you could make it before the next place to stop.
Next morning the hostess will get you tea at dawn before you start the day's trek.
On the doorstep of my colonial two-story in an older, established neighborhood in the Brandywine Hundred,  I stand to greet the dawn. The tag from my tea bag hangs from my no-spill travel mug, as I wait for my carpool. It'll be two or three mountain passes before I can stop tonight, but I'll be back home here at the end of it.

The Same

As I waited for the city bus in the rain, my memories carried me back to another rainy afternoon, far away. I pulled the drawstring tight around my hood, pulled my hands inside the fur lined sleeves of my city coat. Today is a bad day to forget my gloves. At least the outside of my coat is waterproof, but the wind is strong and cold is finding its way in at the seams, up under the edge; the waterproof coating has already worn off the boots I wear to work.
It was a late storm that caught us unprepared at the top of our trek. I'm pretty sure I had Indian-made tennis shoes on my feet, and no fur-lined coat. The backpack helped keep my back warm, but the cold water ran down and soaked my kurta and jeans. We were young, though, and it didn't really matter. We ducked down into the shepherds' hut, laughing, and sat close together to keep out the cold. Some of the shepherds shared their woolen shawls and blankets, and they used up some of their precious firewood to heat up the smokey hut.
The lights of the bus finally distinguished themselves from the other rush hour traffic. I climbed up, gratefully looking back at the stone pillar of the church that had broken the wind during my wait. My cell phone rang in my pocket. It was my husband saying he'd been happy to come pick me up at work so I wouldn't have to wait in the rain.
Drying out on the bus towards home, my thoughts range many highways I have traveled. I want to tell my stories, to share my experiences. I want it to be worthwhile for others to read. I also want to join my highways, span the oceans separating them. There is really not that much distance between my rainy afternoon in Delaware and a high sheep pasture on the side of a mountain in Northwestern India. Is there?