You may have heard about Rosenberg in the news lately. In fact, you may have heard about the very street I live on. If you have, its probably because a man that lives down the street from me is under suspicion for killing his wife and mother-in-law in her home, just a few streets away from my home.
Is it safe for me to write about this on a blog? Or even legal? I mean, its not like I know any information. Anyways, the point is that the police have been on my street, searching a man's house for evidence of murder. The man hasn't been around, and as far as I know, he hasn't been found. I know I should probably be afraid, but I'm not. What does that mean?
Its so terrible. They have children. I'm not sure how old the kids are, but I am sure that it doesn't matter. I don't know what else to say about the situation.
Well, there is this: I've been contemplating the old adage "love thy neighbor" quite a bit. I think, "Its difficult to conceive of loving someone despite an act like this." So then I start thinking about the times that I've visited prisons with Seekers, and I remember how deeply I felt for the inmates. Their guilt was visible, from their IDs to their jump suits, as was their shame. And as we all stood under the same roof to praise God, I thought, "What really makes me any different from these men? Aren't we all made the same way?" When we lined up at the door to shake their hands, many of them hesitated to make eye contact, and they let their handshakes go limp. There was no confidence there, no pride. They were stripped. It made me hurt for them. I know that criminals must be served justice, and that they have stripped innocent people of their pride, confidence, and in many cases, much more. But I struggle with revenge v. justice. Where do you make the distinction? I just don't know... but that's for a different entry. Still, I wanted them to know that I saw a different future for them, one where they are not convicts forever labeled as guilty. They are my neighbors, and I want to love them the way Jesus loves them.
But I am not Jesus (surprise, surprise). And I am finding that it is more difficult to conceive of loving my neighbor when he is truly my neighbor. I just can't stop thinking about those children.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
I would title this "Diverse City..."
... if only Toby Mac had not taken that title back in the day. Yes, I know who Toby Mac is. I'm cool like that. And if you know who he is, well... you're cool, too!
After moving in with my dad and stepmom in lovely (maybe?) Rosenberg, Texas, I've found myself as scattered as ever. All of my stuff is finally in one place again, but I feel more unsettled than ever. After four and one-half years in college, I definitely did not imagine myself "striking out on my own..." back in with my parents?! Hold it. That is not the dream. No, no, no. The dream is graduate, score the dream job, secure the trendy loft apartment at a criminal-low price, buy the new car, and start the first day at said job to an overwhelming welcome of applause from the general public (who lined up to greet me at the doorway, obviously).
Hmm... not so much. Although I have been blessed to fulfill one part of the dream. My dad helped me to buy a new car. Thank you, Dad.
Other than that, I'm pretty much doing the same thing I did in Abilene. I'm working at American Eagle and looking for a teaching job (still, to no avail). And looking for sources of inspiration to keep my mind from degenerating into a pile of goo now that I don't have classes to stimulate my thinking. Oh, how I miss my English classes! It turns out that I really am a nerd.
Today I had an experience in diversity that really got me thinking. I worked the register for six straight hours today. That is a lot of talking. "Hi How are you Do you have an AE All Access Pass Would you like to sign up for one No Okay that's fine Will this be all Do you need a gift receipt Thank you Have a good Christmas!" As "diverse" as some people tried to make Abilene out to be, it has nothing on Houston, a fact that I've been smacked by over the last few days at AE. I enjoy diversity. In fact, I sometimes crave it. I get so bored when everyone listens to the same music as I do or uses the same colloquialisms as me. Still, I am human, and like most humans, I settle quite comfortably into homogeney. But today, diversity was hard. A woman came to the register and asked me to search for her in our customer database. She had a very thick Indian accent. That, coupled with the high volume of the rockin tunes (heh) and my manager's voice yammering in my headset ("Everyone be sure to greet all the customers!! Tell them about the promos! We need to get our conversion up! Other managerial phrases!!"), made it difficult to understand her. She gave me her last name (twice before we resorted to spelling it out: "I'm sorry, was that a "P?"), then her first name (three times), her address (I lost count), and her zip code (numbers are easier, thank God). We were both frustrated to say the least. I cannot speak for her, but I feel confident in saying that we both wanted to give up. "Who cares? So you (I) don't get the points for your (my) purchase? At least we'll stop screaming letters at each other."
I've realized something--it is at this point that me must committ to plow through. Diversity is worth it, even if it is hard.
After moving in with my dad and stepmom in lovely (maybe?) Rosenberg, Texas, I've found myself as scattered as ever. All of my stuff is finally in one place again, but I feel more unsettled than ever. After four and one-half years in college, I definitely did not imagine myself "striking out on my own..." back in with my parents?! Hold it. That is not the dream. No, no, no. The dream is graduate, score the dream job, secure the trendy loft apartment at a criminal-low price, buy the new car, and start the first day at said job to an overwhelming welcome of applause from the general public (who lined up to greet me at the doorway, obviously).
Hmm... not so much. Although I have been blessed to fulfill one part of the dream. My dad helped me to buy a new car. Thank you, Dad.
Other than that, I'm pretty much doing the same thing I did in Abilene. I'm working at American Eagle and looking for a teaching job (still, to no avail). And looking for sources of inspiration to keep my mind from degenerating into a pile of goo now that I don't have classes to stimulate my thinking. Oh, how I miss my English classes! It turns out that I really am a nerd.
Today I had an experience in diversity that really got me thinking. I worked the register for six straight hours today. That is a lot of talking. "Hi How are you Do you have an AE All Access Pass Would you like to sign up for one No Okay that's fine Will this be all Do you need a gift receipt Thank you Have a good Christmas!" As "diverse" as some people tried to make Abilene out to be, it has nothing on Houston, a fact that I've been smacked by over the last few days at AE. I enjoy diversity. In fact, I sometimes crave it. I get so bored when everyone listens to the same music as I do or uses the same colloquialisms as me. Still, I am human, and like most humans, I settle quite comfortably into homogeney. But today, diversity was hard. A woman came to the register and asked me to search for her in our customer database. She had a very thick Indian accent. That, coupled with the high volume of the rockin tunes (heh) and my manager's voice yammering in my headset ("Everyone be sure to greet all the customers!! Tell them about the promos! We need to get our conversion up! Other managerial phrases!!"), made it difficult to understand her. She gave me her last name (twice before we resorted to spelling it out: "I'm sorry, was that a "P?"), then her first name (three times), her address (I lost count), and her zip code (numbers are easier, thank God). We were both frustrated to say the least. I cannot speak for her, but I feel confident in saying that we both wanted to give up. "Who cares? So you (I) don't get the points for your (my) purchase? At least we'll stop screaming letters at each other."
I've realized something--it is at this point that me must committ to plow through. Diversity is worth it, even if it is hard.
An explanation of "ubuntu"
In my previous blog, I referred to this philosophy called "ubuntu" without properly explaining it. Please allow me to do so briefly. Lately, I've become deeply interested in South Africa--and no, not just because "Invictus" just came out (although I did really enjoy that movie!). It is an African concept that basically says, "I can't be human without you." Desmond Tutu explains, "We think of ourselves far too frequently as just individuals, separated from one another, whereas you are connected and what you do affects the whole world. When you do well, it spreads out; it is for the whole of humanity." This speaks so much about the complexities of human relationships and so much about how God asks us to treat one another. That is what I want to explore in my writing. You, me, they, we, us--interconnectedness.
Shout out to Ben Berry--thanks for cluing (I can't believe that is the correct way to spell that word!) me in.
Shout out to Ben Berry--thanks for cluing (I can't believe that is the correct way to spell that word!) me in.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Meditations in a Crisis (well, not quite)
I was driving home from dinner with my dear friend Arielle last week when I was rudely reminded of something I had forgotten. At the corner of Judge Ely and Ambler, I got into a minor accident when I rear-ended the car in front me. Bummer. I followed the car until it pulled over on the side of the road, parked behind it, and switched on my hazard lights. A girl stepped out of the car. At that moment, "the car" ceased to represent an obstacle in my drive home and came to represent a life. I had forgotten about the lives in the other cars.
Before you freak out and call the DPS, demanding that my license be revoked, let me explain myself. I don't mean that I had forgotten that other people are in those other cars that fill the road beside me. I haven't been swerving and sliding down the roads, like an unstoppable moron with complete disregard for the physical lives of other drivers. I am well-aware that these other cars are not operated by robots. What I do mean is that I had forgotten about the life my fellow driver lives. While we were on the road, totally disconnected from each other by barriers of white stripes, stop signs, break lights, and steel frames, we were not aware of each others lives. I forgot she had plans for that night, just like me, and that they were disrupted by the night's unfortunate events. I forgot that she was listening to music that probably was not the same as the music I was listening to, and that she was phoning friends who I had probably never met while she sat in her car, waiting for the cop to arrive, just like me.
In short, I knew she had a life, but I didn't think about it being lived. I've been so wrapped up in myself, worried about, "Am I going to find a job? Where am I going to live?" and on it goes . . . I have forgotten the very thing that drives me as an educator, a friend, a daughter, and a Christian--my life is not about me. Just like George Eliot wrote, there is a roar on the other side of silence that is someone else's life, and I've gone deaf to it.
When the cop came along, I was written a ticket, obviously. But so was she. Her tags were expired. In that instant, I was reminded of "ubuntu." My actions had affected her life, and not in a positive way. I know I am not guilty for her tags being expired, but the fact still remains.
How deeply--and sometimes, shallowly--are we all connected. And how easily do we forget it.
Before you freak out and call the DPS, demanding that my license be revoked, let me explain myself. I don't mean that I had forgotten that other people are in those other cars that fill the road beside me. I haven't been swerving and sliding down the roads, like an unstoppable moron with complete disregard for the physical lives of other drivers. I am well-aware that these other cars are not operated by robots. What I do mean is that I had forgotten about the life my fellow driver lives. While we were on the road, totally disconnected from each other by barriers of white stripes, stop signs, break lights, and steel frames, we were not aware of each others lives. I forgot she had plans for that night, just like me, and that they were disrupted by the night's unfortunate events. I forgot that she was listening to music that probably was not the same as the music I was listening to, and that she was phoning friends who I had probably never met while she sat in her car, waiting for the cop to arrive, just like me.
In short, I knew she had a life, but I didn't think about it being lived. I've been so wrapped up in myself, worried about, "Am I going to find a job? Where am I going to live?" and on it goes . . . I have forgotten the very thing that drives me as an educator, a friend, a daughter, and a Christian--my life is not about me. Just like George Eliot wrote, there is a roar on the other side of silence that is someone else's life, and I've gone deaf to it.
When the cop came along, I was written a ticket, obviously. But so was she. Her tags were expired. In that instant, I was reminded of "ubuntu." My actions had affected her life, and not in a positive way. I know I am not guilty for her tags being expired, but the fact still remains.
How deeply--and sometimes, shallowly--are we all connected. And how easily do we forget it.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
On the Poets Walk in Central Park
Resting on a park bench, I think on the lives of poets
who gave this stretch of gravel its name,
marvel at the power of biology and imagination,
both flowing through space and time, down sinewy limbs
and bursting to life at the ends of pens cradled in hands.
Their words fell like seeds from the beaks
of greedy birds and took root in the dirt. Years passed
and their names grew tangled in the roots beneath the feet
of passersby like me. Though still today grand trunks
line the path and leaves form a ceiling for women and men
to rest shaded, baseball capped on park benches,
and wonder about things like old lovers, and the age of trees.
who gave this stretch of gravel its name,
marvel at the power of biology and imagination,
both flowing through space and time, down sinewy limbs
and bursting to life at the ends of pens cradled in hands.
Their words fell like seeds from the beaks
of greedy birds and took root in the dirt. Years passed
and their names grew tangled in the roots beneath the feet
of passersby like me. Though still today grand trunks
line the path and leaves form a ceiling for women and men
to rest shaded, baseball capped on park benches,
and wonder about things like old lovers, and the age of trees.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Update
I graduated this weekend! I am now the official holder of a Bachelor of Arts in English. Yay! My plans for the near future have been changing about as quickly as my outfit over the last couple of weeks, so here is the current, affirmed plan: I am staying in Abilene to get my teacher's certification. McMurry University has a Post-Baccalaureate Fast Track certification program which requires me to take 5 summer courses, and to student teach in the fall, and then--I'm done! After that, I may move up to Chicago if I am able to find a job up there mid-school year, or move back home and substitute teach until August 2010, by which point I should be able to secure a teaching job in Chicago.
I'll be getting certified to teach Secondary English/Language Arts, which I am SUPER excited about! A lot of people have been asking me if this is a default plan. To be honest, it is. If I had been able to secure a job in Chicago right out of school, you can bet I would have taken it. However, after applying for 20 or so jobs, ranging from basic retail to entry-level youth counseling/mentoring, I did not hear back from anyone--and it was two weeks before graduation! So I started to re-evaluate. I firmly believe in doing work that one finds meaningful, so I started to think about what I needed to do in order to put myself in a position to be offered jobs that I truly wanted--felt called to, even--work in. Since I was in high school, teaching has been a possibility that I've thrown around, but never committed to. I can't explain it without making it sound trite, so I'm just going to simply say it: I believe the Lord has placed a love in my heart for the written word, and a desire to positively shape the lives of young people, and teaching seems like the most natural culmination of these gifts. So I decided to do it. And its great, because I can teach anywhere. It can take me down the street, or around the world. It puts me in a position to serve and love young people who may not get what they deserve from other people in their lives. So is this really a default plan? No way!! I think its what the Lord wanted me to do all along; I was just too thick to see it.
Still, this in no way means that I will stop writing, or stop pursuing creative writing. I'm going to keep writing for myself, or for those who are willing to read and offer suggestions for me. And hopefully, someday sooner, rather than later, I will be in the financial position to go back to school for my MFA in creative writing. But until then, I'm excited about continuing to nurture that budding talent on my own.
So, if you are in Abilene anytime during the summer and fall of 2009, we should hang out! Cause I'm still going to be here, and I'm actually really excited about it!
I'll be getting certified to teach Secondary English/Language Arts, which I am SUPER excited about! A lot of people have been asking me if this is a default plan. To be honest, it is. If I had been able to secure a job in Chicago right out of school, you can bet I would have taken it. However, after applying for 20 or so jobs, ranging from basic retail to entry-level youth counseling/mentoring, I did not hear back from anyone--and it was two weeks before graduation! So I started to re-evaluate. I firmly believe in doing work that one finds meaningful, so I started to think about what I needed to do in order to put myself in a position to be offered jobs that I truly wanted--felt called to, even--work in. Since I was in high school, teaching has been a possibility that I've thrown around, but never committed to. I can't explain it without making it sound trite, so I'm just going to simply say it: I believe the Lord has placed a love in my heart for the written word, and a desire to positively shape the lives of young people, and teaching seems like the most natural culmination of these gifts. So I decided to do it. And its great, because I can teach anywhere. It can take me down the street, or around the world. It puts me in a position to serve and love young people who may not get what they deserve from other people in their lives. So is this really a default plan? No way!! I think its what the Lord wanted me to do all along; I was just too thick to see it.
Still, this in no way means that I will stop writing, or stop pursuing creative writing. I'm going to keep writing for myself, or for those who are willing to read and offer suggestions for me. And hopefully, someday sooner, rather than later, I will be in the financial position to go back to school for my MFA in creative writing. But until then, I'm excited about continuing to nurture that budding talent on my own.
So, if you are in Abilene anytime during the summer and fall of 2009, we should hang out! Cause I'm still going to be here, and I'm actually really excited about it!
Monday, April 6, 2009
Maya
So this is a "lyrical essay." Don't ask me what a lyrical essay is; I'm still trying to figure it out myself! (All of the italicized text is taken from Sanjay Patel's The Little Book of Hindu Deities)
Welcoming Committees
"In the beginning, while Vishnu slept in the infinite coils of the great serpent Sesha, it is thought that he dreamt up the creator god, Brahma, who emerged from Vishnu's navel already seated upon a perfect lotus flower. Brahma then began the work of creation, starting with the four yugas ... Each of these ages repeats 1,000 times in each cycle of creation, known as a Kalpa, which is then followed by the disillusion of the universe, known as Pralaya. It is believed that this all takes place within Vishnu's dream, which is our reality.
Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."
Upon deboarding my Hong Kong-Mumbai flight, I promptly made my way to the restroom, where I struggled to understand how to flush an Indian toilet. I gave up after several minutes and used my elbow to push my way out of the swinging door, ignoring the pleas for a tip from the frail, sari-wrapped restroom attendant, a gift-wrapped welcome present, my first official Indian acquaintance.
My traveling companions and I stumbled from a flurry of government forms and coolies chattering in Hindi into Mumbai’s slippery night air. Mangy dogs roamed the parking area, their tails curled like question marks, just like I imagined them. We clambered into a cab, and my first taste of India was the intense scent of marigolds and body odor. I kept the window rolled down for the duration of our ride to the hotel. My glasses fogged and Mumbai was veiled in a dense mist. It smelled of fish, fresh earlier that morning, left to spoil in the abandoned street markets, turmeric, chilies, and curry, wafting out through open windows, and cow dung heaped in holy piles on the side of the road. I was overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.
That night, I went to bed in the Hotel Grant, trying to stifle sobs on a worn-out mattress covered in itchy linens, of which I questioned the cleanliness. The street outside was lined with rubbish and beggars, whose moans I now imagine must have risen in through my barred window, but I did not care to hear them that night.
Yet, after several days, Hindi started to sound like musical notes tinkering off the tongues of train passengers, especially late at night when the words danced through the cars, left in the care of bony men beating out ancient rhythms on drums they held between their knees.
Rains
“It is said that good and evil forces are always battling for control of the world--the gods work to preserve the good, and the demons work to spread evil. Vishnu’s role in the great trinity is that of the invincible protector. Generally, when all is going well, good and evil are in balance. When things fall into chaos, however, Vishnu takes a trip down to earth to preserve justice. Sometimes he comes as himself, a blue four-armed
god ...”
I spent the fifth evening in the Hotel Grant hobbling between the restroom and my bed, my stomach retching with little success. A fever sent chilly tremors through my body while sweat soaked through my nightclothes.
I felt well enough the next day to venture out with my companions to the other side of the city, where we were to spend the evening with a family whom we had become acquainted with throughout the week. In the midst of our visit, the fever returned. I felt my body temperature climbing out of the confines of my punjabi suit. Despite the ever-present heat radiating through the thin walls, the chills set in, and I noticed Shakuntrala watching me from across the room.
The old family matriarch was perched on the bed with the end of her blue sari draped over her head. She smiled and patted the space next to her, the universal motion for inviting someone to sit beside you. I went. The tiny woman took my hand and drew it to her lap, placing her other hand on top of mine. Shakuntrala gently rubbed my hand, starkly white next to her leathery skin. She murmured to me in the language that I did not understand. I stared out the window and watched the monsoon, there to preserve the fertility of India's earth, drip down the leaves of the Banyan tree. The sunlight filtered through and diffracted into miniature rainbows, and India opened herself up to me. Or, maybe I opened myself up to her.
Elephants
"Shiva is one of the oldest gods of India and plays many important roles. He is a devout meditator and yogi, a cosmic dancer setting the rhythms of the universe, a benevolent protector and husband ... Some think that when Shiva finishes dancing, the world will come to an end ..."
We were traveling by rickshaw through Dadar, an area of the Mumbai that was popular with the city's upper-middle class. The air was so thick with moisture that my legs kept sliding off of the vinyl seats. As usual, our auto was stopped in a traffic jam, and I occupied myself by watching the foot traffic. There were men trickling in and out of a Hindu temple, from which a symphony of finger cymbals and chanting was pouring out onto the sidewalk. I strained my neck to see inside. It was about that time that one of my traveling companions shook my arm.
"Wasn't that elephant awesome?" he exclaimed.
"What elephant?" I said, searching the street for a sign of it.
"It was just right there," he motioned to the intersection before us. "Yeah, some guy was riding it through the street, for money I guess. It was painted."
I tried not to let my disappointment show. The temple elephant had been one of India's iconic images for me. I imagined what he must have looked like. He would have been gilded with golden paint, which would have woven an intricate design, like henna on a bride's foot, up from his hoof to the fuchsia, crushed velvet saddle on his back. There would have been giant, elephant-sized anklets jingling around his feet. His name would be Ganesha, for he would have been the son of Shiva, bringing luck to his devotees. He would have been a fairy-tale brought to life, but I had missed him.
Several days later, we were visiting an old palace of one of India's fabled maharajas. It was a well-known tourist spot, complete with a pair of camels and an elephant, available for rides around the palace grounds. I eagerly purchased my ticket and climbed the shaky ladder up to the elephant's back. The saddle was more like a cage, and it was not made of crushed velvet, fuchsia or any other color. His tusks had been roughly trimmed back, and they did not glisten like glossy ivory, but rather like yellowed teeth. There were cracks in his hide, and he trudged around the circular trail without barely lifting his magnificent head. I was suddenly very aware of the heavy camera around my neck and the traveler's checks stuffed in my pockets, my burdensome tourism that he bore around the countryside. When the ride finally ended, I climbed down with my own head, far less magnificent, hung low. I silently asked Ganesha for forgiveness.
That night, the trains were not alive with dancing.
"Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."
Maya
"In Hinduism, God is thought to be made up of three gods. This holy trinity is known as the Trimurti. The three forms of this trinity are the gods Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. Hindus believe that the gods within the trinity represent ... creation, preservation, and destruction."Welcoming Committees
"In the beginning, while Vishnu slept in the infinite coils of the great serpent Sesha, it is thought that he dreamt up the creator god, Brahma, who emerged from Vishnu's navel already seated upon a perfect lotus flower. Brahma then began the work of creation, starting with the four yugas ... Each of these ages repeats 1,000 times in each cycle of creation, known as a Kalpa, which is then followed by the disillusion of the universe, known as Pralaya. It is believed that this all takes place within Vishnu's dream, which is our reality.
Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."
Upon deboarding my Hong Kong-Mumbai flight, I promptly made my way to the restroom, where I struggled to understand how to flush an Indian toilet. I gave up after several minutes and used my elbow to push my way out of the swinging door, ignoring the pleas for a tip from the frail, sari-wrapped restroom attendant, a gift-wrapped welcome present, my first official Indian acquaintance.
My traveling companions and I stumbled from a flurry of government forms and coolies chattering in Hindi into Mumbai’s slippery night air. Mangy dogs roamed the parking area, their tails curled like question marks, just like I imagined them. We clambered into a cab, and my first taste of India was the intense scent of marigolds and body odor. I kept the window rolled down for the duration of our ride to the hotel. My glasses fogged and Mumbai was veiled in a dense mist. It smelled of fish, fresh earlier that morning, left to spoil in the abandoned street markets, turmeric, chilies, and curry, wafting out through open windows, and cow dung heaped in holy piles on the side of the road. I was overwhelmed by the urge to vomit.
That night, I went to bed in the Hotel Grant, trying to stifle sobs on a worn-out mattress covered in itchy linens, of which I questioned the cleanliness. The street outside was lined with rubbish and beggars, whose moans I now imagine must have risen in through my barred window, but I did not care to hear them that night.
Yet, after several days, Hindi started to sound like musical notes tinkering off the tongues of train passengers, especially late at night when the words danced through the cars, left in the care of bony men beating out ancient rhythms on drums they held between their knees.
Rains
“It is said that good and evil forces are always battling for control of the world--the gods work to preserve the good, and the demons work to spread evil. Vishnu’s role in the great trinity is that of the invincible protector. Generally, when all is going well, good and evil are in balance. When things fall into chaos, however, Vishnu takes a trip down to earth to preserve justice. Sometimes he comes as himself, a blue four-armed
god ...”
I spent the fifth evening in the Hotel Grant hobbling between the restroom and my bed, my stomach retching with little success. A fever sent chilly tremors through my body while sweat soaked through my nightclothes.
I felt well enough the next day to venture out with my companions to the other side of the city, where we were to spend the evening with a family whom we had become acquainted with throughout the week. In the midst of our visit, the fever returned. I felt my body temperature climbing out of the confines of my punjabi suit. Despite the ever-present heat radiating through the thin walls, the chills set in, and I noticed Shakuntrala watching me from across the room.
The old family matriarch was perched on the bed with the end of her blue sari draped over her head. She smiled and patted the space next to her, the universal motion for inviting someone to sit beside you. I went. The tiny woman took my hand and drew it to her lap, placing her other hand on top of mine. Shakuntrala gently rubbed my hand, starkly white next to her leathery skin. She murmured to me in the language that I did not understand. I stared out the window and watched the monsoon, there to preserve the fertility of India's earth, drip down the leaves of the Banyan tree. The sunlight filtered through and diffracted into miniature rainbows, and India opened herself up to me. Or, maybe I opened myself up to her.
Elephants
"Shiva is one of the oldest gods of India and plays many important roles. He is a devout meditator and yogi, a cosmic dancer setting the rhythms of the universe, a benevolent protector and husband ... Some think that when Shiva finishes dancing, the world will come to an end ..."
We were traveling by rickshaw through Dadar, an area of the Mumbai that was popular with the city's upper-middle class. The air was so thick with moisture that my legs kept sliding off of the vinyl seats. As usual, our auto was stopped in a traffic jam, and I occupied myself by watching the foot traffic. There were men trickling in and out of a Hindu temple, from which a symphony of finger cymbals and chanting was pouring out onto the sidewalk. I strained my neck to see inside. It was about that time that one of my traveling companions shook my arm.
"Wasn't that elephant awesome?" he exclaimed.
"What elephant?" I said, searching the street for a sign of it.
"It was just right there," he motioned to the intersection before us. "Yeah, some guy was riding it through the street, for money I guess. It was painted."
I tried not to let my disappointment show. The temple elephant had been one of India's iconic images for me. I imagined what he must have looked like. He would have been gilded with golden paint, which would have woven an intricate design, like henna on a bride's foot, up from his hoof to the fuchsia, crushed velvet saddle on his back. There would have been giant, elephant-sized anklets jingling around his feet. His name would be Ganesha, for he would have been the son of Shiva, bringing luck to his devotees. He would have been a fairy-tale brought to life, but I had missed him.
Several days later, we were visiting an old palace of one of India's fabled maharajas. It was a well-known tourist spot, complete with a pair of camels and an elephant, available for rides around the palace grounds. I eagerly purchased my ticket and climbed the shaky ladder up to the elephant's back. The saddle was more like a cage, and it was not made of crushed velvet, fuchsia or any other color. His tusks had been roughly trimmed back, and they did not glisten like glossy ivory, but rather like yellowed teeth. There were cracks in his hide, and he trudged around the circular trail without barely lifting his magnificent head. I was suddenly very aware of the heavy camera around my neck and the traveler's checks stuffed in my pockets, my burdensome tourism that he bore around the countryside. When the ride finally ended, I climbed down with my own head, far less magnificent, hung low. I silently asked Ganesha for forgiveness.
That night, the trains were not alive with dancing.
"Thus, everything we know is maya (illusion), or merely a figment of Vishnu's imagination."
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