Amicabilia

Happiness in Real Life is Like Confetti

2009-02-12T21:39:00.006-08:00

That's really all I have to say today. Whether it's made out of cheap recycled paper or bright and shiny plastic sheets, happiness comes from having whatever makes up my life chopped into irregular pieces. To be fair, sadness comes the same way; it's just that happiness is what happens when I notice that the flurrying, falling tidbits of carefully-laid plans look funny!

Hmm. This might be a good way to introduce the fact that I've up and moved to Provo for the next four months and taken a job as a librarian.

Another Cutest Niece in the World

2009-01-31T14:57:00.010-08:00

Alaina Bird was born January 28 to my brother Nate and his wife Tiffany. Well, Tiffany did all of the work, but Alaina has been a very good girl for her first three days of life. That now makes 2 cutest nieces in the world. Yeah, I guess there can be more than one. :)

I love Makenzie's face in the second picture. Apparently she quickly got over any worry she may have felt about this new member of the family, because by all reports she adores her little sister and is well-adjusted.

Good News Minute

2009-01-21T20:04:00.010-08:00

Come June, my ship sets sail for the wild blue yonder of Connecticut, the Constitution State. (Don't you love the titles states give themselves? As if wee Connecticut made all of 1787 happen. I think I like it there already.)

On a bus ride between New York City and Boston two weeks ago, I sadly slept through the area in which I will be spending the next two years. I've accepted an English teaching job at an inner-city secondary school (exact location TBA) which hopefully will be near Uncle Bill and his family, so Hartford or New Haven at the furthest. It must be said that opening the Teach for America acceptance e-mail felt eerily similar to opening my mission call. There's such a build up of expectation! And then after reading three beautiful sentences a flood of relief washes in, only to ebb out the next day and leave in its wake the gritty satisfaction of having good work to do. I'm a lucky girl: my little ship has yet to find a harbor that disagrees with her, so I'll just keep sailing. Why did I think exodus could only happen via desert or by parting water?

On another note, driving back from Cashmere today I saw THREE bald eagles in the trees along the Wenatchee River. Beautiful.

The Promised Land

2009-01-14T13:34:00.010-08:00

A Mr. Lloyd Porritt once gave me advice. He stood looking at a painting of Jerusalem and whispered, "Life is about the Exodus." I was a green missionary in my first area and had no idea what he meant. But it sounded literary, so I took note in case a sage comment should be needed from me later on.

Oddly, not until last Sunday as I browsed an article on the Israeli/Hamas conflict did it come to mind. I have no idea what that says about my subconscious, but at this point I have a way of approaching Lloyd's counsel.

For etymology enthusiasts, "exodus" is originally a Greek word meaning "a going out," literally ex- "out" + hodos "way." I suppose one of the most pressing issues when undergoing exodus is identifying which way one is departing from. Tradition? Habit? Common sense? But most important is the reason causing departure.

I went out of the way of logical and financial sense last weekend. The plane facilitating my little exodus landed in New York City Friday morning, and for the next four days I walked about exploring grad schools, getting a feel for neighborhoods, doing a little sight seeing, even busing up to Boston. Before the trip, the idea of going seemed superfluous, but a gut feeling said "Go." So I came. I saw. I conquered, but not in the way expected. Academically, the trip showed me what I shouldn't do and where I shouldn't go, and the only gut feeling now left is to be patient. I'm not terribly patient.

It was at about this point in their exodus, the middle of the desert, that the children of Israel decided to take matters into their own hands, i.e. making golden calves and trying to sack Moses. Not bright decisions. Especially considering their limited mineral resources and reliance on Moses to hit rocks and create springs of water. I have the feeling that in my present circumstances, making drastic decisions on my own would make about as much sense. So I'll keep trying new ideas and waiting for the next glint of approval off Sinai.
Come to think of it, Moses never entered the Promised Land. Permanent exodus. He must have discovered the secret for getting out of the desert and into the sun.

White Out!

2008-12-29T17:14:00.006-08:00

Old Man Winter moved into the Northwest three weeks ago and snowed himself in. So far at the Bird house, a track worthy of luging off the garage roof has been tested and tried, pumpkin golfing entrenched itself as tradition, the four-wheeler runs five hours a day dragging people up and down the street on sleds, and tomorrow has been scheduled for recreating memorable characters from the Calvin & Hobbs comic book Attack of the Deranged Mutant Killer Monster Snow Goons. Life is short. And cold. O the possibilities!

Mike and Michelle at the bottom of the golfing hill. Mike arrived there via sled and Michelle via chasing the golf club that slipped out of her hands mid-stroke.

Beautiful, isn't it?

Michelle my bell 'n me

Are you my "Friend"?

2008-12-04T10:17:00.006-08:00

I've talked with many of you about the problems I see in "social connections" through technology, mostly because I've begun wondering about myself. Am I really friends with all of the people on my Facebook account? Is it healthy to be on the phone and texting throughout the day? By doing these things do I inhibit interaction with people physically close to me, like my neighbors or the guy at the gas station? Does that even matter?!

What it boils down to is whether technology's new ways to stay connected really create meaningful interaction, and my initial response is "Yes!" I can talk with Mom and Dad no matter where I am, shoot off e-mails to my brothers and keep them part of my daily life, and stay in close touch with friends across the country and the world. But I should stop and think about what all of this increased accessibility to far away people means.

Conceptually:

more time focused on far away people = less time focusing on people present

This doesn't have to be a problem. But I think it could be, if I consistently live somewhere other than where I'm at. Often when I'm not recognizing my present environment, "real life" feels removed and I miss the beauty inherent in talking to someone face to face. The heightened communication that comes through physical presence and body language disappears with most electronic transmissions. I used to think that the worst thing that happens in those situations is that I could misunderstand or misread people; now I think the worst thing that happens is that I am satisfied with communicating at a reduced level. Meeting with people via e-mail and and over the phone is easier than meeting in person, and that level of interaction is usually all I want!

In reality, I'm not really morphing into a hermit; I'm just noticing a few tendencies in myself. Though the tendencies are not inherently bad, I do miss feeling close to people physically close to me. And communicating on deep levels with my friends. In person. The internet, my phone, and especially iChat have kept me in touch with world the past few months, but I don't want to become too satisfied with the current social contact status quo.

An interesting article on the subject sparked these thoughts again for me:
http://www.intuitive.com/blog/does_social_media_really_connect_you_to_humanity.html

I hope you've enjoyed interacting with me through this form of social media. I hope to interact with you again soon. :) Let me know what you think, and don't worry, I won't think that your thoughts aren't a form of deep communication because they're electronically transmitted. They will be food for thought for both of us until we can sit down in person and talk them over!

Bittersweet

2008-12-03T19:12:00.006-08:00

Nicole went into the Missionary Training Center today. That means my best buddy and the keeper of my sanity while living at home has gone out of contact for the next 18 months. I'm thrilled for her because she will work hard and love her time serving in Hong Kong speaking Cantonese! I can think of few experiences deeper than those that come out of missionary service, and she is more than prepared for it. At the same time I'm fighting feelings of self-pity. Selfish, but true, because I miss her already and she's only been in the MTC for 9 hours.

A change of perspective is in order; it's time for me to leave the safety net my sister has been for me for the past year and a half and stretch. I probably should have done it long before, and I've tried, but usually not until someone I depend on is gone do I realize how many ties I've held onto to.

It's time to get out of the desert and into the sun, even if it's alone. Alone in the sun can be good!

It's Awesome Time

2008-11-18T00:38:00.006-08:00

Autumn is my FAVORITE season. What a shame that the leaves only last a month. When I was a little kid and in primary at church, we had music practice and learned the song It's Autumn Time; that's where it all started. Then a family friend misheard the words and began singing it as It's Awesome Time, and in my opinion that version is better. So today's post is an Ode to Autumn Time or Awesome Time, whichever you prefer.

*The following poem is actually a haiku, not an ode, but for some reason writing "today's post is a haiku to Autumn Time" sounded silly.

Hoar frost broke the blades
Soft grass now brittle stubble
Footprints gaping wide

I'm still working intensively on my research from India, job applications and graduate school prep, so the last month has been spent behind my laptop. Hooray for the internet, a cell phone, and a talkative family, or I wouldn't know anything about the outside world! To break up the day I've started taking walks. My family lives in a fairly rural area, so my circuit usually includes talking with Lola the goat, running through the orchard, and feeding wind-fallen apples to the neighbor's horses. It's not often that I get to live in such a peaceful and private environment, so I'm counting myself lucky! I've been feeling frustrated over fallen-through jobs, ever-expanding papers, and no light at the end of the grad school tunnel; but how long can that last when the neighbor kids come over and you suddenly find yourself chasing a goat and a two year old up and down the pasture?

The New Me

2008-11-10T15:49:00.003-08:00

My blog finally received its much-needed face lift! So yes, you are at the correct blog - it just isn't the usual self-made tacky me. Movin' up in the world!

I must say that I've been "moving up" in several other important areas. For example, my pumpkin carving skills reached an entirely new level this Halloween (I'm not responsible for Woody Allen or the pirate ship, but Calvin is all mine). On top of that, I even went clothes shopping last Saturday! Many of you know what a momentous occasion that is for me - I doubled the number of blouses in my closet (it only took three), but failed to find any pants. That's a problem. When I came back to Washington and the weather turned cool, I stole some of Michelle's old jeans to get by, but that's all I've got and winter's coming on. Darn it, India has turned me into the cheapest person alive, but capris don't cut it. Does anyone else feel this kind of angst when it comes to investing in how you look? I will have you know that I now do my hair every day, so at least I've progressed to investing time, if not money, in some part of my appearance.

Next on the list: I should probably graduate from my leather slippers and buy a pair of close-toed shoes. Then again...I remember my brother Matt wearing his felt slippers with rubber soles through his entire senior year of school! That's the spirit - until I have a dress-up job, why spend money on new stuff?

Despair.com

2008-10-26T20:45:00.004-07:00

Every now and then my family gathers for some quality time online at despair.com. I don't know exactly what makes this website so hilarious, but it might have something to do with irony + inspirational posters. Sometimes when we all surround the computer and take turns awkwardly saying aloud phrases that were funnier read silently, I think about the people I know who would get a kick out of this. Congratulations: you're one of them.

This week's two posters are dedicated to my brother Nate (who dreamed of hanging the first one below the results screen at BYU's testing center) and my own need to laugh cynically at my dating life right now.

[Warning: Never read these when actually feeling despair.]

A Few of My Favorite Things

2008-10-23T17:35:00.010-07:00

I've been needing an exercise in gratitude. While it's true that my spurts in writing gratitude journals usually last longer than my efforts in writing normal entries, that's not saying much. So without further ado...

WHAT NATALIE FEELS GRATEFUL FOR TODAY

1. Red leaves

2. Dad waking me up for scripture study. Makes me feel like a kid.
3. Clam chowder when it's cold outside
4. Whipping cream fights
5. Mukluks...thanks, Coli!

6. Almost being finished with two papers in one day
7. Deep couches and a mom who stays up late to talk
8. At last finding the road to being parasite free!

9. Johnny Cash
10. My niece Makenzie pretending to take a bubble bath in a box and iChatting at the same time
11. The way my blog randomly formats my posts. Quite artistic, really.

I'm back in the saddle again

2008-10-22T20:12:00.010-07:00

Arizona sunsets can be quite patriotic: red, white, and blue. Two weeks ago I returned to my home away from home: the Phoenix valley, the land of my mission! My brother Nick married our favorite Jessica in the Mesa Temple, so on top of all of the family festivities and the peace of visiting the temple for their sealing, I stomped around old stomping grounds and probably annoyed my siblings with stories beginning with "When I tracted this street..." It felt strange to be shopping in the mall across the way from my first area and walking around without my name tag, but not too much has changed and I was pleasantly surprised to discover that after India, Arizona heat doesn't feel like much. Too bad I didn't go to Asia first! There was enough heat for this Washingtonian to go boating at Saguaro Lake, however. People kept commenting on the cool weather, but all my family and I could think about was the 75 degree water. I did earn a wicked sunburn (in October!) and am now paying for it because when I burn I peel like a boiled tomato. Not that many of you have had reason to boil a tomato, but if you try it some time you will understand what I mean.

The saddest part of the visit came when I realized there were no feasible options for driving four hours to Springerville and visiting the area in which I spent most of my mission. Just thinking about that place makes me smell sagebrush and wood stove smoke and taste Della Parker's dessert cakes and Pietown's peach and sour cream special. (I promise I did more than smell and eat on my mission.) President Greene used to take off his Stetson before entering the branch building and all of the men passing the sacrament wore Wranglers and rodeo belt buckles. (Sigh.) They just don't make 'em like they used to.

But I didn't miss all of the Arizona ranch land, because my family came out to visit the Reed family in Queen Creek. My sister Nicole even fulfilled her dream of learning to milk a cow in the process. She got a soft-eyed jersey named Belle, at that. Next time, calf branding... Nicole leaves for her mission to Hong Kong in December, so we're trying to fit in as many life dreams into the next month as possible. I like taking my family to places that hold so much meaning for me.

Devolva-Me

2008-09-12T03:18:00.014-07:00

I finally did it. Come home, I mean. And when I say "come home," I'm referring to my mental state. Physically speaking, I left India almost four weeks ago and England two weeks ago. But it was this morning when I woke up to an alarm clock, ate oatmeal for breakfast while Sitting, Waiting, Wishing repeated in my head, and changed clothes three times for a business meeting all without flinching that I truly returned. I can't say everything about the transition is positive, but I'm functional here, and that relieves quite a bit of anxiety.

Now to figure out what to do with the holes in my soul. That's the real danger of leaving home for anywhere else - you come back Swiss cheese, hundreds of bits of different sides of you knocked and beaten off, chiseled out, or scattered wherever you've been. Particles blowing around in other people's memories.

For some reason Swiss cheese sounds like a sad thing to be, but sad is definitely not an accurate description for any cheese. I wouldn't trade my hole-ridden soul for a South Indian Thali with a hot, crispy papadam. (And that's saying something.)

So coming home isn't bad and having holes isn't sad. And a double bed, brushing my teeth with tap water, and letters from far-away friends keep me happy...er, glad.

What am I up to? Here's the plan:

1. Learn to fix my hair again
2. Get some interviews out of my job applications
3. Finish painting my parent's kitchen
4. Give up chewing gum entirely
5. Seriously apply for grad school
6. Learn to play the organ
7. Run up an India-worthy sweat daily (that's a lot of running).

Some serious headway has taken place with number one - I cut my hair (as evidenced below). And I'm in the middle of painting the kitchen - hence the ladder in the picture. (Yes, this blog is an exercise in procrastination of all of the items in the above list.)

The job success and grad school applications definitely need more attention because nothing but frustration has cropped up thus far. Fortunately my 17 year old sister, Michelle, keeps me towing the line. Seeing a senior in high school with more of a life plan than myself provides tremendous motivation for the me to get a move on! Sometimes patience is only a virtue in India.

Welcome to the Land of Enlightenment

2008-07-27T08:41:00.004-07:00

With my head hanging out the side of the rickshaw, I saw a wide, tree-lined road, acres and acres of rice paddies, and no one coming the opposite direction. I breathed. It smelled like green plants and rain. Hello, Bodh Gaya. No wonder Buddha attained enlightenment here.

I've just finished a week in Varanasi, possibly one of the darker sides of my experience so far, and am enjoying the serenity of the country setting and sacred space here. Varanasi, with its tangled alleys, filthy river, and aggressive touts, was difficult to appreciate. I chanced to find a friend in a clothing shop who liked discussing politics and another at the city's main ghat who used a very powerful Shiva mantra to bless my family and told me to come sit at his step anytime, but aside from that it was difficult to connect with people. (A ghat is a spot on the Ganges River with steps down to the water.) The smell of smoke from the cremation ghat next to our hotel still clings to my clothes, but that and a few bead necklaces are the only physical reminders left of that rather haunting venture.

In contrast, in Bodh Gaya Liann, Jill, and I walked to the Bodhi tree and had a long conversation with a brown-robed monk from Cambodia and his mother. The principles of Buddhism I am learning here have a beautiful simplicity, and the peace I feel around people who live lives of devotion and sacrifice fills me with optimism. There is something to be said for physical control, mental concentration, quiet speaking, and gentleness.

Isn't It Romantic?

2008-07-17T08:39:00.003-07:00

I've left. Anchor up, ship at sea, it's the end of my time in Tamil Nadu. I'm feeling simultaneously free from and nostalgic over the past two and a half months, but that's probably because I just bolted off a 42-hour train ride from the south to the north. Free because the 2nd Class/No AC sleeper compartment had ten years of grit and sweat in its soft plastic seats; nostalgic because the period of time before a mind-numbing event always appears rosy. One thing is certain not to change, though: my illusions of traveling long distance by train. Ever since reading Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express and watching White Christmas, some kind of distorted, romanticized perception of sleeping and eating on trains has followed me. Not anymore! That's not to say I don't wish snowy-white dining cars, cushy personal compartments, and delicately-sliced ham and cheese sandwiches on sliver trays existed; it's just to say that they are impossibilities on 99.9% of all trains worldwide. The three-tiered sleeper compartment my friend Cathlin and I called home for two days held a nun, a pharmacist, his brother-in-law, another guy in greasy blue clothes, and a Muslim couple with two kids. No one spoke English but everyone enjoyed Louis Armstrong on my iPod. We ate, slept, argued, breathed, and stared off into each other's personal space together, and when we pulled into our final stop, we silently pulled out our luggage and dissolved into the flowing veins of the station. I wish I could go back to that moment to say goodbye to the couple's little daughter. She was two, with saucer eyes and skinny knees, and we shared a bunk one sweltering afternoon when her mom needed time to sleep.

The Small Life

2008-07-09T08:34:00.001-07:00

I'm not afraid to live a small life anymore. Every morning and evening I watch hordes of people on their way to somewhere, human lives melting together and whirling away outside of railroad stations and bus stands and city streets and temple gates. Almost no one knows anyone else around them – there is so much disconnect between people that I can hardly stand it! The crushing weight of it all used to make me want to rush out and talk with everyone. Now the human masses and little me gazing out the bus window at them have a different interaction. Every day I pick one face and mentally follow them home. I try to imagine their lives, the people with whom they have relationships, what they say and how they feel. Then I wonder about my own life. What comes of its little relationships, activities, passions? Is a life lived always on the move, trying new places and interacting with new people necessarily what I want? What about having permanent neighbors? Life has been rich, but does it have to be “big” to be so? A small life can be deep, and all deep lives start small. I'm learning not to be afraid of doing what I know is the right next step: going home.

What are my needs, really? A room to pray in, a chair to read in, a friend to share thoughts with, a garden to dig in, a phone to call my family on, a job that needs me. And trees and mountains around would be a major plus. I'd like to think that I'm that simple.

Culture Shock

2008-07-01T05:55:00.002-07:00

The moment I step on an Indian bus, especially one with arms and shoulders bulging out the windows, I know I'm not paying 5 Rupees for a ride to my destination. I'm paying the equivalent of 15 U.S. cents in order to pass through the entire spectrum of human emotion. My first Indian bus ride was naive euphoria: “I'm really sitting here on this contraption of rusted scrap metal held together by grass-green paint that miraculously moves people from Point A to Point B by guzzling government-subsidized gas – cool!” I still like boarding the bus; there's a touch of suspense as to whether you'll successfully out-elbow the thirteen 4'9” women vying for two available seats. I usually lose. Then I settle into the swaying pose of the standing women: right hand above the head holding the bar, feet firmly planted, eyes glazed over but facing forward. When one is unfortunate enough to be pushed towards the middle of the bus, the appearance of cold alertness aimed at the mass of men smashed up behind you is necessary.

The miracle of Indian buses, aside from the fact that they run, is the bus conductor. Somehow one man manages to worm his way through spaces of maximum human density and know which 3 people out of 100 need to pay. The bus is his domain – the men back off and the women change seats at his command, he balances without support in front of the open door, and your exact change bounces out of his leather bag even when the bus hits potholes. But most importantly he governs who gets off, when, and how.

I experienced a new extreme on the spectrum of human emotion last week. Anger. Passionate anger. But I don't want this word to limit the emotion, because it was a reaction to a violation of the social system of justice as I understood it to exist on the Indian bus. My friend Heidi and I were on a familiar route to Nirmala College, where I do research, when the bus stopped two stops from our destination and everyone got off. Why I do still do not know – the driver probably needed a cup of chai tea. We had already ridden buses for two hours that morning, checked into a roach-infested hotel room, and caught this bus in an attempt to arrive on time to my appointment with a testy nun who does not tolerate tardiness. We were already late. I was not feeling chipper as we began walking. Suddenly our bus conductor was running up behind us and shouting. He had flagged down a passing bus and we boarded while he spoke with the new conductor in Tamil. This had happened to me before – he was telling the new guy, “They've already paid.” The bus pulled out. The new conductor turned to me.
“Two rupees.”
I pointed at my old bus conductor still standing in the dust on the side of the road.
“He told you we already paid. No.”
“Two rupees!”
“I saw you talk to the other bus conductor. We've already paid!”
He smirked and shrugged his shoulders. “Two rupees.” He pushed two wadded up tickets into my fist.
Silence and aversion of the eyes. My stop was twenty seconds away.
“Two rupees!”
Thicker silence. All of the women on the bus were now staring at Heidi and me.
The bus slowed. I was going to get off this bus without being ripped off if only as an act of defiance against everything already going wrong.
“Two rupees!” He grabbed the bars on either side of the steps and placed his body in front of the door.
Was he seriously going to physically retain us?
“You know we already paid! Let me off this bus!” I tried pushing past one clenched arm. It reached out and thrust me up the aisle.
You dirty man, you did not just touch me. The leering advances of every drunk on the night bus could not disgust me as much as that one push. The bus rattled to a stop; I attacked. Two blazing eyes of hatred, two hands on his arm and shoulder, one swift push and...I was stumbling backward as his hands on my shoulders shoved me into the console. Assault! In my mind I had already pushed back; he was sailing down the steps and tumbling into the dirt.

Heidi touched my arm. “Let's go.”
O horrors. What was I doing? What was I about to do?

I unzipped my plastic coin purse. I stood through the humiliation of waiting for change. The doorway was clear and I climbed down the steps. No presence of mind, no fire left in me; to all of this loss, I could only say, “You are a liar!” which he couldn't even understand.

We walked away from the bus stop. We walked through the college gates. Heidi was patting my shoulder and telling me how surprised but proud she was that I had stood up to him. My hands were shaking. All I wanted to do was retreat from the angry nun waiting for me and cry.

No one had said anything on the bus – the driver, the men in the back, the wide-eyed women. I was only a girl and it was only two rupees. But more shameful than that was my complete loss of control. Can I honestly blame culture shock? I've been laughing over this story for over a week now, but yesterday when I boarded a bus and discovered that my arch nemesis was collecting my fare, I shrunk inside. He took my change, I took my ticket, and nothing happened.

A Flair for the Grotesque

2008-06-25T05:54:00.001-07:00

This country brings out the Flannery O'Connor in me. The chief difference between the two of us being that O'Connor wrote masterpieces of literature about life in the American South and I'm scribbling incoherently about India in a notebook, we still share an attraction to life's uncomfortable facets. O'Connor tends to shade her stories with someone's snotty nose or craft a hilarious plot around an awkwardly taboo subject, like a young woman's wooden leg. So many of the realities I used to turn away from or cover up – red betel juice spat in the gutter, greasy hotel pillows, what the men across the street stare for, middle-aged women without teeth, the satisfaction I get out of picking scabs, the way the grocer's ear hair curls over his ear lobes – are being taken out, turned over, and brought to light. I'm not sure why it feels natural, even necessary, to openly recognize these things here, but they pull at me like a distant lump on the side of the highway: you know what it's going to be but you just can't turn away. It's remarkable what a bout of Delhi belly can do to broaden your horizons.

What I'm finding is that it's okay to notice the dirt in your fries. At the very least, a bit of gritty humor can be extracted, and usually a glimpse at the honest, beautiful contradiction of being human.

The Indian Villa

2008-06-24T08:43:00.001-07:00

My village days are a long time gone. A series of fortunate events have led me to make my home at the house of Sujeeta's mother on a quiet street in Coimbatore. Sujeeta Ma'am, as the students call her, is one of the lecturers at Nirmala College for Women, and since her mother moved out of the house, it has been vacant. Living in six months of dust is not a problem! My friend Heidi and I scoured the stone slabs in the kitchen and immediately began cooking western food: french toast, toast with butter and jelly, peanut butter and jelly...well, cooking is a relative term. And yes, everything we've been eating involves yeast bread. Except the other night I tried my hand at coconut rice on the gas stove, and it was pretty good!

One or two of my fellow students frequently pop in to spend a night in the city, and when Sydney came she named our little cottage full of Christian wall-hangings, mothballed trunks and dusty dishes “The Indian Villa.” We'll see if the resident mosquies and cocky-fellows (mosquitoes and cockroaches) will take to it.

Now that I'm close to the city, my research project is speeding along. My main focus is on collecting student's written responses to Indian literature and evaluating their critical analysis skills, but for context I do interviews and observe English classes. In the process of doing this, I've made an important discovery: the people I know personally are far more fascinating than the writings of authors far removed from me that I've been studying for years. Living, breathing stories are in each of the women I interview and from whom I gather writing samples. Their writing feels so much more real because I eat, talk, and argue with them, the authors. Literature has a context, and until I've felt and known it, my only interaction with that literature can be as a pupil. Having now felt and known India a bit, I feel better prepared to analyze its stories.

The Indian Villa

2008-06-24T07:30:00.000-07:00

My village days are a long time gone. A series of fortunate events have led me to make my home at the house of Sujeeta's mother on a quiet street in Coimbatore. Sujeeta Ma'am, as the students call her, is one of the lecturers at Nirmala College for Women, and since her mother moved out of the house, it has been vacant. Living in six months of dust is no problem! My friend Heidi and I scoured the stone slabs in the kitchen and immediately began cooking western food: french toast, toast with butter and jelly, peanut butter and jelly...well, cooking is a relative term. And yes, everything we've been eating involves yeast bread. Except the other night I tried my hand at coconut rice on the gas stove, and it was pretty good!

One or two of my fellow students frequently pop in to spend a night in the city, and when Sydney came she named our little cottage full of Christian wall-hangings, mothballed trunks and dusty dishes "The Indian Villa." We'll see if the resident mosquies and cocky-fellows (mosquitoes and cockroaches) will take to it.

Now that I'm close to the city, my research project is speeding along. My main focus is on collecting student's written responses to Indian literature and evaluating their critical analysis skills, but for context I do interviews and observe English classes. In the process of doing this, I've made an important discovery: the people I know personally are far more fascinating than the writings of authors far removed from me that I've been studying for years. Living, breathing stories are in each of the women I interview and from whom I gather writing samples. Their writing feels so much more real because I eat, talk, and argue with them, the authors. Literature has a context, and until I've felt and known it, my only interaction with that literature can be as a pupil. Having now felt and known India a bit, I feel better prepared to analyze its stories.

Down in Kerala

2008-06-18T05:52:00.000-07:00

Dance your cares away, worries for another day.
Let the music play down in Fragglerock!

Does anyone else have childhood memories of dancing around in front of the TV to that song? Remember the joy? I hope so, because that precise emotion was what I felt as I ran onto a bus bound for the railway station Monday morning. My overstuffed bag followed me on the bus to the train through the rickshaw onto the ferry and finally to a dry corner of a hotel in Fort Cochin, Kerala. It poured rain the entire time, so dry is a key word. Although the area is for tourists and every time I go outside I'm heralded with a chorus of “Madame! Come into my store,” it's still laid back and has a cafe called “The T-Shop” down the street. I would never have thought all of my wildest dreams could come true in one cafe, but when I saw waffles and peppermint tea on the menu, I realized they could. And they did.

My research group came to Kerala for a retreat, and it has been a much-needed and enjoyed break. I decided I could use a massage, so Liann and I ventured into an Ayruvedic ladies' beauty shop, and wow. That was a first. India is teaching me to be very comfortable with myself. As a woman in rural India, I'm expected to drape myself with three layers of cloth and keep my ankles covered; but in the city I'm expected to be okay to all kinds of exposure in the name of health. It's almost too much for the Western mind to handle, so I've begun adopting Eastern perspectives. Right now my sense of privacy is decidedly Eastern. With this in mind, if I stand claustrophobically close to you when I come back, just give me a gentle shove; I'll know what you're doing.

Looking Up

2008-06-02T03:04:00.000-07:00

Hot afternoons and cool evenings invite long hours of reflection at night. At least that's my excuse for lying awake. Yesterday evening I finished washing the sheet I sleep on and found it wasn't dry when it was time for bed. So I lay down on my mat and set to thinking. Sometime in the middle of the night I woke and slipped outside to pull the now-dry sheet off the clothesline. I anticipated the complete stillness, the gentle snoring sounds, the cool air. I did not expect the stars. I sat on the steps and enjoyed them; they were so bright against so much black. I could trace constellations and clusters even without my glasses. Stars hadn't shone so clearly for me since I sat on top of a trailer on top of a bluff above Strawberry Reserve last summer. The sky looked as though it would absorb the dark earth.

I could have stayed for hours, but the sheet crumpled in my arms felt so invitingly soft.

A Day in the Life of...

2008-05-26T02:56:00.001-07:00

At 8 AM, took the bus to Ghandipuram bus station in Coimbatore to catch the bus to PSGR Krishnammal College and an appointment with the principal scheduled for 10 AM. Stepped off the bus at the city center with 18 rupees 25 pais. Bought a freshly- squeezed glass of pomegranate juice. Amazing. Realized only after finishing the drink that it cost 18 rupees. Decided to go directly to the ATM. En route, realized that my debit card was in the back zipper pocket of a canvas side bag presently sitting below the bedroom window at Matthew's house in Chavadipudur – an hour bus ride away. Realized I had no money to take a bus to my appointment at the college. Realized I had no money to take a bus home. Realized I had broken every rule of traveling1 in one morning. Long moment of silent stupor. Felt very sorry for myself and started laughing.

Decided to find a bank to see if someone could look up an international bank account and give me money without using a card. Walked 2 kilometers to the State Bank of India. Was greeted by an air conditioned lobby and promptly kicked out by the security guard because the bank didn't open until 10 AM. I was not special enough to take a place in the already growing inside line. Crossed the street. Sat down on the shady steps of a closed shop and pulled out Ghandi's autobiography to read for an hour. Moved to a shady bench when the shop opened and the owner kicked me off of his steps. Was approached by a beggar woman selling q-tips and held out my 25 pais – all of my money in the world. Was refused by the beggar woman. Another long period of silence, this time in deep thought. Returned to the bank. Was kicked out again, this time because they couldn't pull up international accounts. Shuffled back to the bus station. Despair. Had an innovative but humiliating thought. Acted on it: returned to the juice stand from earlier in the day. Begged the juice boy for a ten rupee loan with the promise of returning and repaying tomorrow. Was smirked at by the juice boy. Was given 10 rupees.

Swiftly boarded the bus to Chavidipudur. Rode an hour home. Grabbed the check card. Caught the bus back to Coimbatore. Visited an ATM. Repaid juice boy. Bought diapers and wipes for Jill and Ty's baby. Rode an hour home standing up smashed between ten women under five foot. Triumph! I will not be returning to PSGR Krishnammal.

1The Rules of Travel
Rule 1: Never travel alone
Rule 2: Always carry emergency cash on your person
Rule 3: Never agree to buy anything without knowing its price
Rule 4: Always carry official personal identification on your person
Rule 5: Avoid indebting yourself to someone of the opposite sex.
Rule 6: Expect disappointment

Indian Style Trauma

2008-05-21T02:24:00.000-07:00

(Photo: Liann expressing her feelings about the bathroom - sketchy...)
Yesterday at the movie theatre I decided to use the public bathroom and Liann offered to hold my purse because “you never know what you'll find in there.” It's a good thing she did, because the floor of the squatter stall I ended up in was clean but rather wet. After doing my business, I turned on the water spicket on my left and suddenly I was wet all over. Water was spraying out of the nuts, bolts, and washers of the spicket but not coming out into the little bucket used for flushing. Frantically, I turned the knob to the right, but the water didn't stop. All the way to the left didn't work either. At this point the spraying had turned into a single arching projectile of water going over my head and hitting me square in the back. So I started laughing. What else could I do? I think the ladies in the stalls next to me thought I was insane. My salwar kameez was tied around my waist and my chupada flung forward and tucked into it, and everything dripped, including my scrunched-up pants. I was still in the crouching position, so calling for help wasn't really an option. I kept messing with the spicket until finally a slight turn set the nuts, bolts, and washers into harmony; the water stopped. The little bucket had filled thanks to the local rainstorm, so I finished and tried to arrange myself in front of the mirror before going out to the Liann, who looked at me once...and then again. It is a good thing that going to a Tamil film involves three hours of darkness and lots of fans.

It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine.

2008-05-13T00:14:00.006-07:00

After two weeks in India my most burning question is how Indian women remain composed and immaculate after a day of dust, sardined bus rides, crowded markets, and cooking. It's a mystery, especially when I look in the mirror and see the train wreck of hygiene I have become. But today I woke up and thought, “Hey, it isn't that hot here.” Hooray for acclimation!

I wish there were a graceful way for me to begin writing about India. I'll try. My first taste of the country was the famously hot and filthy city of Chennai. My group met there on Saturday, May 3rd and tried to get out as soon as possible, but the trains to Coimbatore (the major city near our present village home) were booked and we weren't able to escape until May 7th. The train booking offices are a perfect representation of Indian bureaucracy and time management: come early, wait, move up in the line of people sitting ten benches deep, wait, flash a hundred rupees at the desk clerk, move up the line more rapidly, find out you need to take a train to a different station to book through the foreign booking office, do that (and have a rousing conversation about arranged marriage with a group of Muslims from Sri Lanka going to Delhi for three months of religious study) and finally meet someone who can decipher my American English and book the tickets. I learned in Chennai that it's possible to drink more than a gallon of water a day and still feel thirsty, as well as fast until five in the evening and still not feel hungry. Before acclimating, the best way to handle the afternoon heat is a short nap, shower, mango, and reading under a fan. It's strange to have the environment shape my daily life. In America I can carry on with what I need and want to do independent of the weather. Here, if it rains in the village I can't go into the city that day because of the roads, or if the power goes out that means no phone calls or computers . As a result, the pace of life is slower and people spend more time talking to each other. When plans are delayed or fall through, no one worries because everything happens in its time. That attitude makes India a heaven or a hell, depending on what one wants out of life that day.

Chennai is also memorable for its insane rickshaw drivers and a trip to the city's central mosque. Halfway through visiting the Muslim saint's shrine on the side of the mosque I found myself being blessed in a curiously Hindu manner with a bouqet of peacock feathers. Interesting how cultures blend...Eating sugar crystals and having giant black ants crawling on us also left particular impressions on us.

We enjoyed an eight hour train ride to Coimbatore with open windows and tiffin (snack) vendors hawking chai tea and coffee. I've never seen so much trash thrown out of windows before, but there are no rubbish bins on trains, so whatever you buy from the snack vendors that isn't edible eventually finds its way to the tracks. The family of a Pentecostal pastor sat across from me and he spoke English very well, so we talked about family, Indian politics, the orphanage he runs back in Chennai, and his education. The best moments in India come when you think you're stuck somewhere and then you decide to begin talking to the person next to you. Sunday at a coming of age ceremony for a Hindu boy (an Upayanaman), a businessman from Mumbai struck up a conversation and we spent the next hour talking about the changing culture of India and the influence of faster-paced lifestyles in India. He has several family members living in America, but while he enjoys modernization he misses traditional ways of living. He was dressed in a linen kurta and wearing Armani glasses. I didn't quite know what to tell him except that it is possible to preserve good families and the sacred parts of life as well as enjoy modernization, because my family and many people I know do it.

Getting out to our host family's village was an adventure! We arrived by train around 10:30 at night and found every hotel in town we could find full. Picture nine tall Americans and one very tired two-year old hanging out on the Indian streets in the dark. I was thinking, “Hey, it could be worse. It could be raining.” And then it did. A lot. Fortunately we found a hotel that let us camp out under its awning and arrange some taxis to take us to the village directly. Our host family welcomed us at 1:30 in the morning and when we all walked into our room and saw the woven mats, cement floor, and Indian-style toilet I thought their home was paradise.

My research group lives at the home of Matthew and Jeeva Daniels in a little village called Chavadipudur, about a 40 minute bus ride south of Coimbatore. They have been hosting BYU students for 10 years and are very patient with us, especially when we do ridiculous things like plug in our power converters on the wrong voltage and blow their circuits. (I’m not speaking from experience.) Jeeva teaches us how to string jasmine flowers and wash our laundry, and Matthew speaks English well and is our cultural advisor. He learned English as a missionary in the 70s. I enjoy talking with him; he spied my book of indulgent reading, The Battle for God, and now he's reading and we're discussing it. I'm glad to still have someone who enjoys sorting things out through long talks. Evening time is veranda time, and everyone comes out of their rooms and sits, eats and talks while swatting at mosquitoes. It's good to forget all of the inconveniences and frustations of the day and enjoy being with people. I may not be able to handle everything about this country, but India's all about detaching from the material world and coming into harmony with the spirit (right?), and veranda time is one of the ways that is accomplished.

The weeks have seemed short but the days go slowly by. India certainly feels like the land of contradiction, but I'm enjoying it so far, probably because I haven't yet been struck down by any form of nausea. The fresh squeezed fruit juice still tastes great!

Holi, uh, cow

2008-04-08T21:00:00.015-07:00

It's Holi time in Utah Valley: that singular moment for BYU students to behave like, well, other college students. Perhaps more remarkable than our behavior while participating in the Hindu Festival of Colors is the fact that we behave like this while perfectly sober!

Why in the world hasn’t western culture developed something as beautifully celebratory as Hinduism has? The wild anxiety of the bonfire crackling, an effigy burning, crowds pressing, drums beating, dancers whirling...it all ended in hurling handfuls of colored powder at each other and struggling to see or breath under the cloud of dust. The entire world became a mass of bodies and wafting waves of color. My only complaint is that for its supposed authenticity, the festival has become quite the commercial event. I'm blaming/congratulating facebook for it's popularity this year.

Experiences like this stay with you, in more ways than one. For example, more powder ended up my nose than in my clothes (that are now orangey-pink) or my hair because afterwards, whenever I went out in the cold, instead of the sniffles I would apparently contract an orange and purple bloody nose. Ah...culture.

What the?

2008-03-31T21:53:00.005-07:00

I woke up Sunday morning and thought, Wow, spring is almost here. The daffodils in the front yard are peeping through the four inches of freshly fallen snow; the birds are migrating north, east, west, anywhere but Utah, for warmer weather; I think I'll wear thick tights and a scarf today. For fun!

So like a happy-go-lucky kid I went for a walk in the slush, came back with squelchy feet, and scraped Oscar (my green car) for ten minutes. At that point I realized I had covered myself in everything that had once been piled on my windshield and my feet were swimming inside my dress shoes. Snow fell all day and this morning Provo woke up to three more inches of snow. I received a phone message from my mom. She left it while boarding a cruise ship in Southern California. She wanted to say goodbye because she will be out of range for all of her spring break.

Yeah. Right.

BYU doesn't have spring break. Scholastically or environmentally.

I think I'll go spring skiing this week. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

While it lasts

2008-03-21T13:57:00.014-07:00

My last great effort to keep in touch has resulted in a blog. It's impersonal...I know. It doesn't show up in your mailbox or your inbox...yeah, I know. It has a title...who came up with that idea? But it works.

In January I resolved to make the most of my waning time in Utah. That means compact amounts of studying and frequent trips out of Provo. So I turned into a random road-tripper and ski bum the first few months of the year and now all I do while studying is dream about hiking. Who knew that senioritis in college would be doubly worse than in high school? Apparently I haven't grown up at all...which is okay!

Coli and I drove up to Salt Lake City last weekend to visit our friends Morgan and Tricia and to do “all the things we’ve never done.” Nicole had of course done everything, but she made it exciting, so I'm glad she put up with me. I managed to get us lost several times in a city designed on a grid system (surprise), but when things went well we were...
1. taste-testing organic food (the quiche at One World Cafe is amazing!)
2. celebrating Pi Day (with whipping cream pies)
3. taking an early morning run around the Salt Lake City cemetery... that was a bit eerie
4. haggling over backpacking gear at the REI garage sale
5. studying (at) the city library with its amazing architecture
6. sitting in on Palm Sunday Mass at the local cathedral

I’m saddened at the idea of leaving Utah. It has been home for four years and I feel like I'm barely beginning to know it. It’s a good thing so many friends live here, because I want to come back and keep exploring!

I'm leaving Utah for a bit warmer and wetter location. Speaking of exploring, pull out the maps! Chavadipudur, a village in Tamil Nadu, India, is hard to locate. I'm spending the summer researching English literature's impact on Indian women. Sound thrilling? It is! Life right now is devoted to preparation, and the more I prepare the more I realize how unprepared I am. Hmm, I've had this feeling before...perhaps before every other major life change.

Even with all of the uncertainty and expectation, life is still good. Impending change makes the present special, so I'll enjoy it while it lasts.