Pongal, another chance for renewal

Originally Posted on the Common Threads Blog
Centre Daily Times, January 15, 2009

This New Year is already beginning to feel a little old, as the days go by very quickly. Our family was lucky to have another opportunity for renewal yesterday, another chance to start afresh, as we celebrated the festival of Pongal, or Makara Sankranthi, which falls every year on January 14th.

This day marks the Sun’s transition from one sign in the zodiac (Sagittarius) to another (Capricorn), and is celebrated widely, all over India. It is also referred to as Uttarayana, or the northern movement of the Sun, and is a joyous occasion, reflecting the gradual movement in the northern hemisphere towards longer days, and eventually summer.

Houses are cleaned, the old is discarded, and schools are closed in preparation for and celebration of the festival. The central role of the sun in all our lives is celebrated, as also the role of animals and birds, and nature. And people consider this a good day to start new ventures in their personal and professional lives.
All of these celebrations are of course accompanied by a whole lot of delicious and special food.

At our home in State College, we celebrated Pongal without the holiday that accompanies the festival in India, and tried to pull it off on a weekday, as best as we could. My husband and I shared stories of our childhood experiences with our daughter, managing to transfer a little bit of family traditions, some history, some memories, and some experiences to look forward to again next year, in the context of our life here.

After all, isn’t that what life is all about? The creation of some special memories, which we hope to recreate year after year – of using the day to get in touch with family, to make a special meal, to offer prayers, to capture the sense of continuity and renewal, all in one single day.

Now, if we could only manage to keep all the wonderful energy of today intact, and find the sense of renewal and continuity, day after day.

Listening - the StoryCorps Gift Idea

Originally Posted on the Common Threads Blog,
Centre Daily Times, November 18, 2008

I was intrigued when I heard the concept of the National Day of Listening, on NPR.

Thanks to Google, I soon found out about StoryCorps, a nonprofit organization, that has declared November 28, 2008 the first annual National Day of Listening.

StoryCorps was founded to help Americans record their stories, thereby preserving Ourstories - not just the histories of our leaders, but the history of common people. StoryCorps booths have been set up in different geographical locations.

They are also being used to capture the specific history of groups dispersed across the country – some examples of these are of people affected by 9/11, African Americans and even those who are losing their memory to diseases like Alzheimer’s.

As I read about StoryCorps, I thought of their slogan of “Listening is the greatest gift.” Of course, each of us has a story. And that story can be discovered only when someone else takes the time to both ask questions and to listen.

To the grandparent that lived through a recession, or a war, and the one that did not do either. To the parent that had a fairy tale childhood and the one that did not. To the aunt that broke barriers and the one that did not. To the uncle that was scarred by the death of a sibling, and the one that did not live up to his potential.

Each one of us has a story, a story of being defined by the details of the particular cards that are dealt to us. And our lives are but a collection of the memories that make up our story, as we respond to these specific cards.

Our memories can also create and affect the history of the others that wander into our lives, and into whose lives we wander. They can empower them or affect them negatively – but they certainly can teach them about the lessons of possibilities, about forks in the road, about choices made, and journeys undertaken.

More importantly, though, listening to each other’s stories creates bonds, and we are no longer strangers. Both participants gain value to their lives by the act of speaking and listening with empathy. And bit by bit, like “The Little Prince,” we may begin to care, and may even understand - both the meaning of their lives and that of ours.

This National Day of Listening is a good thing. I do not plan to rent the StoryCorps kit, but I certainly like the idea of practicing more listening in my life. More active listening to my daughter and the rest of my family, my friends and my acquaintances – that would be the first step. We all seem to run around in our own little worlds, and I know that even if I have the inclination, making the time for it would be a very hard challenge.

But I plan to try, and once I do more of this, perhaps actively “listening” to strangers would also come more naturally to me – and the precarious world we live in today could certainly use more of the empathy that would come with such interactions.

Summer Connections

Originally Posted on the Common Threads Blog
Centre Daily Times, Sept 4, 2008

I have been away from State College for a little more than five weeks now.

My family and I travelled long distances physically and emotionally as we made our way to India, where we spent a few weeks. My husband and I met family, and also got some work done – our ten year old daughter however, was determined to exclusively make it a family oriented vacation.

She played with first and second cousins, and any other children she befriended in India. And I watched fascinated, as the kids made their connections with each other.

My daughter spoke Malayalam or English, and sometimes a little Tamil, with most of the children she met – they could be seen running around, reading, working on art projects, watching movies, playing computer games or engaged in pretend play.

And even when she met children with whom she did not share a common language, they resorted to universal games like catch or hide and seek, and had a delightful time.

Often, I heard them trading stories about their school experiences. They exchanged email addresses to keep in touch, and I am soon expecting emails to be flying across the oceans.

Then came our stay in the United Kingdom. At the international conference my husband was attending, attendees came from forty different countries, and my daughter met a few children of other attendees. Some spoke no English, or were shy to use it. And yet, during our days at the conference, the kids found ways to interact with each other.

My daughter made friends with a 12 year old from Korea, who initiated contact by asking for my daughter’s signature in an autograph book she was creating.

My daughter learnt how to ask her yes/no questions, and forged a working relationship with her. Then there was the 8 year old from Portugal, who used his camera to capture everything around him, and who promised to keep in touch by email.

And a ten year old from Japan who made origami creations for my daughter, who reciprocated by drawing pictures for her.

All these children were able to overcome linguistic and cultural barriers to find a way to connect. They used the common language of childhood, sometimes playing, building, and even simply smiling – managing to form bonds, in spite of being raised on different continents.

I wonder how their relationships will evolve, and whether they will manage to stay in touch.

All of us adults, who got to watch these children connect, shared a common language too - as we watched the children indulgently, and laughed at how easily they got along, and how similar they were in what they wanted to do with their time together. Children will be children, our laughter and smiles seemed to indicate… they are the same everywhere.

I wonder if the adults grasped how similar we were to each other, and how we too could easily find myriad ways to connect. As long as we are willing to acknowledge and understand the language of our common humanity.

A Perfect Mother's Day Gift?

Originally Posted on the Common Threads Blog
Centre Daily Times, May 9, 2008

President Woodrow Wilson officially designated the second Sunday in May as a national observance of Mother's Day, in 1914.

And since then, we have found myriad ways to commemorate it - with flowers, gifts, calls, visits, cards, and special gestures, including taking Mom out to dinner. The National Restaurant Association says that Mother’s Day is the second most popular day to dine out, with about 38% of adults heading to a restaurant (the most popular reason is for a birthday celebration)

My daughter looks forward to eating out when we travel, or when we are busy, or when we go out for some other reason. Unlike me, she would probably like to go out for dinner on Mother’s Day.

But I grew up in India, where my family typically did not eat out, unless they had to. And as an adult, I find that I enjoy eating out sometimes, but usually prefer home cooked meals.

For me, there is something special about food cooked by those who know you, made specifically with you in mind. As when made by people (parents, siblings, uncles, aunts, friends) who know your individual tastes and preferences. As a friend of mine said, “It is made with love for you, and that is hard to find elsewhere.”

Perhaps that is why, when I go back to India to visit my parents and other family, I find myself wanting to only eat at home. I enjoy our family time together, both while creating, and partaking of the food.

Taking my mother out to dinner for any celebration would not work, because she considers food prepared at home supreme to all others.

When I call her to wish her a Happy Mother’s Day, she thanks me graciously, but I know that she believes that a mother is to be valued every single day – that every day should be Mother’s Day (and Father’s Day and Grandparents’ Day and Children’s Day and so on).

And she does not care much for things, so gifts of things are ruled out.
What she does care for are relationships, embodied in connections and time spent together.

So a phone call would be a good gift. And perhaps there can be a gift in the content of the conversation.

Perhaps I could share with her that I do finally “get” some of what she said and did when I was growing up.

I can tell her that I am grateful for her persistence at the daily routines of mothering, for always showing up and being there for me.

That I now realize the extent of the hard work she put into sustaining the daily rhythms of our lives.

That I value the nuggets of wisdom she imparted daily, in the midst of ordinary routines, wisdom gleaned from scriptures, stories, common sense and her own experiences.

I can tell her that these nuggets are the founding steps of my evolving philosophy of life.

I can also tell her that she was right, when she told me that I would eventually understand her words and actions, when I have a child of my own. Because I have begun to understand.

As I think of the possible content of my phone call on Mother's Day, I remember the words of a friend’s adult daughter.

She shared with me that she truly valued her parents now. “But don’t tell them, yet,” she whispered with a mischievous smile.

I hope, though, that she has already told them, on some very special day, or better yet, on an ordinary one.

I know her parents would cherish this knowledge of their value to her.

The knowledge that the phase of “rolling her eyes” has changed into an appreciation of them, and of all the rhythms they created, day in and day out, as they wove the matrix of her life and her memories.

Now that I am a mother, I know that if this was the conversation at any mother’s day dinner, it would certainly constitute the perfect gift.

Goodbyes at Dulles Airport

Originally Posted in the Common Threads Blog
Centre Daily Times, August 14, 2007

I was at Washington Dulles International Airport yesterday - to see off my parents, who were returning to India.

They had been visiting us over the summer, and had suddenly cut short their trip on hearing that my grandmother, who lives in India, was unwell.

My parents checked in, and had an hour to spare, before they headed out through security and to the gates.

An hour to sit down and take a breath, after the whirlwind of the previous 24 hours leading to this abrupt change in plans and sudden departure.

An hour to reflect on the possibilities of the future, and hold on to the hope that my grandmother would pull through this illness.

An hour to reflect on the good times of the past months we had spent together - and put the interrupted plans of the month ahead in the larger perspective of life.

An hour to tell each other to take care of ourselves.

An hour that led to the time to wave our goodbyes - each of us, especially my mother and my daughter, struggling with the sadness of the moment, and learning to deal with its inevitability.

I waved goodbye till I could no longer see them, and then turned to leave - and saw the face of another woman, also turning, with the same expression of sadness I had, trying not to let the suppressed tears flow out..

I looked ahead, and saw a couple standing together, taking a photograph of themselves with a polaroid camera held out with an extended hand.

I heard someone, asking a child “to be good and take care of mother when I am gone.”

I saw a group of people, craning their heads and trying to get a glimpse of someone who had just gone past the security area.

I heard a woman, checking the departure screen, voicing the thought in our heads, “Should we leave now, or wait till the plane departs?”

And I could not help feeling the common humanity of all our lives - in the intensity of the connections that we all share with those we care about...

Like me, each of these people, no matter what their race, religion, ethnicity, gender or nationality - must have had a story which had brought them to this airport, and this moment of goodbye.

More than six billion people on this earth, and yet at that moment, each of us had eyes and thoughts only for the ones we were being separated from, by circumstances of our individual lives.

And as I finally left the airport, after my parents plane had taken off, I realized that if we could only hang on to the universality of such human experiences, our other “differences” would cease to matter..


Update - Good News
Submitted by Common Threads on Fri, 2007-08-31 10:40.
My thanks to all of you who called, or emailed, or stopped me on the street to ask about my grandmother, and my family.

My thanks to everyone who was touched by this article - thanks for sharing your positive responses, and for being able to relate to the common experiences that link us all.

I want to let you all know that my grandmother is doing well now, and is almost back to her normal routines.

Again, many thanks for your concern and support.

Goodbyes
Submitted by CommonMan on Sat, 2007-08-18 12:09.
Thanks for writing such a beautiful piece. It brought memories back for me. I hope humanity can get connected through the common thread of love, affection and care.

CommonMan

The Power of an Ashley Bryan Experience

The Power of an Ashley Bryan Experience
Originally Posted in the Common Threads Blog on July 4th, 2007 .

This past Friday, I was at Schlow library, thanks to a poetry phase my daughter is enjoying.

We went there to listen to award winning poet, illustrator and teacher Ashley Bryan, who transformed the place with the power of his presence and his performance

My parents, daughter and I sat enthralled as Ashley Bryan got the entire audience to repeat Langston Hughes’ poem “My people.” The room resonated with our pride in the beauty of our individual identities.

After that, he introduced many poems – by himself and others like Langston Hughes and Nikki Giovanni.

Some were based on folktales from other lands, and some described moments in ordinary lives. As we repeated the poems, in different beats and rhythms, he guided us to find the poet’s voice, accent and experience. And in doing so, we found our own voices, in the commonality and pride of all our experiences.

I am so thankful for the magic of that hour with Ashley Bryan.

I later researched his work – and discovered a man who had been nourished by the act of storytelling in his family and community. A man who loves books and art. A man whose work fosters pride in the self, supports learning our individual, family and community histories, and creates respect for other people’s histories.

This encounter with Ashley Bryan has reminded me to cherish the ongoing storytelling in my family – to treasure the memories and stories of our family and pass them on. To take pride in our history and culture, while respecting other ways of living.

And summer is usually family time for us, when we visit extended family or they visit us.

We share stories of the past year and create the tapestry of individual and collective memories that makes us who we are; we share our interests and expand our horizons.

A sad moment gets put into perspective, and funny events get shared again and again for more laughs. The stories themselves achieve mythical proportions, defining who we are and where we came from, giving us lessons, experiences and benchmarks for the future.

And as we share stories of the past, our present time together creates new memories for the summers to come