Why Snow in April is OK

It is April 23.  And there is more snow on the ground than there was in December.  For even the heartiest snow lovers, it is beginning to feel oppressive. I am proud of the fact that I learned to snow blow- out of duress,  but I'm done now.  As I started to feel mildly depressed, Monday came along and I received my weekly perspective check.

At Solvay last night, I found myself once again in room 204.  It's funny how a room can change so much based on who is in it. 204 was bright last night- full balloons and birthday cards.  Sitting up in a chair, eating what may have been spaghetti, was an elegant 95 year old lady full of smiles. I will call her Sense.  I did not want to interrupt her dinner but she waved me in and told me to have a seat.  It's hard to describe the sense of calm I felt upon sitting down, but it is as though it washed over me.  Sense looked at me and asked, 'Well, how are you?'  I smiled and told her I was fine- it's always hard to know exactly where our conversations are going to lead.

I asked her about the balloons, and she acknowledged that the day before was her birthday. She chuckled and then told me that she'd told her family to go back to their lives; that she was set, and didn't didn't need them to stick around.  Sense looked at me matter-of-factly and said, 'This is it for me. I've buried my husband, my sisters, my friends. I've sold my house, moved out of my apartment, and made the arrangements for my funeral. I'm here for end.'  Until January, she had been entirely independent. One trip to the dentist over a loose tooth change all- she was diagnosed with a fast growing mouth cancer resistant to treatment.  I sat for a moment, after she'd finished talking- maybe I looked uncomfortable. She said, 'Well it's just life, Dear. I lived long and I've lived well.'

She's right, of course.  So much is out of our control.  Bad things happen. Boston happens. Texas happens.  Life happens.  What are we left with? 

I asked Sense how she remained so strong for so many years. She smiled and said, 'I'm not strong at all. I just put one foot in front of the other...every day.' 

So that is what we are left with...moving forward one step at a time, appreciating life for all of its beauty- the happiness more profound because of the sadness, and light so much brighter because of the dark. 

It  seems that Sense was trying to tell me that life is what we make of it. Regardless of what happens, each day we have the opportunity to move forward, to control how we choose to act and who to be in spite of all that we can't control. 

So it's snowing in April. I suppose I need to bring my skis back up from the basement.

On Boston

I don't even know where to start.  So much has been said already, when truly, there really isn't anything that can be said to capture the horror of yesterday.  What is most appalling to me, is that a marathon is such a beautiful testament to belief in oneself and the power of a strong will.  Yes, it helps to get some miles in before you attempt such a feat, but ultimately, it comes down to the power of one's mind and the grit to keep going no matter what.

To qualify for and compete at Boston is often seen as the pinnacle achievement for marathoners.  It takes at least one marathon to get there, and another to finish.  The beauty is wrapped up in the goal and refusal to give up no matter how many times one tries.  The beauty is in the hope and belief in the power of the human will. Marathoners are often solitary beings- honoring the journey as much as the destination. I don't suppose any marathoner would tell you running a marathon is easy, no matter how many they have run. So why bother? Maybe it is for the sheer joy of setting a goal and reaching it. Or perhaps, it has to do with renewing faith in oneself, affirming that one is stronger than one thinks

I feel then, that to bomb  a marathon is to attack hope;  an assault on one of the greatest aspects of being human. Those that were finishing yesterday when the bombs went off would not have started with the first wave of runners. They were not elite runners- likely those who had spent years trying to get there. They would have been coming in a little after 4 hours of running, just to the point where they could allow their knees to buckle, just a little, because they finally knew they were going to make it. Their families were likely at the finish. 4 hours of suspense,  wondering whether the runner they took home would be the satisfied (finished) kind, or....the other kind...hope, hope, hoping that their own hope be able to supplement their runner's on one of the several 'heartbreak' hills (there are more than one). And the spectators. Those young and old, those who came to just to see, and bear witness to the strength of the human will.  These are the people that were killed.

Yesterday, as news came out about what happened, it seemed that everyone was concerned about their special someone...anyone they knew that happened to be in the area. It does make tragedy stab a little deeper when we are personally affected, but truth to be told, it really doesn't matter who was hurt,  because it was someone. It was someone's someone. Even if we don't know them, we can imagine what they are feeling; what happened when they asked the same question...Is ____ okay?...and learned that they were not.  Everyone is someone's someone.  I think about this sometimes when I'm in 'annoying' places, like waiting in line at a store, or even walking on a crowded street...all of the people- every one of them is someone's someone, and there is a person out there somewhere who would likely do anything to trade places with me...just to be near their someone for a few extra moments.  We never really know who we are with, or how long we have with them.  I guess we can only try to love as much as possible, no matter who we are with...even in the annoying places.

So, Boston attackers, my counter attack is to continue to love, to hope, and to run.  More than before...though maybe not the running part.

Time Passes

It's been a long time since I posted anything.  Please be advised, I DID make it home from India:) I was so sure that once I was home, I'd never want to go back.  But time passes, and so do (good?) ideas.  Anyway, I wouldn't mind going back again some day. Never as a tourist- I wouldn't feel right about it. What I saw in the villages visits me every day. I see it when I get frustrated with the inconveniences in my own life, and it adds perspective. My problems aren't that bad. First world problems- that's all.

I woke up this morning and my heart was heavy. I'd been meaning to start this blog again, and for some reason, I decided today was the day.  It is likely that no one will read it because it's been so long, but that's OK. By putting my thoughts into the world, it helps validate them, whether or not anyone else ever encounters them. I'm writing for me, then, I suppose.

Last night, I volunteered at hospice again- part of my Monday routine.  It rarely hits me in the moment, but I am quite certain it has some large part to do with my heavy heart this morning.  I wasn't planning on staying long last night- I was tired, so I'd even contemplated skipping the whole thing.  I went. It was very quiet, so I thought I'd make cookies and leave.  As I was collecting my things, one of the nurses asked if I wouldn't mind sitting in one of the patient rooms for awhile.  The man in room 204 was dying. This may sound silly because since it's hospice, everyone is dying.  But 204 was really dying.  His eyes were open and his breathing was heavy.  He had a yellow rosary wrapped in his hands. His arms were so thin, and I could see his shoulder blades...but he looked comfortable.  This was the first time I have sat with someone so close to death.  It's an odd experience, wondering who this person was, and why he is alone during his final hours. 
At the foot of his bed, there was a table holding a collection of things. 'Life' things. A phone, a wallet, a favorite hat. I am always struck by the power of the objects left behind.  They become so pointless. 

I started to talk, and then I started to sing...very softly. I don't sing. I don't know where it came from, but it seemed right.  I sang whatever came into my mind, largely relying on 9 years of Catholic grade school and hymms  lodged forever in my memory.  At one point, and I may have made it up, but I felt my had squeezed in return. Eventually, he closed his eyes, and probably because they had been open for so long, some tears escaped.  Or, maybe he saw something beautiful that moved his heart and made him cry. I don't know.  I just got to watch.

People ask me why I choose to spend time in hospice.  It's hard to explain.  Suffice it to say, I used to hear or read about these amazing people who had died. It made me so sad that I'd missed the opportunity to meet them while they were alive.  Hospice is kind of the last chance to meet these people.  It's one final chance to celebrate who they are, and honor their life by bearing witness to its end.  It also helps me to honor significance of life a little bit more.  I leave feeling thankful, and reminded to honor the people in my life every day I get to spend with them.

I don't know if the man in room 204 is still alive.  I will watch the paper, and return next week to start the process over again. My heart is heavy, but the heaviness is love, and that's ok.

Alright, it's been one week. Things are still challenging, but my perspective has changed. I have learned that 'learning to cope' is a privilege. If this is all I knew, I would have no difficulty; I would know no different. This being said, I find myself incredibly grateful for a myriad of things that are so simple, yet so missed when lacking. Case in point, this morning I am feeling grand for 2 reasons. 1) They served tea at breakfast. 2) Tonight I will have clean clothes.

A brief note about the tea... it was triumph turned tragedy, then remedied by selfless kindness. Once a day, most but not all days, we get to have tea at breakfast. Simple black tea, yet hot, soothing, and caffeinated... I like to hold my cup for a few minutes before drinking, enjoying the anticipation and contemplating what the fist sip will be like. WELL, this particular morning, a mosquito landed on my hand during my revelry. Always contemplating if 'this' mosquito is the one that will give me malaria, I got flustered and in a flurry of motion to get the miniature beast off of my hand, I dropped my sacred cup of tea. It was like watching the ice-cream fall off its cone before the first lick. Before I even had time to react, one of my teammates gave me their cup of tea reasoning that they would have the 'chai' later which they know I don't like. This was the nicest thing anyone could have done for me at this moment. It seems so dumb- a cup of tea, and yet when it is one of the only luxuries, this particular kindness was unparalleled. I think the greatest gifts do not depend on how big or how costly, but on the simply gesture behind them. I like this because it doesn't ration the potential for kindness on any level.

In respect to clean clothes, I have been wearing pretty much the same skirt since I've been here and rotating between 3 shirts. 3 AMAZING shirts that keep you cool all day. Anyway, there is a bucket in our room that we have tried to wash with, but due to the humidity, things do not dry and then they smell. 2 days ago, we heard rumors of a washing machine. This morning, we FOUND IT! It is armed by a very little woman who has insisted on washing our clothes for us (we will pay her). She speaks no English, but is very sweet. I couldn't even hold it against her when while organizing our things for washing, she held up my underwear for all to see...:)

Promise to write more soon. Please keep emailing, it's really nice.

I am in Orissa, and finding myself challenged. I will provide more details at a later time, but feel it is best not to focus too much on them right now. Suffice it to say that I am well, and noone has gotten sick yet. I am thankful to be with good people, and for the mosquito nets that were just put up.

Both internet and power is sketchy, so updates will be infrequent. Please feel free to email.

Humility

I don't even know where to start. I am on sensory overload. Delhi is a city of contrasts. It is ugly and beautiful at the same time, though often the beauty is less defined. On one hand, it is big and dirty- poverty is everywhere. On the other, people are kind, hardworking, and a vivid portrayal of what it means to be alive.
In some ways, it feels like I've jumped back in time. Everything is about 3 decades behind what is familiar in the US. While there are some very nice roads, they an anomaly. People seem to be building things everywhere, surrounded by the remnants of whatever it was they tore down. While the men all wear western clothing, it is very rare to see women in anything other than a sari. They are very elegant, even as they sit sideways behind their husbands on the ubiquitous motorcycles dominating the streets. I have not seen a single woman wearing a helmet, though they seem to be popular with the men.
If people aren't on motorcycles (sometimes entire families of 4 on ONE CYCLE), they are in very small cars, or in motorized rickshaws they call 'tuk-tuts.' It's hard to walk more than 5 feet without and equal number of 'tuk-tut' drivers asking if you want a ride. They look like 3 wheeled motorized bikes- a little scary considering they share the road with such crazy drivers, and don't have horns like everyone else (who use them not to tell people not to hit them, but to announce that THEY will hit you if you don't get out of the way.) Stoplights are the worst. It is when the street children are most evident. Yesterday, 2 little boys approached- one playing a drum, and another who had a painted mustache and bow-tie on his face, danced and did cartwheels. After their performance, they draped themselves on the windows of our car. It is so hard not to question why them and not me. Why were they born in this very poor country where there opportunity is limited from the day they were born? It is an entirely humbling thought. Later in the afternoon, we were approached again by another little girl. As soon as the car stopped, she was at our window. Tiny and dirty. I was sitting in the middle, so saw her first on Hallie's side of the car. She must have seen that the other window was open because we blinked and she was gone...only to hear Kim yelp seconds later as she was met with little arms reaching for her. She seemed to be looking at my large half-full water bottle, so I lifted it up and gave it to her. As we drove off, I watched her carry her carry it way like it was a treasure, just a little water.
We have only one meeting today, so we plan to visit some temples. We went to a Hindu one on Wednesday, which was really interesting. We had to leave our shoes at the door, and I was informed that since my shirt did not have long enough sleeves, I would need to borrow a scarf to cover my shoulders. It was a beautiful orange scarf that I enjoyed wearing, careful not to imagine all the indecent shoulders it had covered before my own. The temple itself was magnificent; huge, ornate, and clean. I know very little about the Hindu faith, though I really believe that God speaks many languages, and was clearly speaking very loudly to the people who built and maintained this temple. Another very humbling experience. We plan to visit both another Hindu temple, as well as a Buddhist one today.
I could go on and on, but will save it for later. It's almost 8 am, and its time for a shower.

Alright. It's currently 10:30 in the morning here. Im wearing what I had on yesterday, though I got to shower so Im pretending I changed into clean clothes. I'm feeling really grateful that I made last minute decision not to wear jeans (thanks Mom:) ). While there is no gurantee when/ if my bag will ever turn up, I get to spend up to 100 euros that the airline will reimburse... if I do that today, and my bag comes tonight, then I consider it my victory. I brought everything I couldn't live without in my carry-on, so really all it is is frustrating. As I watched all the other hundreds of bags rolling along the carousel I kept telling myself that 'someone's bag always had to be last...' Well that's true- it just didnt happen to be mine.
Anyway, when I finally got out of the airport, Kim, Maulin, and 'our driver' were waiting for me. After a wild ride (shut your eyes and go), we arrived at 'Hotel Clark.' It is really nice... clean, air-conditioned, soft sheets, and a wonderful shower!!! The electricity seems to randomly go on and off, but it never stays off for more than a few seconds. We had a free continental breakfast this morning, which was very nice. It felt like the fresh mango was calling my name, BUT I said, 'no fresh mango...even though you look delicious, I WILL not eat you.'
We are off now to do some exploring before meeting with a 'water specialist' at the World Bank. It's about 110 degrees outside, so first stop is water. My Dad told me that the heat would feel like a wall upon getting off plane. He's right. It feels heavy and strange. More to come!