Happy here and now (scenes from an airport)

Waiting at the end of that long yellowed hall that connects the gates to baggage claim, a woman stands apart from the drivers who hold their name cards.  Dressed in a black slip of a dress, a gauzy black shawl is draped over her shoulders. Chewing her gum, hard, distorts her delicate features into a manly grimace. Her layered hair swept in feathers from her heavily made-up and overly tanned face, she holds a single red rose.

I can see her from baggage claim, and keep watch to see who she's waiting for.  What if she greets an elderly woman, or her boss?  Is this her "airport outfit," complete with props, based on a bad 1970s mini-series?  She appears to give up, and I lose her in the crowd, wandering toward the door. What?  Did he/she somehow sneak by her?  Or is she the token crazy airport lady, waiting for a long-lost love who will never show?

"The white zone is for passenger loading and unloading.  All other vehicles will be towed." Translation:  "Welcome to L.A.  Good luck, suckers."

Horns honk, drivers curse, near-misses at 20 mph allow exhausted travelers to avoid being slowly run down by taxis. A bomb-sniffing German Shepherd (so identified by his vest) runs happily through it all, ahead of his humans who wander a few steps behind, bored and trying to look intimidating while calling out, "Boomer! Don't play in the street."  Boomer may have it all figured out, all these angry humans swarming in and out of the white zone who don't know they should be playing.

"If you are not happy here and now, you never will be."
~Taisen Deshimaru

(Photo: Ugly LAX traffic courtesy laist)

Gentle infidel (Have you read this book?)

Despite a fatwa declared on him, Greg Mortenson continued to build schools and vocational centers in Northern Pakistan.  In deference of the nation and their religion, Mortenson promised other religious leaders that if they thought he was doing anything against Islam, he would leave Pakistan forever. Later, he faced "the eight imposing black-turbaned members of the Council of Mullahs," to receive his fate.

"With due ceremony, Syed Abbas tiled back the lid of the box, withdrew a scroll of parchment wrapped in red ribbon, unfurled it, and revealed Mortenson's future. 'Dear Compassionate of the Poor,' he translated from the elegant Farsi calligraphy, 'our Holy Koran tells us all children should receive education, including our daughters and sisters. Your noble work follows the highest principles of Islam, to tend to the poor and sick. In the Holy Koran there is no law to prohibit an infidel from providing assistance to our Muslim brothers and sisters. Therefore,' the decree concluded, 'we direct all clerics in Pakistan to not interfere with your noble intentions. You have our permission, blessings, and prayers.'"

Khanday Schoolgirls with new uniforms. Pakistan.

Later, "after attending a conference of development experts in Bangladesh, Mortenson decided CAI schools should educate students only up through the fifth grade and focus on increasing the enrollment of girls. 'Once you educate the boys, they tend to leave the villages and go search for work in the cities,' Mortenson explains. 'But the girls stay home, become leaders int he community, and pass on what they've learned. If you really want to change a culture, to empower women, improve basic hygiene and health care, and fight high rates of infant mortality, the answer is to educate girls.'"

Kashmiri refugees in school. Pakistan.

..."Cricket hero Imran Khan had become a sort of secular saint. And rippling out from Mortenson's headquarters in Skardu, over the parched dunes, through the twisting gorges, and up the weatherbound valleys of Baltistan, the legend of a gentle infidel called Dr. Greg was likewise growing." (Three Cups of Tea)

Greg Mortenson with Gultori schoolchildren. Pakistan.

(Photos courtesy Central Asia Institute) 

Buy Three Cups of Tea at Powells.com or Amazon.com

and my next read Stones into Schools at Powells.com or Amazon.com

Word(s) for 2010: Embrace | Abundance

I've never been a New Year's Resolutions girl, it always seemed arbitrary.  But something about this new year, so round and full in it's 2010-ness, made me want to pay special attention, to use the arbitrary turning of our created calendar as a wake-up kick, a little caffeine for my soul.  At her blog Ink on my fingers, Susannah warns about choosing a word for the year: "If you set your intention on a word, it might just come true, hence the need to choose your word wisely."

I thought my word was embrace, but then the word abundance came to mind.  Rather than let them fight it out, I realized that embrace encompasses abundance. Embrace allows for all. I like that the image of embrace is both of arms wide open, with acceptance, and enclosing someone or something in ones arms, holding it tight.  Too often I'm afraid to follow through on something, to commit. In embrace, with arms both open and enclosing, there is no fear.

I've posted this excerpt before, but it says so well what I hope for this year, how I want to focus my intention.

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom; taking the world into my arms.

When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

(When Death Comes, by Mary Oliver)

And one of my favorite pictures of embrace, a lion hugging its rescuer.



(Top photo: Tell me the rest of the story, by dianalemieux, etsy.com)

Free me from the mundane: A no-traditions traditional New Year's Eve

I don't have a traditional New Year's Eve. My top two favorites so far fall under the categories of best and hilariously worst. Best: Inside a stone church with arched red doors on a cold, clear night in Portland. Listening to music through the ages (including those alpenhorns used in the Ricola commercials), culminating with a candlelit chorus of Auld Lang Syne as bagpipers marched up the aisle. Worst: My sister, friend Teresa and I sitting in my parent's living room watching a dude from high school youth group count down songs on public access TV.

My first New Year's Eve in Kosovo started in the living room of an Albanian friend, sharing sweet, strong tea (caj), coffee and cookies with his family. At 10 o’clock, my Finnish friend and I announced that we were heading downtown to see what festivities might be taking place. The family looked confused as we said our goodbyes, slipping on our shoes and scarves at the door, kissing their warm cheeks and wishing them a happy 2006. They warned us once again that nothing would be happening downtown, restaurants and cafes closed, so that they might reopen at midnight and party long into the new year.

We didn't buy it. It was 10pm on New Year’s Eve! And the main street on the Albanian side of the divided city of Mitrovica, Kosovo was empty. I half expected to see a tumbleweed roll by, and catch the furtive glimpse of a pioneer woman shielding kids behind her skirt from some inevitable gunfight.

I'm happy with no traditional New Year's Eve celebration. It reminds me to be open to whatever might come, not tied to a pattern. It reminds me what the symbolism of the New Year is, excited for the unknown and unexpected. In a sense, to not have a tradition IS my tradition.

How are you celebrating the unexpected this new year? Cheers to all that is hoped for and all that may happen in 2010. Happy New Year!

"Change is good. It invites us to grow, encourages us to experience new things and welcome new people into our lives, and ultimately frees us from the mundane." ~ Madisyn Taylor, Daily OM

(Night Explosions by KidALyn, Etsy.com)

Agave moments: We've got it so good

Today's Portlandian adventures included sister-time shopping at Moxie, a boutique on Burnside that sells beautiful and affordable clothes, hats, jewelry, much of it locally made. An inviting sofa offers a place to sit or toss your bag while you explore the small store. I tried on hats and mugged for the mirror in between giving my best fashion advice on layers for my sister's upcoming trip to the cold climes of Holland and Paris. I think her husband learned a lot as well: how, where and when to wear a skinny belt, why A-line cuts are always flattering, and perhaps to find another errand while sisters shop.

But in the midst of a debate about how a certain cut of fabric fit, I had that sudden moment of realizing just how good we have it. What a luxury to worry about the flattering fit of beautiful clothes, when other girls are happy to have a dress or sweater to keep them warm. And don't get me wrong, I love a great-fitting, figure-flattering dress.  But it's that awareness that I want to foster, to be more than just odd moments in life, but my way of seeing my place in this world.

It reminds me of the idea of "Agave moment" I read about in Philip Gourevitch's piece about philanthropist Greg Carr in the Dec. 21|28 issue of The New Yorker. Carr's interest in theatre led him to a fascination with the Agave moment, the moment one changes, that one sees "themselves engaged in action of a kind that they wanted to believe they stood against." Reading ancient Greek drama, "the play that really blew Carr away was 'The Bacchae,' in which the women of Thebes rebel against the city's Apollonian order (sunshine and rationality) and turn to worshipping Dionysus (night and debauchery). The leader of these women is called Agave, and her son Pentheus is the king of Thebes, and one night, in a Bacchanalian frenzy, the women set upon him, and Agave tears his head off. 'And she's holding this bloody head in her hands, Carr told me. 'And she kind of looks at him, and she goes, Oh, that's my son. And then she has this moment of recognition, like, Who am I? What have I become? I've been fever-following a god and, um, I don't know who I am anymore.  Maybe I've been following the wrong god. What path am I on?'"  ...

"In Carr's own life, there was no severed head, no drama worthy of Euripides, but the chapter that was at odds with the way he thinks of himself was, he said the years he spent as a 'crazed businessman'... ."

That same day I read the first few chapters of Greg Mortenson's story, Three Cups of Tea, about how he came to dedicate his life to building schools and educating the kids of Pakistan and Afghanistan. 

"After the last note of the anthem had faded, the children sat in a neat circle and began copying their multiplication tables. Most scratched in the dirt with sticks they'd brought for that purpose. The more fortunate, like Jahan, had slate boards they wrote on with sticks dipped in a mixture of mud and water. 'Can you imagine a fourth-grade class in America, alone, without a teacher, sitting there quietly and working on their lessons?' Mortenson asks. 'I felt like my heart was being torn out. There was a fierceness in their desire to learn, despite how mightily everything was stacked against them, that reminded me of Christa. [Mortenson's sister.] I knew I had to do something.'"  (From Three Cups of Tea)

So much of life is paying attention to the Agave moments, and then acting on them.  I feel like the universe is giving me a lot of the moments, and I need to take more action to honor them.  Have you had an Agave moment that changed your path?

(Greg Mortenson's next book, Stones into Schools: Promoting Peace with Books, Not Bombs, in Afghanistan and Pakistan was released this December. Mortensen is also the co-founder of Pennies for Peace:  "The Pennies for Peace service-learning program includes: a K-12 curriculum, linked to standards with an assessment tool; an implementation guide; fact sheets; printable maps, postcards, stickers & poster components; remarkable videos that open the world of Pennies for Peace; and much more!

By participating in Pennies for Peace you make a positive impact on a global scale, one penny at a time. While a penny is virtually worthless, in impoverished countries a penny buys a pencil and opens the door to literacy. Join Pennies for Peace and give lasting hope to children half a world away!")

Christmas in Kosovo: Four year anniversary

How can it already be four years since I spent Christmas in Kosovo?  In honor of all my memories, here's a blog-flashback from my "Merry Meltdown" post:

I find myself more American, more time-oriented than I ever seem to be when I’m in America. My tendency to stay on task and on time is out in full force here, since it isn’t a high priority in the surrounding culture. Just past winter solstice, it's already dark when I arrive at the NGO office at 5, ready to head up the mountain to spread Christmas cheer and sugary treats to the families living in the Trepca refugee apartments. But first we find a bag of Christmas decorations and begin decking the halls with garland and tinsel. Then Luli runs to the store to find a bag for his cousin Besim to carry as Santa Claus. I keep checking the clock, fighting the urge to strangle everyone with the string of twinkly lights when something in me snaps, in a good way. It’s time to give up my need for timeliness, and relax. Not surprisingly, staying in the present moment makes everything better.

Elza, Luli’s boss, arrives with her daughters, who are nine and eleven. The girls help Besim with his beard and belly, and decide he should wear spectacles like Father Christmas. After a quick search of the office, they find a pair of sunglasses, and ceremoniously place them on Besim’s face, making him a cross between Surfer Santa and The Terminator.

We pile in Luli’s small car: Elza, her girls and me in the backseat, Luli driving Santa in the front. As we drive out of the city, winding our way uphill, we sing "Jingle Bells." My friends only know the first two lines in English and ask me to teach them the rest. What the hell, I’m in for a whole stocking full of fun now. "Dashing through the snow," I sing, slightly off-key. They cringe and reassure me they know the words in Albanian. And with that, we’re off, squished into the car, jingling all the way. The little girls carry the tune in soft soprano, just what I need to find some joy in my dark little heart.

The refugee apartments are cold, dark and dank. The hallways are concrete floors, and swampy with stale puddles of muddy water. We knock on the door and the entire family crowds to see Santa, many times a couple with three or four kids, plus a grandma or grandpa. I can only assume the apartments are two or three small rooms.

A group of kids lead us through the buildings. One boy has a small blue flashlight that gives off an eerie glow in the dark stairwells. The kids ask Besim/Santa why he only sings the words jingle bells and not the rest of the song. Besim only speaks a bit of English, and happily ignores the kids, singing the first two words, over and over.

Our gift-giving done, we pile back into Santa’s sleigh with its rear-wheel drive and a CD player, with which we all sing along to Ben Harper’s “There Will Be A Light.” We have gifts left over, and as we drive back down the hill to town, Luli pulls over whenever he sees kids walking along the dark road. Most give chase, terrified as Besim jumps out of the car in a beard, sunglasses, and an ill-fitting red suit and runs after them with a black plastic trash bag.

It’s hard to process the juxtaposition of the disrepair and depression of the refugee apartments with the smiles of kids and the fun we had. But somewhere in the midst of all of it, without warning, I’m back in the giving spirit. We go to dinner at a restaurant called "No Name," and the girls, confident and funny, practice their English with me. On the way home, we dance in the back seat as we stalk people on the streets, Besim a little less scary now without his beard and sunglasses, tossing out Christmas cheer to all who stand still long enough to receive it.

 

Merry Christmas!

The right to appear ridiculous

Looking at my birthday month in a 2010 World Wildlife Fund calendar of wildlife babies (insert "awwww" here), I made a squealing sound of delight to see a polar bear cub frolicking in the snow.

Looks just like my baby, my mom said, referencing this picture she took of my last Christmas, when we got snowed in at her house.

♪♪ The right to appear ridiculous is something I hold dear ♪♪

(U2 - I'll Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight)

P.S.: Sign a petition here to to the Interior Department – and let them know that our polar bears are more valuable than having one more place to drill.  (Deadline is Monday, Dec. 28)

"Rising temperatures are robbing polar bears of vital habitat and melting the sea ice they use for hunting and raising their cubs. In response, the Interior Department has announced a proposal to designate more than 200,000 square miles of critical habitat for these struggling bears – including the vital coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge."