Leaves, left

The skies are open in Boston but its streets below are clogged.

Drops descend in arpeggio, ripples cannot stop.

They wore black

Their energetic gestures on the train platform caught my eye. Indian, mid-thirties, attractive and clad in mostly black. He pointed alternately, to himself and her in support of torrential words I could not hear. She held herself perfectly straight and still when she eventually gestured back a reply.

Two minutes of silence

A friend posted this on his FB wall today: 'two minutes of silence! That’s all...just two minutes of SILENCE!'  
Not sure what his context was but to my ears it fell somewhere between an exclamation and a plea.
               As an admitted motor-mouth, I confess to finally feeling a similar need, not the least because I finally seem to be getting weary of myself.

Lost keys



Out on a lunch time walk in Boston's North End, it's historic Italian district. One of those 'just right' days when searing sun and soothing breeze perform alchemy.

Curry. Or more.

Feel the gentle heat? Make sure the flame is not turned up too high: it could scorch.

Out of place and context

Binjal, not eggplant.

I was shopping for dinner at the Indian grocery store last Saturday . The vivid greens of the corrugated bitter melons contrasted so sharply with the purple tones of smooth, sinuous eggplant, that it was like they were in a yelling match with each other. Or at me.

A red and white walking stick

He's always on my morning train to Boston: elderly, slim, suited, blind. Most days our arrival at the Waltham station times such that I board a few paces behind him. His wife (presumably) is younger and guides him to the steps by his elbow, always taking her leave with an affectionate kiss and cheerful wish that he has a great day. 

Dandelion: rites or rights?

'Spring' must be named for the way new vegetation jumps out of the cold, hard ground in the blink of an eye. Cue - my annual awe at the signs of life, hope and the delightful sensory overload it brings with it. From the eye-popping yellow of Daffodil heads to the muted rusts of the American Robin breasts, there's a glut of color everywhere. The limited palette of our barely departed Winter becomes a rapidly fading memory.

These are times to be mindful, to soak up and wallow in the details....listen, feel, gaze, breathe. When you're not sneezing from all the pollen, that is. I'm glad to see signs of self-propagation, to anticipate more future greenery but why, I ask, this botanical machismo in broadcasting such excessive proof of virility?! My heart is glad but oh, my sinuses!

My place in the sun?

Seasonal allergies aside, examining the yard closely for hidden delights this time of year also brings with it the dreaded encounter with newly emerged Dandelions, serrated leaves fanning out to nestle comfortably amongst tufts of young grass. Suddenly I no longer notice the fresh, green tinge to the yard nor the surprise purple Crocuses (Crocii?) dotting it. Just that it's going to be a long, hot summer of first fighting weeds, then feeling ineffectual, defeated as they outpace my paltry efforts.

Yesterday, as this annual ritual unfolded, it transported me back 3 years to a spring Saturday morning a few months after we'd moved to our new home in Waltham. As I kneeled on the edge of our lawn and start tearing into the clumps closest to me, then-3-year old Oyon piped up from behind, "Here Mummum, I got a flower" (though his lisp at the time turned it into 'fwawah'). He proudly offered me something green and crushed, opening his little fist to reveal - not a crisp little bloom - but a ball-like Dandelion seed-head.

Oyon, 3 yrs - trying to smell Spring

Noting that I was busy eviscerating a clump just like the one he'd just beheaded, he sank into a squat and demanded to know what I was doing. I started on a spiel about 'bad flowers' but was soon interrupted with 'Why they bad? The seeds can fly! I LOVE this flower!'. I rapidly ran out of both conviction and words at this point. Also, I ran out of an audience: Oyon was now blowing the seeds into the air and running after them, giggling like a maniac.

But not before he had started me on my other seasonal struggle:
weed rites or weed rights?

 

Weeding has always left me feeling faintly guilty about just the sort of botanical Eugenics that the 3 year old honed in on. I don't seem to have any compunctions about the selective breeding inherent in agriculture. For instance I'm happy enough to consume the Brown Basmati that is a staple in our home, that I know to have been deliberately cultivated at the expense of other native flora on large tracts of farmland. It's the only way to sustain life outside of an agrarian community. My unease also doesn't seem to extend to say, the furniture industry. I'm aware of the systematic replacement of primary forests all over the US with hardwoods stands best suited to furniture making. I don't feel particularly happy about it but have yet to eat dinner sitting on the floor (as I suppose I very well could) because I'm morally troubled by furniture. I've made Peace with the necessity of commercial agriculture and forestry or the sake of leading our modern lives. Can't very well do my nifty little GIS analyses to help save said forests if I'm out  at sunrise to milk the cows and till the soil. And no - I don't dwell on the logical fallacy and the self-fulfilling prophecies in the above statement. Leave me alone, would you?! I do just fine confusing myself all on my own.
 

I suppose I'm stating the obvious fact that admirable moral stands are difficult to fully abide by when they drastically redefine basic standards of living. Far easier to rationalize away any unease with theses on top-of-the-food-chain rights or the mitigating effect of consuming sustainably developed products. I decided long ago to not look too closely the moral compromises we make for a basic quality of life. Doesn't deter me from occasionally proselytising but I'm a 'work in progress' so it's alright. I'll get there.

What I can't rationalise away to myself quite as easily is selective breeding for the sake of societally defined aesthetics. That someone, somewhere in time decided that Kentucky Bluegrass and Fescues made for the ideal, attractive lawn and so Crabgrass should be deemed persona non-grata and Dandelions, conniving intruders. That clover blooms are not as worthy of ground space as say Phlox or creeping Thyme. So spray the one and tend the other.

If there were ever reasonable grounds for these decisions, they've probably outlived their usefulness by now. For instance, K. Bluegrass probably makes for great fodder but since the typical suburban lawn no longer supports grazing cattle or horse, the point is largely moot. But it does resist cold weather and drought equally well and will spread to fill in bare spots and Scotts' sells it at discount in economically fulfilling large bags. Also, some trend setting home owner one day sowed the seeds and started a standard that the Jonesing neighbors then stepped up and embraced. So we go with the flow. 

So my self-flagellating, rhetorical, annual question is: who defined these aesthetics and why are we tied to them? Is it true personal choice or unwillingness to buck a system. Or like most things in life, is it just plain old inertia?

Personally, I love the clover patch spread all over our front yard. The blooms smell wonderful throughout the summer and the bees it attracts would probably serve all our home-garden pollination needs (if we had any). They are nitrogen fixing plants that don't need extra watering or fertilizers to go forth and multiply.....all the way to the neighbors carefully weeded, manicured, fence less front yard. The crabgrass and dandelion join the party too, appearing on the other side of the property line, in abundance and with easily traceable ancestry.

Therein lies the proverbial rub.

Any fleeting fondness I might hold for the redoubtable clover is easily overshadowed by an unwillingness to displease neighbors, with their more exacting standards of neatness. Do I carry out MY moral imperatives at the cost of THEIR aesthetics? The answer's not as obvious as when I was arguing this just inside my head and without friendly interactions with said neighbors.

3 yrs ago we were new to the neighborhood and felt the need to solidify our 'good neighbor' creds.

I have diligently dug up/sprayed the dandelion for the past 3 years now.  Being held accountable by my young son who shared my very same moral quandary seemed like the worst sort of karmic retribution but I tell myself (and him) it's a good example of being a responsive community member.

Oyon, 6 - still broadcasting seed heads

Back then, I still couldn't help adding a moral 'out' (for both our sakes) by justifying that dandelion stole food from flowers that now can't grow big enough to give bees their nectar to make honey. I remember clearly that Oyon reacted by yelling 'Don't worry Mammam, I'll help!', ripped out the first few Crocuses of the season and commenced chasing a few buzzing yellow jackets yelling 'Come drink your connector, bee!'.

More recently, at a more coherent 5 years of age,  he had me transplant a clump of dandelion and clover to a planter for his room because he felt sad about killing them in the yard 'for the enighbors'. Yes, he'd drunk the Cool Aid by then. He wanted to 'save' some from some sense of fair play.

Didn't last a week in his care and I no longer have a 3 foot high conscience tickler around when I'm Dandelion-freeing our yard.

Good for me. 

I think.

I looked around and I saw.

200 yr old Charlestown Bridge. 10 yr old Zakim Bridge behind, TD Bankorth Gardens on the left, Charles River Locks, under.

Having unshackled myself from Facebook - and thus my iPhone- for a day-long Sabbatical, I went for a walk at lunch time.

I earn my bread in a venerable old building right by Boston's historic North End, within stone's throw of Charlestown and on the banks of the Charles River. Plenty of places that could let in some light.

A spot I knew by the river's edge called to me and I answered. I rested my elbows on the sun-warmed rails, felt the breeze play with my hair, allowed my shoulders to drop a bit and let my eyes wander.  Without any purpose whatsoever.

The USS Constitution in the Navy Yard, Charlestown

The masts on Old Ironsides across the water bristled as they have done for 200 odd years. Young women sunned their winter-bleached bodies gratefully on the slim green strips of grass. A man in black paddleboarded up against the current.  And I heard the quiet in my mind. At last.

Not really though. The Charlestown bridge rumbled un-rythmically from passing traffic. The river went about it's business with occasional swishes and gurgles. And a few distinct splashes that tugged at my now-adrift consciousness. I looked around for the source. Down by my feet, the water was it's usual murky green but punctuated by unusually large, bulls eye ripples. They dotted the water as far as I could see, timed to those sharp little splashes. Then something silver flashed just under the surface. A short distance away, another silvery flash. These too lined up with the splashes.

Of course. Fish.

I tried to collect more flashes that timed with the tinkling splashing, delighted at this novel symphony.

And so I looked. Really looked - at the murky depths. What was merely the motion of wave-creased water and the play of light a moment ago, transformed suddenly into a procession of striped little bodies, moving with astounding speed and determination. Each flash was a silver scaled body twisting up to the surface, catching and throwing back the light in its leap. Each splash marked its re-entry.

  And the more I looked, the more I saw.

The choreography that was only just revealed to my utter delight was a matter of routine for the tiny lives involved. While i focussed so intently on this amazing stream of life within the river, the traffic continued to rumble over the bridge. They silently rushed by for the 5 minutes I watched with my newly opened, awestruck eyes.

Charles River Locks

The Charles River locks were just a few hundred yards away and I remembered the fish ladders there, for young Shad, Alewife, Smelt and Herring to run.

A motorized boat with 3 young men drifted up and cast their fishing lines. They must have been watching their boat radars. By the time I'd turned my gaze down again to soak up more of the quiet but incredible energy roiling sub-surface, they were gone. I inadvertently froze, hoping someone would hit the 'play' button again.

Nothing.
They were gone.

I hung around as long as my conscience would let me: my work wasn't going to do itself. My increasingly desperate scanning of the murky depths for any darting colors or flashes of light revealed nothing.

I gathered together my disappointment and headed back to cubicle-land. I let go of the sun and air and mentally prepared to give myself up again to the stifling, controlled environment that would numb my senses while somehow opening up those mental facilities that let me be professionally effective.

Only a few paces before I would leave water and grass behind for the asphalt that led to my building, I caught sight of a newly sprouted Boston ivy creeper.

It had twined up an ugly chicken wire fence, spreading out it's finely veined, impossibly glossy new baby leaves to the light and burgeoning heat.

I thought of that faraway stream of young fish, swimming from their spawning grounds to their Lives out in the big, wide bay. The urban, resilient invasive ivy shoots forcing up from sidewalk cracks and around wire frames to claim their place.

So much life teeming around me, where I can't see or even guess at it.

My cubicle doesn't feel so stifling anymore.
 

The quality of anxiety

You know those ten ton anxiety bombs that fall whistling out of nowhere and level you emotionally? Good for you, if the answer is 'No, you loser!'. I'm sweeping up the debris from more than a few such recent collisions, even as I ponder better evasion techniques.

That visceral sting of anxiety was recently described by my freind Shreya thus: And though it's just an infinitesimal blot in the big picture of our lives, while it's happening, it feels like a free-fall into forever.

 

If we need to, we know how

On the drive home from school yesterday my 6 year old told me his class earned extra playground time for doing so well in the 'lockdown drill'. Reluctant to even ask but I did and was momentarily stilled by the non-chalance in his voice as he described hiding quietly in a closet upon hearing 'We are in lockdown!' on the intercom three consecutive times.
         The quiet crying I did for the next few blocks of the drive was as much for that non-chalance as for the indelible place 'lockdown drill' has now made in our memories of his childhood.
         When the Newtown shootings happened in 2012, I did not panic and rush to hug my child at the end of that day like many of my friends. My stomach still does a flip when I think of those little kids in the CT classrooms but I don't let myself go there very often. At the time, I channeled my fear instead into FB spiels about an over-sensational media that enables attention seeking psychopaths. Even got a petition started and wrote to a few papers.
         Our head space hasn't gotten any sunnier given that the past few weeks has forced us to tackle, with said 6 year old, why a couple of young men blew up 200 people at the Boston marathon, and then had us in a state of siege (we live a few miles from Watertown square where the showdown unfolded). Strangely though, all roads keep leading us to discussions about how NOT to be mad and make poor choices, how to instead do what we can to help each other out.

So I won't get any more maudlin than I already have about this now. Because this much is true: in the horrors that have unfolded in the public arena over the past few months, I've found myself thinking a WHOLE lot more about the power of goodness, kindness and Mr. Rogers' 'helpers' than ever before.
         In trying to equip our son with filters to help him see reality in shades of Hope, I've found them for myself. This too is possible then: angry, broken people who hurt others - can primarily inspire understanding and compassion and help highlight how much is right with the world.

        Besides which the truth is that it's probably more painful for us parents because of the comparisons we feel compelled to make with our relatively innocent childhood. Yet I'm convinced that our respective realities, our children's and ours, are as varied as they are valid. We are each shaped by our experiences and innocence - hope and goodness persevere regardless. 

It also made me ponder that strange behavioural phenomena of 'Transference', wherein we transfer our own despair onto others and craft a world that is necessarily darker than reality. Look at me: I felt so devastated at my perceived loss of Oyon's innocence but how wrong I was proved. Any loss of innocence is mine: MY perception of the world was damaged by the Newtown shooting, MY view of school as safe haven for the nurturing of my young child was corrupted. But it's ALL IN MY HEAD. There have been mass shootings before in this country and young children are killed all over the world all the time. I've just been inured to them through the priviledge of distance and entitlement. True - it should not be do and that acceptance of this is somewhat an admission of defeat. We should still canvas for gun abolition (like other civilized nations) but in the meantime....the truth is that world is just as it has always been - full of darkness AND light. When I focus on the one more than the other, I personally craft the quality of my experience. And by assuming that another person (like young Oyon) is also sharing in that experience, I run the risk of sentencing him to it, creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. 

As it turns out, HE'S neither scared nor anxious. I AM! He's calm, collected and prepared to take care of himself if the need arises. So very, very illuminating for me to realise this so tangibly. That this pain and disillusionment is relative and really, invisible to a child's mind in the ways that count. There is no real cause for pain on their behalf.

          But that didn't prevent me that day from crying at my son's casual acceptance of Lockdown Drills 'in case something dangerous is going on in school'.

It DID however help me turn a smiling face eventually to him and say 'I'm glad you did so well at the drill'.
His reply? 'Yeah, me too. We're probably not going to need it. But if we do, I'll know how. What's for dinner?'

And that's all there is to it, I guess.

If we need to, we know how.
In the meantime, life goes on.

Reality, reflected

Lying on our tummies, on a boardwalk stretching out over vernal pool. Not quite warmed by the weak spring sunshine. Grainy wood beneath our palms as we peer into the murky shallows. Seeing but reflections in a pool opaque in the reluctant sunshine.

Songbirds, newly emerged from a deep winter exile, lull us into lassitude with their calls. We gaze at clouds, water and our wavering silhouettes without really seeing anything. Then suddenly, somewhere - something shifts. Our focal length changes. Just like that - we can see now.
Below the ripples spreading out from the whirligig's hops and just under the lazily floating dots of algae....something just moved.

There.
And there.

This one has bulging eyes and a tiny gray toned body. Darting to and fro with elegance and speed. Mosquitoe larvae, we later find out to only a slight reduction in the romance of it (because even pests have an innocent start after all).

The other one has a notched tail with white streaks on its edge. Scuttles about on the many legs fringing its translucent, segmented middle . Fairy Shrimp, we are told.

There are more like these too.
Under, over, gliding, spinning, resting, teeming, seething life.
Under us, who are in turn pinned by the leaden sky.

Our heads that touched in delighted discovery part in time, to shake off the trance as the thrill pales. This window turns gracefully back into an obsidian mirrora and the secret world retreats.

Days later, the same heads touch in more delighted discovery. We turn the image of our reflection into an image of our reflection. Mixing paints with abandon on the painting software, we realize that a grey sky actually needs a little blue. The bare tree branches, gray from the winter, are really a little red. Half-focused eyes show us that swirly brush strokes don't make good clouds like we thought. Horizontal swaths of color, do.

There is no end, truly.

The photograph. iPhone.

The painting. 'Fresh Paint' program on Windows 8.

Hey there, young man!

'Hey, there young man!' he called out to any passerby over 6 and under 60. The women got 'lovely' or 'beautiful'.

And his smile. His smile.

He was peddling a newsletter called 'Spare Change'. The 'Homeless Empowerment Project' supplies it to the homeless for a pittance so they can sell for profit and find their feet.

Harvard square at 5:30 pm is bustling with life regardless of weather. On that 50 degree day at the end of a hard winter and frigid spring, you couldn't keep people in if you tried. Students and professors scurrying to meetings and appointments, tourists gawking, well-heeled couples ambling along to soak up the mild weather - all streaming through the area. The iconic 'Au Bon Pain' coffee store by the News Stand remains as good a spot as ever to people-watch as you wait for a friend.

I nursed my cup of Earl Grey and watched the peddler lob cheerful greetings and beaming smiles from the middle of the sidewalk at the human stream breaking around him. A few smiled back at him, even fewer bought a paper off him. Most ignored him. They swerved as far away as the available sidewalk allowed. Eye contact was avoided, chins tucked further in and even pre-emptive brush-offs executed with either a dismissive hand wave or an apologetic shrug.

The interesting thing was that he did'nt once, in my 20 minutes of fascinated watching, actively peddle. He did'nt push or hawk anything and his grin and cheer didn't waver a bit inspite of the relentless string of dismissals.

He eventually took a cigarette break, perching on the railing of the outdoor seating area near me to take a swig of water then light up. I went over and asked if I could buy a paper and a cup of something for him. Just because he made me smile. He told me he was fine but thanks for asking. I did'nt ask and he did'nt confirm that he was homeless. I told him I thought it was inspiring that he did'nt let the brush-offs get to him and confessed I was  much less patient than he. He grinned, shrugged and said 'Well, people, they're busy, you know?'. Or something like that. He let me take a picture for my blog, asked politely about it then thanked me for noticing his smiles.

There was too much dignity and kindness there for me to probe any further. Besides I did'nt even want to. His geniality might have just been sound sales strategy. Or he might have been adpet at that old Jedi mind trick we all know that let's us unhook our mouths from our mind, leaving the latter free to wander. I decided it was just his personality. Because it's a choice I am free to make. Also, it felt enough that I'd told him what I saw and that he heard me.

My freind Nan arrived on the sidewalk shortly after, scanning the crowded area for me as I tried to catch her eye.
She didn't see my frantic waving. But he did.
He called out to her and pointed my way.
When she'd set off towards me, he tipped his hat with one last brilliant smile and turned back to his sidewalk.

'A little bit of something' instead of 'a whole lot of nothing'

Yesterday a bomb took the life of an 8 year old boy at the Boston Marathon.
Actually, every day, bombs take the lives of innocent children in countries torn by violence.
But when young Martin, cheering on runners with his family at the finish line, paid the highest price for someone else's rage, it hit too close to home.

As we start to gather together our dismay into one big throbbing ball of horror at the world we are leaving to our kids, I think we should stop a moment to think.

Hasn't there always been rage and disproportionate responses in the world?
Haven't a few motivated people with grievances always crafted the shape of our future?
Haven't we always reacted bu first shrinking back in horror then striking out in rage against it?

And has this ever worked to correct imbalances?
No.
No amount of outrage will bring back that smiling 8 year old or piece back his family in their old image. Or fully restore any of the other victims. We cannot fix this anymore than we can un-scar Bostonians whose city and public spaces are now stripped of security and a feeling of belonging.

Oh, Bostonians will rebound, don't worry. Everyone rebounds.  But we can do more....instead of venting our our dismay and rage we can harness it. Amidst all that we CAN'T do right now is all that we CAN do with our mental energies.

We can seek to restore some balance by looking out for the things that are good and right amidst all this horror.

I'm not saying we embrace inaction and condone terrorism. Just that for the most part, terrorist acts are beyond our range of influence. But if we do pause to think of 'action' I can't see any better way to respond to those who seek to un-hinge us by showing cohesiveness that blasts THEM out of their socks.

So what IS within our reach? The community around us.
We can connect with other to ease our pain, support each other and help ourselves through the challenges we face every day. We can all care just alittle bit more, reach out a little bit more and feel the stable groudn beneath our feet when everything around us seems to be shaken by tremors. We cannot right all the wrongs but instead of doing a whole lot of nothing we can do a little bit of something.

I for one want to be more mindful about identifying Random Acts of Kindness (RAK) and enacting Incremental Change that Touches (ICT). To describe what is good an right about the world so that we feel motivated to do more of it.

Every.
Single.
Day.

Kindness and caring will spread and touch people as much as rage and despair but only if we are as effective in spreading it.

Will you join me in recalling a RAK and ICT every day?

A Random Act of Kindness (RAK) is something you have experienced, something you can describe as 'They didn't have to do this. But they did'. An Incremental Change that Touches (ICT) is something you might have done for someone, something you can describe to yourself as 'I didn't have to do this. But I did'. Not to be smug about it, but award yourself due respect so that you continue 'doing' instead of burning-out.

I'm not saying we unnecessarily exalt the regular compassion that every empathetic human ought to have. I don't think we should lower the bars of just regular humanity in any way. But when we focus on the horrors amidst us without giving fair time to the tiny expressions of thoughtfulness as well as the soaring acts of kindness that are there too, we demotivate our neighbors and describe a hopeless world to them. One that seems beyond their influence and that enervates them into being passive commentators. THIS is what fuels terrorism in my opinion: that people give up, give in and move just a small step at a time away from humanity in the grip of rage and despair.

So here's to celebrating all the good and giving small, small actions wings:

Random Act of Kindness (RAK): April 16, 2013
Thanks to the ice cream server at Moozy's ice-cream shop in Belmont.
    We ended up there yesterday after a hike with 6 yr old Oyon and his buddy Noah. She served Noah a  serving of gummy worm toppings that he belatedly asked for. Just so that his and Oyon's cone toppings would match. We hadn't paid for it and she brushed away my thanks.
She didn't have to do that. But she did.

Incremental Change that Touches (ICT): April 16, 2013
We didn't really help anyone in particular yesterday but we did share our hiking snacks and extra nature watching telescopes with 2 kids (and their Dad) whom we met in the woods. It enhanced our day as much as theirs. We connected to strangers instead of looking away.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Oyon-isms:
 A weekend marathon of the Star Wars trilogy produced these interesting reactions:

Friday night = Star Wars:
Me (on first sight of the bad-guy Imperial star fighter): Wow! That is SO cool!
Oyon: Why did you say that?! Thaty's the bad guy! Yo'ure not supposed to say 'wow' to the baddies!
Me: But I think the space craft is cool, not the bad guys.
Oyon (a bit puzzled): Oh.

Saturday night = The Empire Strikes Back
Oyon's reaction to Yoda's age: "Yoda got 900 Christmases?!!"
After watching Chewbacca and the Ewok's bring down a bad-guy Imperial tank: That's easy! When I was at Fun World (an arcade), I defeated SO many of these!

Sunday night = The Return of the Jedi
Oyon: So Mammam, is 'the force' good or bad? Darth Vader was a bad guy and had it but so did Luke and he was a good guy!
Me: That's a tough one. What do YOU think?
Oyon: Maybe it's both? When Darth Vader hurt people it was the Dark Side, when Luke helped, it was good. So it's the stuff they DO with the force, I think..
Me: You know, I think I agree. Thanks for clarifying.
Oyon: You're welcome, Mammam.
 

Oyon, Noah, bare-feet tucked under the table after ruining shoes in muddy ponds hunting for fairy shrimp and faces tucked into generously awarded gummy-worm ice cream toppings. The good things in life are small.