I attended an opening ceremony today for a maternal and child health program follow up training. It's traditional that one representative from each organization and/or district present make a speech. My favorite speech, of the few that were translated into English, was given by one of my favorite medic leaders.
He started out by saying, "When I talk, I may sound angry, but I'm not angry, just warning you...." and he subsequently broke into a very emotive and touching sermon-like oratory.
"One word brings us all here together: HOPE" And I nodded in agreement, and looked around the room to study the facial expressions of all the women medics at the ceremony, wondering, "Are they driven by this as well?"
And then he continued..."We are here to make change and to develop our communities, but we will face many challenges, difficulties, and barriers". An immediate roster of examples started forming in my brain like a Top 20 hottest celebrity couples of 2008.
He ended by saying, "But the one word that will help us overcome all these: LOVE." Period.
His words made me very very happy and inspired. It was one of those moments that made me love what I do and appreciate so much the people who I get to work with.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Tagore
The first time I learned about Tagore (or so I thought) was when I was in Calcutta last September, for work. I was strolling along Sudder Street, and there was this bust of this old man and the caption said that he used to hang out on this street and write a bunch of his poems. I was like, "cool". Whatever, I was more interested in taking a photo of the leathery old Indian man standing next to the bust. A week later, I'm reading an article in Harpers and it makes a reference to Tagore's poems. I thought, "How coincidental! I just happened to be in India where he used to hang out. Cool". But! A few weeks later, my best friend gives me a birthday card, and I was carefully reading her words since she always says the most thoughtful and heartwarming things in cards (not your typical "OMG, I love you! Let's be BFFs forevs!" stuff), and at the bottom of the card, there was a couplet written by no other than Tagore! Right then, I got the chills, and I told my friend Katy about the two previous instances with my Tagore encounters. I didn't put 2 and 2 together, but she did. She said, "Linda, you know what this means? Tagore is speaking to you. You must buy his book or read his poems and figure out what he is trying to tell you." Oooh, that gave me another set of chills.
So, I was resolved on buying a book by him. Of course, a few weeks go by, and I completely forgot about Tagore. I even had ordered a few books on Amazon.com and didn't even think to buy Tagore's poems. Well, I'm up at my parents house a few weeks later, where I store some of my stuff. I'm going through a few boxes, looking for old photos. I come across a box full of books, and I'm going through them really quickly, trying to prioritize which ones I can take home and make fit in my new bookshelf. I'm tossing books out left and right and there is one in particular, with a Korean title, and I was like, no way, it's probably one of my Mom's books from her literature club or something, toss that aside. I make a pile of the few books I'm going to take home and when I look at the pile to assess if it's too many for me, I notice the Korean titled book that I tossed aside is sitting on top of the pile. Just as I was about to toss it aside again, I look a little closer at the title, and it says "Tagore". Bam. There it is. Tagore just lands in my hands. Chills run down my spine, real bone-chilling chills this time. I open the book up gingerly, half thinking that some crazy light force was going to blaze out of the book, like when they open up the Ark in Indiana Jones.
But that doesn't happen. Instead, there's a caption my Mom wrote in Korean when she gave me the book 5 years ago. Translated, it says "So that my daughters can be loving daughters, love Mom". I never remember her giving me the book back then and it takes five years and a journey halfway around the world to finally accept her gift and the words of Tagore. Specifically, these are the Gitanjali poems.
I delve into the Gitanjalis, thinking big things, like they're going to tell me if I need to go back to school, or I'm going to find the love of my life or give me answers to what my purpose on this Earth is. But they don't. Yet, I'm not discouraged. I remember what my Mom has told me, particularly in reading Hesse. "You need to read Hesse every 10 years. What you get out of reading Hesse at age 20, will be different from what you learn from Hesse at age 30, and 40, and so on. " And so that is the approach I'm taking with Tagore.
One Gitanjali, #48, stands out in particular for me at this point in my life:
The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily went our our way and paid no heed.
We sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for barter; we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. We quickened our pace more and more as the time sped by.
The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The shephered boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid msyelf down by the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass.
My companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and hurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the distnat blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills, and passed through strange, far-away countries. All honour to you, heroic host of the interminable path! Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but found no response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation - in the shadow of a dim delight.
The repose of the sun-embroidered greem gloom slowly spread over my heart. I forgot for what I had travelled, and I surrendered my mind without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs.
At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was hard!
The journey is just as important, if not more, as the endpoint, the arrival. What's the point of reaching your goals, or getting what you want if the process to get it wasn't fun, beautiful, appreciated? I just need to stop and smell the roses. In concrete terms, this means I will take a few days this year and head down to the islands of Thailand (which are so close to me) and actually wear my two bikinis that I bought and haven't worn yet. And of course, this poem is telling me about love, but I don't want to write about that now. That's for later to share.
So, I was resolved on buying a book by him. Of course, a few weeks go by, and I completely forgot about Tagore. I even had ordered a few books on Amazon.com and didn't even think to buy Tagore's poems. Well, I'm up at my parents house a few weeks later, where I store some of my stuff. I'm going through a few boxes, looking for old photos. I come across a box full of books, and I'm going through them really quickly, trying to prioritize which ones I can take home and make fit in my new bookshelf. I'm tossing books out left and right and there is one in particular, with a Korean title, and I was like, no way, it's probably one of my Mom's books from her literature club or something, toss that aside. I make a pile of the few books I'm going to take home and when I look at the pile to assess if it's too many for me, I notice the Korean titled book that I tossed aside is sitting on top of the pile. Just as I was about to toss it aside again, I look a little closer at the title, and it says "Tagore". Bam. There it is. Tagore just lands in my hands. Chills run down my spine, real bone-chilling chills this time. I open the book up gingerly, half thinking that some crazy light force was going to blaze out of the book, like when they open up the Ark in Indiana Jones.
But that doesn't happen. Instead, there's a caption my Mom wrote in Korean when she gave me the book 5 years ago. Translated, it says "So that my daughters can be loving daughters, love Mom". I never remember her giving me the book back then and it takes five years and a journey halfway around the world to finally accept her gift and the words of Tagore. Specifically, these are the Gitanjali poems.
I delve into the Gitanjalis, thinking big things, like they're going to tell me if I need to go back to school, or I'm going to find the love of my life or give me answers to what my purpose on this Earth is. But they don't. Yet, I'm not discouraged. I remember what my Mom has told me, particularly in reading Hesse. "You need to read Hesse every 10 years. What you get out of reading Hesse at age 20, will be different from what you learn from Hesse at age 30, and 40, and so on. " And so that is the approach I'm taking with Tagore.
One Gitanjali, #48, stands out in particular for me at this point in my life:
The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily went our our way and paid no heed.
We sang no glad songs nor played; we went not to the village for barter; we spoke not a word nor smiled; we lingered not on the way. We quickened our pace more and more as the time sped by.
The sun rose to the mid sky and doves cooed in the shade. Withered leaves danced and whirled in the hot air of noon. The shephered boy drowsed and dreamed in the shadow of the banyan tree, and I laid msyelf down by the water and stretched my tired limbs on the grass.
My companions laughed at me in scorn; they held their heads high and hurried on; they never looked back nor rested; they vanished in the distnat blue haze. They crossed many meadows and hills, and passed through strange, far-away countries. All honour to you, heroic host of the interminable path! Mockery and reproach pricked me to rise, but found no response in me. I gave myself up for lost in the depth of a glad humiliation - in the shadow of a dim delight.
The repose of the sun-embroidered greem gloom slowly spread over my heart. I forgot for what I had travelled, and I surrendered my mind without struggle to the maze of shadows and songs.
At last, when I woke from my slumber and opened my eyes, I saw thee standing by me, flooding my sleep with thy smile. How I had feared that the path was long and wearisome, and the struggle to reach thee was hard!
The journey is just as important, if not more, as the endpoint, the arrival. What's the point of reaching your goals, or getting what you want if the process to get it wasn't fun, beautiful, appreciated? I just need to stop and smell the roses. In concrete terms, this means I will take a few days this year and head down to the islands of Thailand (which are so close to me) and actually wear my two bikinis that I bought and haven't worn yet. And of course, this poem is telling me about love, but I don't want to write about that now. That's for later to share.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
a muu-muu and a basket
you will never guess but i pre-ordered a muu-muu! that is the most exciting news i have to share!!!! woo hoo!! my life is so crazy, so on the edge. oh, and one of the medics from the jungle wove me a basket. it's so beautiful, i'm flattered. i think he has a crush on me.
did you know that muu-muus started in hawaii? mine won't have the crazy bold floral prints, it will have a more subdued pattern, but floral nonetheless. if i like this one a lot, i might go back and custom request another one, but maybe with a sexier bustline this time...
did you know that muu-muus started in hawaii? mine won't have the crazy bold floral prints, it will have a more subdued pattern, but floral nonetheless. if i like this one a lot, i might go back and custom request another one, but maybe with a sexier bustline this time...
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
aizawl, textiles and pineapples
this is aizawl. for those of you who have heard me talk about this city, i make it sound really just gross and unpleasant, but it's all part of the grand plan to counter any tourism efforts made by the the government of india, because i want to keep it my little secret. this last trip was the longest i'd stayed in india, an entire 30 days, and i managed to channel the powers of an ashram into our hostel room every morning. and it worked. it also helped that we brought yoga mats and the awesome yoga shakti dvd by shiva rea.....during the rest of the 14 hours of the day, we did the usual international health stuff.
you never know who you're going to meet when you're doing a little pretesting in a developing country. we ended up meeting b------ migrant village full or textile factories, and the women were making the most vibrant fabrics. a lot of the traditional textiles in the mizo culture have actually been adopted from the b------ textiles since so many of the weavers migrated to india. the pens with the thread are shot through across the big old textile loom like contraption, all powered by women textile workers pedaling of their feet.
of course, i had to take another picture of a dog with gigantor mammaries. this is not uncommon but still, something about this dog's boobs intrigued me enough to send this out in the information superhighway thinking it might intrigue someone out there as well...
...and in another village we went to i came across the most wonderful thing! wild pineapples! wild pineapp
les!!Saturday, February 9, 2008
some pics
Another latrine pic. Also serves as shower. Like you haven't seen enough latrines and dogs already.
Church deck floor made of bamboo.
Skinny tree produces absurd quantities of papaya. They knock the tree down to get the fruit. I'm not sure if it's because they don't have a fancy ladder, or the tree dies once the fruit gets picked. Probably the former.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Trip back
This is not the most flattering photo of myself, but what I want to point out is the beautiful and serene S------ River pictured behind me that is clandestinely carrying us away from B----. Its calming current and pristine sandy river banks (softest sand I've ever walked on) belie the madness going on in this country. On the other side is the Thai national park. The only difference? Landmines. Ironically, the landmines that have been laid throughout the jungle terrain along the eastern side of the river has inadvertently preserved its beauty.Walking down from the church on the hilltop where the training was held. The rice bag I'm using to protect the laptop and my hairdo from the rain.
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