Community

Like most people, the stabbing incident on the Portland Max was hard to get over. I could not stop thinking about it. Like all awful incidents, it chips away at our soul and makes us question life and its many unfathomable dimensions. Worse yet, is trying to make sense of it… for really, there is no making sense. There is simply no sense in it.

Like many sad incidents, this one was also about bravery and courage on the part of some incredible humans. And much as I tried to remember that, the matter would still not settle. I know there is no resolving certain things. Many things actually. By the end of the week, I wondered if there was a way to turn it into something good. On a whim, we sent out this email…

because life is sweet... even when events around us are unsavory. And to remember that, Anika and I will be doing a weekend of Sucre' after many years.

Sucre was a sweet summer venture my sweet child and I did about six years ago -- when we baked sweet treats once a week and donated proceeds to charity.

Am sure all of you are just as sad by the recent stabbing event on the Max. But it also brings to light that there is good, that there are good people around us, even when things are bad. We would like to donate the proceeds of the bake sale to the families of these brave victims.

And what a sweeter way to do so than with cupcakes. We will have rose, chocolate or red velvet cupcakes. Each cupcake $2. No frosting :) The sweet baker and I will be happy to make sweet deliveries too :)

Here's to adding a little sucre' (which in French, means sweetness) to our world.

~ Anika and Ruta

P.S. The rose cupcakes will be available today (Friday) 6:30 p.m. onwards and the chocolate or red velvet tomorrow (Saturday) late morning (depending on when the tween baker wakes up :) )

The response was amazing. Suddenly the oven was warmed, baking happened… a lot of baking… wonderful aromas wafted out of the kitchen… friends stopped by… cupcakes were distributed…smiles spread…it may all have been for a sad incident, but in the moment there was joy. In the moment I noticed how much others were similarly affected, and how much those around me seemed to want to do something about it. Be a part of something (even as insignificant as a bake sale) that acknowledged the wrong, and the brave, and tried to turn it into something good. We raised a little over three hundred dollars – all of which we donated. I wished I had more energy to bake more, for I know we would have sold more.

The amount may be a drop in the ocean, but it made me realize the strength of community. This community included folks of multiple ethnicities and religions. But none of it mattered. None of it matters. For all that matters is the strength that lies in it.  

Ordinarily, I would have made my donation, quietly, by myself. Ordinarily, I would have scribbled a few lines somewhere, quietly, by myself. This time, however, I included people around me (without thinking or realizing it… like many things I do… without thinking it through…). And in the generosity and perseverance of the community, I saw strength and healing and the reassurance that good will prevail. That there is much good, despite the awful incidents.

I hope we can always find ways to heal as a community… for there is much power in it.

Lockdown

A few months ago, my daughter’s middle school goes into lockdown when I’m volunteering at their book fair. I am surrounded by many books and a dozen kids. I look around bewildered, unsure of what to do. The kids, on the other hand, know exactly what to do.

“Close the blinds, turn off the lights”, they instruct me.

I dutifully obey. I attempt to keep a composed exterior. I am completely flustered inside. The kids on the other hand are at ease and move about knowing how to proceed. They put their training into practice. They break into groups and squat down behind the bookshelves and tables. I wonder what to do with myself. I creep down under the table – a vantage point from where I can see most kids. I am the only adult in the room. That puts me in charge, I suppose. I hear snippets of their conversation:  

“The announcement didn’t say it was a drill”. “Didn’t it say it was a drill last time?” “You think it’s the real thing?”

My eyes widen in the dark. The door, I think. It doesn’t have a lock. I creep out slowly from my post and block the door with a stack of piled chairs. The chairs are heavy, but what if it is the real thing?

I marvel at the kids. They are composed, nonchalant and matter-of-fact. None of them seems to be particularly anxious. They chat and giggle in whispers. They know the drill. They do what they’re supposed to do. I look at them from under the table. It seems unfair that these sixth graders should be so well-versed in what to do in times like these. And that times like these should be such a normal part of their lives.

I request the kids to not play games on their phones and shush them to be quiet. I hear sounds outside. Sitting in the dark, a zillion thoughts dash through my head. How unfair is it for these kids to have to go through this? Is this just a drill? What is happening out there? Why would anyone want to hurt children in a school? What is wrong with our society? When did all this become routine? Will we always live in a certain state of paranoia? How do we teach our children to be prepared without being excessively anxious?

I huddle beneath the table with my thoughts for what seems like eternity. In reality, it is more like twenty minutes. It turns out the lockdown was activated accidentally. I am relieved that it’s over and that kids know what to do in times as these.

I read the news today. I question the mindlessness of an attack at a concert filled with youngsters.  

The same questions from the time under the table in a dark room, run through my head again.

I remember reading (a few years ago) how in reality, the crime rate in the US has not changed drastically in the past two to three decades, but given the nature of mass attacks, our perception and preparedness of it has dramatically changed. Not sure if it this still holds ground.

But despite the bleak outlook, I find hope in our youth -- the group of sixth graders, who did the needful, but didn’t seem terribly bogged down by it.

Perhaps this is their reality or at least their perception of it. And no matter how unsavory, I can’t but help feel there is hope given their tenacity and their ability to take things in their stride.  

Junk food and TV

Approximately three months ago…

All I am going to do… is eat junk food and watch TV … for the rest of my life.

My husband looks up, raises his brow, and laughs at my proclamation.
I’m serious, I tell him. 
You’ll soon be bored, he speculates.

Well, doing all the “right things” and being proactive, hasn’t helped. So how about I try the other end of the spectrum.

Even if it seems unlikely, it feels oddly liberating. Like a weight off my chest.

I think back of the zillion things I have tried to get healthier, avoid surgery, recover from surgery, recover from complications of surgery, to be well, to function, to simply be able to walk straight… the list seems never-ending.

Not to be ungrateful. I do realize that I am very fortunate to have the time, and resources for all of this – doctors, naturopaths, acupunturists, dieticians, homeopaths, ayurvedic doctors, chiropractors…  

I have met wonderful folks. I am friends with some. They have supported me. For when I see them, I don’t need to keep face, I can tell them how crummy I feel.

I think of the many strange things I have tried… water fasting in a nature cure place, or the rice and moong bean diet from an ayurvedic doctor. Trust me, that doesn’t even scratch the surface of the strangest things I’ve tried. 

Each time, there is hope – in the treatment, in the practitioner’s expertise. 

Each time, I wonder if I’m trusting something external, greater than me, but also giving up a tiny sense of what I would like to do.

Apparently, all I want to do is eat junk food and watch TV and not think about anything.

Last week…

Mom, are you working on the book? My kid eyes a book with post-its hanging out like a dog with multiple tongues, as we bundle ourselves and her gear into the car.

Just research, I suppose. I reply hesitantly, non-committedly
I’m so excited about it, Mom.

I am both delighted and scared by her faith in me. I wonder if it will ever see the light of day. I decide to focus on the infection of her enthusiasm. I decide to work on it a little more that night. Or at least, develop the small part forming in my head.

Till the pain begins. Not again, I grimace. It has been consistent several nights, turning me into a zombie-like creature. I feel only half-human, yet pretend to be full-human, or whatever semblance of it. It has been going on for several months, but the reason why it was happening earlier, no longer presents, so I decide not to bug the doctors.

In my desire to not be consumed by the illness and all that it brings, I choose not to dwell on it, especially when I get the slightest respite.

But today I think of my kid’s enthusiasm and my book. I decide to call the doctor’s office. Even if I shudder at the thought of talking to the triage nurses. I keep my sight on the book and the multitude pink post-its sticking out. 

I tell myself this is really no need to steel myself for this task. Then I remember their practiced and perfected condescension. I remember how I am made to feel like a nuisance or a whiny child. I remember the time I called them after an infectious diseases doctor swabbed my incision wound and it would not stop bleeding.

“Talk to the doctor who took the swab. He caused it, he should take care of it.”   
“But he’s an infectious diseases doctor. He wouldn’t know what to do with a surgery incision. He doesn’t know everything that has happened.” Shouldn’t they know that?

They pass the buck. I call the infectious diseases doctor. His nurse tells me he wouldn’t know what to do and to call the other doctor’s office again. Again, they shake it off as not being their problem.

I hang up the phone in tears from the sheer fatigue and frustration of it all. I give up. I deal with the pain and the fear of it. No one takes a look. It heals on its own.

I realize that this could have ended badly – that there could have been a perforation in a wound already deep. Would it have then have been my fault to have given up from the exhaustion of pleading with an uncooperative and condescending nurse? To have been far too tired and in pain to continue arguing?

This is one of many occasions and it makes me wonder how big a role a patient needs to play in self-advocacy, and this on top of the fear, pain and uncertainty they already face.

On the other hand, I get it. They are all eager to wash their hands off of me. They have other more urgent cases to deal with. Maybe they would prefer if I only ate junk food and watched TV. Maybe the condescension is practiced so I won’t bug them as much.

But no, I cannot simply eat junk food and watch TV (by the way, I hardly did any of either, I simply gave myself the permission to do so, and enjoyed the freedom of that feeling). But being a pushy advocate is neither what I hope to be, nor comes naturally to me. And to top it, I must now somehow believe I am not really a hypochondriac nuisance even when I’m shooed away like a pesky, annoying child.

Yes, I have a book to write. And whether or not I actually write it, I don’t want illness to be an excuse (Ahem.. I already have a zillion other). I have a life to live. I have a child to raise.

So no, eating junk food and watching TV is not going to work. And even if it seems a sheer waste of my energy and even if I wonder if it comes in the way of my healing, I will somehow have to find a way to develop a thicker skin, be my own advocate, and at least feel that I have done everything in my capacity.

Sorry TV and junk food. Alas...It could have been a beautiful friendship...sigh...

The short irises

The green stem cracks its way out of the cold wintery ground. The fresh tender green leaves full of promise, contrast the dry dead mulch around it. Holding the promise of spring, my irises begin to bloom. I am beyond delighted.

I think of fall and how I barely managed to get the bulbs in. Well, a good chunk of them at least. Serves me right, to get a warehouse size bag of bulbs from Costco. Why couldn’t I buy a mere dozen from a garden store?

But again, thinking of beautiful purple-petaled beauties, keeps my knees planted to the ground. For years, I have wanted irises in the yard. My determined look and general ineptitude with the shovel, elicits my husband’s help. I see a sea of irises (okay more like a few clumps), waving elegantly on tall stems, turning my garden into a spring paradise.

I put the bulbs in. I mostly forget about them. As also the spots where I plant them. Till the earth cracks and the leaves pop out.

The irises arrive. Tiny irises. Short irises. I look at them puzzled.  

Sure, you’re sweet and pretty. But where are my long stemmed beauties?

I can’t bring myself to completely accept these as mine. The irises in my mind are tall and imposing, after all. I wonder if I did something wrong. Did I not plant them deep enough, should I have added some special iris food? Did I get the wrong kind? There are kinds…?

Surely, these can’t be mine. Yet they are. Each time I look at them, I feel a strange simultaneous twinge of happy and sad. 

Quietly, I wonder how many short irises there have been in my life.

The short irises are indeed delicate and pretty, on their own accord. Yet, not what I was expecting. Had I set my expectation so high, that I can no longer bring myself to love their shorter counterparts?

Worse yet, I secretly admonish myself for my unfair treatment of the short irises. These pretty irises deserve so much more, so much better. 

They are pretty and dainty and their petals make the same perfect formation. So what if they are not a reflection of what my mind held? They are perfect in their own way. Who am I do decide how they should be? Why should it even be this big an effort to accept them the way I would have the tall elegant ones. Am I shallow, judgemental, or simply stubborn?

I decide I am neither. My tiny short irises are perfect. Once I am no longer hung up on the tall ones. Once I can shift my focus on the beauty of the short irises, rather than their lack, which is really not even their lack in the first place, but more a perception of a lack in my eyes.

They may not be what I was expecting. But they’re gorgeous and precious on their own. And it remains up to me to choose between enjoying my short irises to the very fullest, or hankering for the long stemmed ones. I hope I will make the right choice.

Again, I wonder how many short irises there have been in my life.

Here’s to giving each short iris its own place and worth… here’s to noticing and enjoying its beauty… one short iris at a time…

Things are trying to happen… do we simply let them?

March 2017

I wait in line at the bakery. I ask for sourdough bread. As he takes it away to slice, I eye the latte dunker that I often get for my kid. It’s a favorite. I think of getting it, the thought slides, I pay for the bread. The lady behind the counter asks me,

“Would you like a latte dunker? Looks like this one didn’t get enough of the top layer. It’s yummy all the same. ”

I stare at her. I watch her pack the freshly baked, sticky rectangle of goodness, my face incredulous. I laugh as I take the brown bag, I thank her (I hope) I’m still a little taken aback by the synchronicity of thoughts and events.

June 2016

Two tiny figlets (?? I think it’s the perfect name – and I’m sticking with it) appear on the fig tree. I am excited for the tree and me and summer.

There’s always something reassuring about the reappearance of things. Especially pleasant ones. Okay, only pleasant ones.

The year before, we had a whopping four figs on the tree. I am happy with my two. Each time I am in the yard, I peek beneath the beautiful fig leaves, to say hello and to check on them. By now a third has appeared. Life is good. I made a mental note to keep an eye, to allow them to sun-ripen on the tree, to make sure I pick them just in time – before they fall off, or before the birds, (who I believe, already have designs on them) get them. Yes. The mental list gets longer. I get more involved. Hmm…

July 2016

Overnight, the fig tree is laden with tiny green fruit. Hundreds of figlets, everywhere. The tree is exploding.

I shake my head thinking, ‘’The poor suckers don’t stand a chance – Turkish figs take long to ripen. Summer will be long gone before they can turn purple. Poor things. Sigh…”

I focus all attention on my my first, second and third-borns.  I watch them get plumper and darker – my sun-kissed beauties. One gets pecked by birds and falls to the ground. I leave it on the ground for the birds to eat. The remaining two are sweet and pulpy, velvety and delicious. (My kid won’t touch it, of course).

I pay no more attention to the fig tree or the green figlets.

August 2016

We return from vacation. I potter in the yard, when suddenly, I notice bees on the top branch of the fig tree. They are attacking a plump fig that looks like it’s going to burst open at the seams. The tree is full of purple figs awaiting their fate -- either be picked or be plagued by bees.

I marvel at the tree and the fruits and the warm warm summer. I think of the attention I gave to the three figs, and the complete lack thereof to their siblings. 

Yet there they are. Juicy and succulent in their purple glory. Waiting for me to pick them. Something about them seemed effortless and easy.   

Just when I was not looking, just as I let go of all expectations, nature decides to give me a sweet gift. And to everyone who stopped by our place those couple of weeks.

September 2016

Back to school shopping for my kid. The list says a pouch with a three-hole-punch. I think a clear one will be better so she can see the zillion things stuffed inside. Only, there isn’t a clear one in the store. There’s blue and purple and pink and yellow, paisley and cartoon prints. No plain clear one. I can see the one she’s picked packed choc a bloc. I see its contents tumbling out as her fingers dive in to get an eraser. I suggest we get one from another store or look online.  

“No mom, this is fine,” she picks one. I look some more. I offer to take her to another store yet again. Finally I decide to care less and let it go.

The following week, we get a packet from Amazon. In it lies a clear pouch with three-hole-punches. My husband had ordered something, and this is what they sent, accidentally. Freaky, you say? My reaction, totally, in a happy kinda way.

He calls Amazon and they tell him they will ship his cables. When he asks about returning the pouch, they tell him to just keep it. It costs all of two dollars and it’s not worth the shipping costs.

I laugh and shake my head in disbelief. “Maybe we should stop watching Stranger Things,” he quips.  

I insist my kid use the pouch that “the universe has sent our way in mysterious ways”.  

“Sure,” she shrugs. She is just as fine with the other one.

Now I don’t particularly think of myself as a “lucky” person. At times, it seems like bad luck seems to dog me quite faithfully.

But just we aren’t looking, it seems like things are trying to happen happen the way we want them to – more often than we think. Perhaps they get lost in the noise of our daily lives.

Perhaps I need to have a little chat with the Universe. The latte dunker is really great, but truly, there are other areas where I could possibly use more assistance. Sigh… the Universe wants me to figure those things out for myself.

These are random stories. You will have yours when you notice them. And when we do notice them, it is a wondrous thing… Just when we’re not looking. Just when we let go, let up, things happen, with a beautiful synchronicity and serendipity… and we simply have to let them…

Angry kitty

I skip home from school. Beyond excited. My four-year-self is very aware there is a teeny tiny kitten waiting for me at home.

Every cell in my body is beaming and exploding with excitement. So ready to love this tiny being. I can see our many fun days together. I can’t wait to meet her.

I’m told she’s hiding in the alcove of our old desk. This solid wood desk has a deep alcove and she’s found refuge in its dark recess.

My little feet cannot contain the excitement. My little heart cannot contain the love.

I get down on my knees and crawl into the alcove, close to the kitty, huddled and shivering in the corner. My biggest smile. My sweetest voice. My excited hands trying to touch her.

She hisses. Loudly. Angrily. Fiercely. Maybe she scratches me. I don’t remember. All I remember is her anger and sheer rejection. The pain of rejection.   

Scared, surprised, heartbroken, I move back. Possibly bumping my head against the roof of the table. It wouldn’t be the first or last time, anyhow.

I am devastated. How can a kitty so fragile, so sweet, be so full of anger and hatred towards me? I am to be her best friend. Doesn’t she know it?

All I want to do is to love her and she somehow can’t bear the sight of me.
At four, or at forty even, we are sometimes unable to see the story (or fear) on the other side.

Perhaps memory is a wise and devious charlatan. Perhaps stories have a strange way of reappearing in our lives. Perhaps they have a reason for reappearing – a possible raison d’etre even, who knows. Not quite sure why this one pops in my mind. But it won’t leave. Till I write it down perhaps.

It does however make me marvel at the innate and immeasurable capacity to heal and to forgive and to continue to love unconditionally. No matter the treatment? To continue to believe determinedly, doggedly even, in what a child wants the truth to be. To maintain optimism in that truth.

If so, I wish I could be my four-year-old self.

Children have such huge amazing reserves of forgiveness, such deep capacities to love unconditionally.

And although I don’t remember the ensuing chain of events -- if I went crying to someone older, wiser; if I was consoled; if I kept it all inside, not breathing a word, (sounds most likely) refusing to admit it ever happened; if I was wary for a while… who knows.

What I do know is that one determined four-year-old was convinced to be this kitten’s best friend.   
What I do know is that I absolutely mauled that kitty with an outpouring of my love (poor kitty!). I put the hurt and pain and the scratches aside. We had those many happy days together. I was indeed her best friend.
Well, at least in my version and memory of the story. She may have an entirely different story to tell. Love and torture (ahem..) may be used interchangeably given a four-year-old and her kitty. Oh well…

As we age, is it still possible to put pain, and harsh words and anger (and fears) of others completely aside, as a four-year-old is able to do. No cynicism, no apprehension, no hurt and pain-gone-stale and sour.

There is after all, the matter of “learning from our mistakes”, and “rationality” and “wisdom” and “fairness” and “boundaries” – all good things no doubt and essential.  

Yet, I doubt the four-year-old uses any of those.  

Simply because she has complete faith in her own love. Simply because she knows what she wants, knows what is important to her. Simply so certain in her conviction of it (despite a vivid memory of the hissing), she will put everything aside and start afresh… and afresh… and afresh.

Wise or foolish?

When our lives slow…

February 17, 2017

Portland OR

I drive towards Hawthorne Bridge and the lights begin to blink.

“No…no… drawbridge… please… not now… Stay down… you’re so much prettier that way.”

No luck. I harrumph, stop the car and watch the middle of the bridge grunt, groan and beep its way to the top.

I am, of course, the very first car to have to stop. A minute and a half early, and I would be across the river by now.

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, I fidget. I wonder how long it’s going to be. I wonder if I will make it home before my kid gets home. I drum my fingers some more.

I look at the book of poems sitting patiently in the passenger seat next to me. Last night I had heard its author, or rather poet, Tracy Smith, speak. I remember the first poem. There’s a reason that book is here (and ahem… because I don’t clean my car?). But those are the words I need to read.

Here's the excerpt from the poem:

…When our lives slow

And we can hold all that we love, it sprawls
In our laps like a gangly doll. When the storm
Kicks up and nothing is ours, we go chasing
After all we’re certain to lose, so alive –
Faces radiant with panic.

~ Tracy Smith, Life on Mars

I have stared at the haunting words. Earlier today, I clicked a picture and texted to friends.

And right now, I decide I need to notice the advice in the words, to allow my life to slow.

I do just that. I marvel at the bridge and its chunk of metal going up. I gaze at the bright sunshine, blue skies (so rare these days), and the waters below glistening like stars. I find a song I like. My own “gangly” arm reaches for the loaf of freshly baked sourdough bread.

Not half bad, I think, as I snack on the bread, listen to music and admire the skies and waters around me. Quite a treat really, I decide.

And I quietly thank the poet for reminding me how close we are, we always are, to a face “radiant with panic” and to our life slowing…

Wrote this last Friday, got slammed by a cold and forgot to post