Rounding 60

The Bolster Legacy: The Procession Is Long

2011-09-20T10:14:00.007-04:00

New York

"Life is short. But the procession

is long."

Tom Stoppard

On a beautiful Sunday afternoon recently in Central Park, my son Ben, tending to his very ambulatory 15 month old, Maggie, asked: "What do you find so compelling about all this [genealogy] stuff?"

I found it hard to answer him in a few sentences, knowing that I would only have time for sound bites because Maggie's tipsy motion that required constant vigilance. Exigencies would not allow a deep, philosophical discussion. (Always my preference. )

What precipitated this query?

On September 14, I drove to central New York state for a Daughters of the American Revolution ceremony to honor my ancestor, Lot Bolster, who had just recently been sanctioned as a bonafied patriot of the American Revolution. Twenty years ago, when I began this quest to find out about all of those who had come before me, I could not have imagined standing in an old cemetery outside of North Pitcher, New York, with weather-stained white markers from as early as the 1700s on both sides of me.

A little genealogy.

Lot Bolster ( 1752 ) was the younger brother of my ancestor, John Bolster ( 1749 ). They were born near Boston, the sons of Richard Bolster and Anne Tucker. Their grandfather, Isaac Bolster ( 16_), along with several hundred Englishmen under the aegis of the Duke of Monmouth, tried to kill James II. The band of resistors were Protestant, concerned that James was a Catholic sympathizer. All of the Duke's men were tried for treason in 1685 in southern England ( Devon, Dorset, Somerset counties ) before Judge Jeffries ( notorious for his stiff penalties ) in what would become known as the "Bloody Assizes".

Most men were drawn and quartered; then hanged. But Isaac Bolster was spared, probably because of his age ( a 1600s teenager ). Instead, he was sent to Jamaica as pretty much an indentured servant. Eventually, he was pardoned, and wended his way to Boston.

I steep myself in the paths of these amazing, real people ( Bolsters, Lawrences, Whalen, Holloway, Dwyer, Dull, Smith ), and can begin to imagine someone whose DNA still exists in my cells, who was a part of history.

Now, Ben, do you see why I love researching those who came before us?

In just this one case, I find inspiration.

Lot Bolster ( and, I am aim to prove, my direct ancestor, John )-- were patriots during much of the battle to create this nation from 1776 until 1781-- leaving farmland and family to create freedom. How can you beat that?

In the search for my Bolster ancestors, I've "met" many people on the internet who were Bolsters ( it's not like Smith, for heaven's sake--hard to come by a Bolster in many phonebooks!) One of them, Lot Bolster's descendant, Sally Bolster Holcombe, has been helping me with my research, since 1990, well before Ancestry.com decided to start hawking information ( some of it bogus in my view ) for a fee. Another, Barbara Bolster, still lives in New York state, not far from what was Fort Albany when New York was barely older than an Indian territory.

So, there was something just plain right about standing on that grassy spot where Lot is buried nearly 200 years after his death. Something right about Sally and Barbara next to me. Something right about the five American veterans , long in the tooth, who made up the color guard and provided the 21 gun salute, marching from the stipled light of the hardwood trees into the September afternoon sunlight toward Lot's new gravestone.

200 years later we are finding our way in a time of terrible, albeit exciting change as a country. 200 years later, I am searching for meaning from those who came before to illuminate my own journey.

It's at once a public search for meaning. And a private one.

M.C.

Reverie

2011-05-22T08:37:00.008-04:00

New York

My mother would be 101 years old today. I've thought alot about her, partly because I am combing through all of the photos from my childhood. And my children's growing up years. Mother was very present in my boys lives. For one thing, my father had died three years before Chris, my eldest was born. I think his birth softened some of her sorrow at my father's sudden death of a coronary. He was 60; she was 55.

For another, I lived in the same Iowa town where I was raised for the first two years of Chris' life. My mother, who always said she was not going to be a "babysitting grandmother" changed her mind when Chris came along. I remember calling her soon after I came home from the hospital because I thought I was going to pass out. She was there in minutes. I don't know whether it was hormonal or just the cold realization that this baby was forever, but I do remember that she comforted me just by showing up.

By the time my second son, Ben, was born, we lived in Iowa City-still close enough to visit often. Then, a move to Washington, DC. Mother flew out every 3 or 4 months and she continued to do that through three more moves: Indianapolis, Chicago, and finally Philadelphia. And my children loved her dearly. She showed up for graduations, birthdays, Christmas, and would always send packages to the kids on holidays--a giant chocolate Easter egg, candy corn for Halloween, sparklers on July 4th.

So what has this got to do with the pictures in this entry? I looked at these pictures and remembered that this is how memories are sustained. Like the yellowed pictures in the photo albums that I've culled, then re-arranged, discarding what I thought I could live without, I wondered if my children--and my grandchildren would do the same some day.

Maggie, Ben's first child will be one year old in June. Ethan, the eldest of Chris' children, will be 8. Edward, 5 in July; Ella, 3 in December. They are all in the pictures above.

I was struck by the looks on the faces of the boys when they presented me with the homemade birthday cake ( the curly headed on is my great nephew, Liam ). And my sentry stance with Ella at the castle playground in Central Park ( it was very high ). Or the love I see when I look at the print of Maggie and me last Easter.

I just called my son to remind him that it was Mother's birthday. I can't help but wonder if someday he or his brother will pull out a CD or whatever storage device is in vogue for keeping photos--and look again at pictures like the ones above. It's what we do. Record the little moments randomly, really. And then find out later that they sustain us just when we might be adrift.

Simon and Garfunkel: Intersections.

2010-09-30T16:58:00.008-04:00

New York

For almost two months, I have resisted posting not because there was nothing to say. But because there was so much to say. I guess I was waiting for the end of the story, the theme that might play out in real life.

Today I got it.

Let me explain. I met a very good friend who was in town from Philadelphia for a law conference at a hotel on Central Park South. The dining room, overlooking the park offers a stunning view, and has always been my favorite room in New York for special events. Today was a bonus. Ann and I have been friends for years, have shared Christmases, Thanksgivings, vacations with her children and mine. But it is less frequent now that I am in New York more that we get a chance to really chat.

The maitre'd seated us in the empty dining room. We sat by the window with wait staff hovering. Midway through our meal, a 70ish-looking tall man, wearing wire rim aviator glasses, arrived and took the table next to us. He looked oddly familiar. Several minutes later, another man arrived. They embraced, the tall, light haired man crouching down to hug the other man, easily a head shorter with sparse black hair ( like a tonsure ).

My friend and I finished our lunch. I told her I thought the men looked familiar. She suggested I ask as we left the restaurant.

I was right. Yup. It was "Hello darkness my old friend..." The singer/songwriters of the songs that I danced to, wept to, made love to. The songs I sang my children. Hymns, some of them, for me.

And strangely, I never saw them in concert. They were almost too much to share with the masses at Giant stadium or any of the huge venues that packed in thousands for their concerts.

There they were--two baby boomers having lunch together, dressed casually. They could have been from Goldman's ( well, not quite. They weren't wearing red power ties; no ties at all, actually ).

"Why don't you go over and say something," Ann nudged. Flushed, I'm sure, I screwed up the courage to non-challantly return to my table, feigning having lost something. Then, slipping over to the next table. Their table.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," I began, my hands clasped in front of me. Art Garfunkel looked up, smiled faintly. Paul Simon looked a bit non-plussed.

"I know it's rude, but I just couldn't leave without saying how much your work meant to me." I stood up a bit taller, hoping my hair didn't fall into my eyes ( why had I put off getting it cut, anyway?). "You have made my day, week, month." By this time, Paul Simon is looking up at me, his face a bit more jowled than I remembered, but his eyes were the sad, dark eyes I remember from TV.

Art Garfunkel ( somehow it seems a bit too familiar to just call him Art ) smiled again.

"It's no problem. It's always nice to receive a compliment."

What was it that made that one of the memories that I will carry to my grave? I don't think I'm a groupie. I see celebrities of one sort or another from time to time in New York . Alec Baldwin in my gym; Bob Costas at the next table this winter; Joe of Morning Joe in Central Park in July.

But this was different. I never dreamt that I would ever be so close to these two greats. Just didn't think it would happen. It's not that I follow their careers. I didn't even know that Art Garfunkel had vocal paresis ( vocal cord dysfunction ) and had cancelled tours with Simon indefinitely last June. I don't even read People magazine.

But they were woven into the fabric of my past--newly married in Iowa City, Iowa; lonely in a new place in Oxon Hill, Maryland. They're connected to films that shaped me like The Graduate. They're connected to the Vietnam war both at that time and in the films that depict that time.

So, today, September 30, 2010. That's a day I'll remember. I'll tell my grandchildren, if they'll listen about the day their Grammie met someone(s) worth celebrity kudos for their body of work. For their legacy, and the evocative lyrics and rhythms of their craft.

Last week, I wrote with four other writers for five straight days. We wrote morning and afternoon. Ate together, Played together in the waves of Cape Hatteras. After dinner we listened to one another's work and critiqued it--walking that fine line of offering encouragement for a line, a phrase, a page that rang universal and the important tough job of making the comments about needed change, lack of clarity, or voice. I left that retreat full of courage to continue writing, continue trusting my voice. It was a privilege that I wasn't sure I would have the chance to realize ( it was by invitation ). These are good writers. Better than me, I suppose.

And then this magical meeting.

Two moments in time; one after the other. I deeply believe that these intersections have the power to change the molecules in every cell of the body.

M.C.

Raised in Captivity by Nicky Silver... and More--Summer 2010

2010-07-17T11:18:00.010-04:00

Philadelphia

Generally, I look forward to the summer for all the reasons many of us do: no cumbersome clothing, no inclement ( read cold ) weather, fewer obligations, vacation. But this summer has been different than any I can remember in the past three decades.

I think the geopolitical, financial crisis creates an underbelly of uncertainty that I have not felt since the 60s with the Vietnam War, Civil Rights, and the Women's Movement all riping at the fabric of what we as a culture had known.

Then, I was in the vanguard--
an avid advocate for civil rights, women's rights, and, yes, a part of the antiwar movement. At the time, I lived in Washington, D.C. and would march from the Lincoln Memorial to the Washington Monument with thousands of others, my two year old son on my shoulders.

The current crises in our country, though, seem more cynical, even sinister in some ways. The Gulf oil spill, some Wall Streeters' penchant to find loopholes that cripple the vulnerable, --and even crazy weather recently with record heat.

It is all a backdrop to my world, I suppose--and all of ours. This summer, I have made the decision to leave Pennsylvania and reside in New York. So, I have the house on the market not because I am deluded into thinking it will sell as the Dow dips and spikes leaving the first half of 2010 with pretty much a flat return. But since I'm not interested in a fire sale, it is a start, a chance to get the word out that this little piece of heaven is for sale. It has forced me to begin shedding, peeling away 30 years of belongings, memories, family heirlooms ( too much for a New York apartment for sure ). So, I shred documents, read old letters from my sons, from lovers, from friends who have since died--and decide whether to keep them, put them in storage or pitch them.

This summer, I am ( to my surprise ) beginning a geriatric practice in New York advocating for those who cannot speak on their own behalf because of dementia or just the fragility that comes with advanced age to many. It is challenging and fun--the practice is well established by a veteran professional, and I am learning about the patient population she serves and their needs.

And, finally, this summer I am appearing in a play, Raised in Captivity, at the Producer's Club in New York on 44th and 9th. I am Miranda, the mother of adults children--twins--who have just returned from burying me. I raised the children solo ( as I did pretty much with my own sons ). In keeping with Miranda's persona, a real force of nature, she appears to the son, Sebastian, and sets about the task of straightening him out about the family secrets that she never revealed while still alive.

I love the play, love the part. Learning all those lines. Well, that's a challenge. But, the best part is that the director, Laurence Gerwitz, asked me to play the role. How could I possibly refuse when I was recruited by the director? The play, written by Nicky Silver (often compared to David Mamet ) premiered at the Vineyard theater in New York in 1996 and is all about redemption, forgiveness. Oh--and it is very, very funny!

So instead of a couple of weeks in Nantucket and a summer filled with long days of writing, this summer is filled with the busy-ness comes from the schlepping back and forth between Pennsylvania and New York to tend to the house, a new consulting practice, and Off Off Broadway.

But yesterday, I took a left turn from responsibility and order--and decisions about what to keep and what to save.

It was brutally hot. So at 6pm, I suggested to my longtime friend that we put on our Tivas to escape to the creek . We walked out my back door and went down to the stream the entire bottle of savignon blanc that I plunged into the gritty bottom to stay cool. I sat on a big, old rock while Terry waded to the deep hole that is the fishing spot for the blue heron that arrives every day. And for an hour, we commiserated about our tomboy childhoods and country beginnings in very different parts of this country.

No fussing. No kvetching. Just two friends laughing as the sun sends stippled light through the hardwoods, the minnows flit about between the mossy rocks, and the electric blue dragonflies land on overhanging foliage.

It is the kind of moment that keeps me hopeful in the "in between" time that is so much of life.

It was Zen. Pure Zen.

M.C.

P.S. Come see the show if you're in New York--August 12 through 14, NYC. Producer's Club, 44th and 9th. 8pm. Tickets at the door ( $20 or so ) More later...

Fred Rogers and A Simple Hello

2010-05-10T05:58:00.015-04:00

New York

I have been going to Nantucket for nearly twenty years. In the early years, I stayed near the town center on Nantucket Bay in a waterfront townhouse with the clink,clink,clink of halyards hitting steel masts in the night air. Most days, I would ride my bike to the closest beach and spend the day there loving the solitude. I explored other parts of the island by bike and car.

It soon became apparent that the best, most remote part of the island was Madaket where fisherman had constructed cottages a century ago with sturdy fireplaces and thick planked floors.

Beginning in 1999, I rented a little cottage facing Madaket Bay, home of piping plovers, oystercatchers, and moored boats bobbing silently in the breeze outside my window.

Next door was Fred Rogers' house, a funny mishmash of a house that his father had built years ago.

One afternoon, I went down to the bay armed with binoculars to spot the amazing birds on the tip of the island, a small book of May Sarton's poems and my journal. Coming toward me on the beach was a tallish, thin man with his bathing suit on, a pale orange bath towel draped over his shoulders. It was Fred Rogers out for his daily swim.

I looked up at him from under the brim of my floppy sunhat and smiled. " Hello, there. Enjoy your swim. "

"Thank you." He smiled, paused. "May I ask --are you are a writer?"

" I ...I guess I am," I stammered. "I have done advertising copy and published a couple of professional journal articles."

"I see. That's wonderful. May I introduce myself? I'm Fred Rogers."

"Nice to meet you. I am Mary Catherine Bolster." I stood up to shake his hand.

"Well, Mrs. Bolster, it is so nice to know you."

" I just want you to know something, Mr. Rogers."

"Fred."

"Fred, I want you to know how important you were to my children's lives when they were little boys. I can still see them sitting in front of the little 15 inch, black and white screen, watching you and King Friday and all of those wonderful characters you brought to life."

We talked for awhile about poetry, religion and the search for meaning. About life as a journey. About seeking meaning in literature and poetry. I told him about my pilgrimage to Spain, trekking the medieval 500 mile path to the tomb of St. James in Santiago.

As he walked away, I was struck with his depth and lack of pretense, and how totally he seemed to be the same man, the same persona, as the one I had watched so many years ago with my sons.

Later that same week, I tucked a copy of Patricia Hamel's book, Virgin Time, in his mailbox with a note: Hope you enjoy this. I mentioned her book about seeking meaning when we spoke. Best, MC.

My cell phone rang soon after. " Mary Catherine? This is Fred Rogers. I just called to thank you for the wonderful book, and see if you would like to come over and have some tea with Joanne and me?"

That was the beginning of my acquaintance with Fred, and his wife Joanne, and my memories of sitting on the back deck of the Crooked House drinking tea in the afternoon or having dinner at the modest dining table off of the kitchen.

All my family and friends were excited about Fred living next door to my little cottage. One by one, I introduced them to Fred. Beginning with my son, Ben.

It so happens that Ben's birthday is in early September. He asked to meet Mr. Rogers when he and his girlfriend came to stay with me.

"Do you think he'd come over for my birthday?"

"I'll ask him."

Fred did come over for Ben's birthday. He walked around the corner of the cottage in his yellow windbreaker and said: "Where's the birthday boy?"

Ben beamed with appreciation.

Each year until Fred died, Ben ( sometimes solo, sometimes with girlfriends ) would come to visit me, and I would invite the Rogers' to his birthday--and Fred and, sometimes, Joanne or sometimes their houseguests, would come, too.

One year, Ben and I were invited to Fred's house, Ben played guitar for Fred.Fred took snapshots of all of us ( which he sent to me later with a lovely note. ) Then, he took us on a tour of the house . In his tiny studio, he sat down at his Roland keyboard and began playing "Neighborhood" songs. I listened as Ben told Fred about his career at MTV and Fred talked a bit about his take on pop culture. I watched my son lean in to this man's words, his gestures.

Fred had such a gift for making a difference with the available moment. After 9/11, Ben did a benefit concert for the victims' families which Fred knew about. The night of the benefit, I got a voicemail on my cell. " Mary Catherine, this is Fred Rogers. I know Ben is performing tonight for the victims, and I called the place but no one answered. Would you please tell him that I hope it goes well?"

After Fred died, there was a tiny, inconsolable hole in my heart. I guess I thought there would be endless summers of tea and birthdays overlooking the bay. I wrote Joanne a long note and realized (as I believe we do when something wonderful is suddenly, permanently taken away from us ) that my life was changed by this man's generosity and humility--and I would miss him terribly.

Soon after Fred's death, Ben decided to do a documentary about him. It was, I suppose it was a way for him to get his arms around Fred's death, and perhaps other things known only to Ben. He enlisted the help of his brother, Chris ( full time film editor and father of 3 kids under 6 ), as co-director in the project. Ben writes, directs, produces. Chris films, edits and directs.

The film was finally finished recently after all night edit sessions and years of work .

So, Ben and Chris sent it out to all manner of film festivals--Tribeca, Sundance--with no idea of the outcome.

And here's the thing: They did it. Mister Rogers and Me will premiere at the Nantucket Film Festival that runs from June 17-21, 2010. ( mrrogersandme.blogspot.com )

Who could know all of those years ago that my path would lead me to the house next to Fred's in Madaket? Would urge me to say hello to Fred that day on the bay? Who could know that Fred would accept my invitation to come to Ben's birthday? Who could have known that Ben would be so moved, so passionate to follow this uncertain path?

Usually, things don't turn out quite so neatly, so...well...whole.

And it all began with "hello".

Mother Nature Trumps

2010-04-23T14:00:00.003-04:00

New York
For the past few months, I have been pounding the pavement in Manhattan. I want to find meaningful work in healthcare reform--something this diverse, urban center that arguably has the talent, the money and the problems that need solving--should be anxious to have help accomplishing.
My career has been a mix of healthcare and communications for the past 35+ years. I suppose some might say that I have taken the path less wise instead of the path less taken. But I made a decision long ago that I would only get degrees that I thought would support the body of knowledge that I needed to be effective.

So, no PhD in nursing or in Bioethics although I have masters degrees in both fields. And I crisscrossed the professions--teaching nursing at three universities; then director in an NFP national healthcare organization; then managing projects for medical advertising clients like Wyeth; then founding my own healthcare communications company. Finally, I taught bioethics to med students, nursing students, care managers of geriatric patients while at the same time developing an independent geriatric care management practice in suburban Philadelphia.

My final piece of the crazy quilt was to apply and receive acceptance by Maryknoll International to work with Buddhist monks in Bangkok for three months in the winter of 2009.

Today I met with another amazing professional at the NY Academy of Medicine, and organization that has been around for 150 years. The organization has many interesting projects, but recently was responsible for researching and then preparing a seminal report in 2008 outlining evidence regarding the quality of life for elders in New York's five boroughs. Ideas like NORCs ( naturally occurring retirement communities ), providing education and support to caregivers, models for transition from hospital to home, are all part of the report. I was in the right place to talk to someone who knows what New York needs. But money is tight. The mayor is cutting like crazy according to the New York Times in order to balance the budget. And, as a friend of mine who is on a hospital board of directors commented to me recently: " Every time we get a proposal for funding, we hesitate not because it isn't a worthy idea to be tested out with patients, but because we don't know how healthcare reform is going to effect our bottom line."

Nevertheless, I have promising prospects of consults, of being a part of a platform--which in this case, with the massive needs that I have seen in the last few years of my small GCM practice- seems to me the only way to penetrate the fragmentation that currently exists. And we are running out of time. Right now 1.3 million New Yorkers are 65 or older. By 2030, that number will nearly double to something above 25%. That is not just a New York phenomenon either.

As I walked back to my apartment through Central Park after the meeting, I thought about how glad I am that I am here, in New York, now in a time of such exciting change.m
I took some pictures of the conservatory in full spring blook at the north end of the park, and one of the stunning stone bridges in the North Woods section of the park. It made me less impatient with finding my niche. One of these days I will actually understand deep in my bones that I am not really in charge of outcomes, just the process that I choose to follow to meet my goals and dreams.

In the meantime, I will keep taking pictures of beauty. Of things that are bigger than me, and totally outside my control. Mother Nature, for instance.
MC

The Long Goodbye

2010-04-12T13:08:00.005-04:00

New York

In the past few weeks, dear reader, I have been beginning the long goodbye to my beloved house in the country. It has become too much to keep as beautiful as I insist it be. And my other loves are calling--New York with all of its lure--the arts, friends, my children and grandchildren, the arts... Writing. Travel.

In the midst of shredding and organizing 30 years of things from Little League fielder's gloves and fishing tackle to mountains of tax returns from the 1990s, I found the poem below.

Don't Expect Applause

And yet, wouldn't it be welcome

at the end of each ordinary day?

The audience could be small,

the theater modest. Folding chairs

in a church basement would do.

Just a short earnest burst of applause

that you got up that morning

and, one way or another,

made it through the day.

You soaped up in the steaming

shower, drank your Starbucks

in the car, and let the guy with the

Windex wipe your windshield

during he long red light at Broad Street.

Or maybe you were that guy

not daring to light up

while you stood there because

everyone's so down on smoke these days.

Or you kissed your wife

as she hurried out the door, even though

you were pretty sure she was

meeting her lover at the Flamingo Motel,

even though you wanted to grab her

by a hank of her sleek hair.

Maybe your son's in jail.

Your daughter's stopped eating.

And your husband's still dead

this morning, just like he was

yesterday and he day before that.

And yet you put on your shoes

ad take a walk, and when a neighbor

says Good morning, you say

Good morning back.

Would a round of applause e amiss?

Even if you weren't good.

If you yelled at your kid,

poisoned the ants, drank too much

and said that really stupid thing

you promised yourself you wouldn't say.

even if you don't deserve it.

Tibetan Buddhist maxim

M.C.

Homecomings

2010-03-06T07:27:00.004-05:00

New York

Since I can remember, the week before my birthday somehow finds me in the still water of reverie. When I was growing up in Iowa, my birthday was invariably greeted with a blizzard. Even without a blizzard, the solitude that weather suggests is a perfect metaphor.

My dear friend, Yvonne, brought me a book of blessings the last time she visited from Dublin by the beloved Irish poet, John O'Donohue. This morning when I picked the book up, it fell open to the blessing below.

To Come Home To Yourself

May all that is unforgiven in you,
Be released.

May your fears yield
Their deepest tranquilities.

May all that is unlived in you,
Blossom into a future,
Graced with love.

John O Donohue

M.C.

Dinner With Friends

2010-02-21T09:53:00.005-05:00

New York

This reverie began with a taxi coming within 24 inches of my right thigh before coming to a screeching halt on Fifth Avenue last Saturday morning at 9 a.m. I completely lost my composure with the driver who sat in his cab a captive ( since I was raving while I stood at the car's hood screaming " What were you thinking?" He wasn't thinking, just driving too fast through the 79h Street transverse between the west side and the east side of Manhattan.

Here I am, four days later, and still thinking about it. About my brush with death. February is tough without near death experiences. But I'm beginning to get punchy. Bring 'em on, part of me says. I can take the predicted "snow hurricane" that is supposed to visit the northeast in two days bearing down with multiple inches of snow, gridlock and inconvenience. But the other part of me wants to find a beach. Last year at this time I was just about to find a beach in the middle of paradise in southern Thailand. ( For those of you who are new to this blog, check the archives for all the vivid details. )

The past months have been spent running down rabbit holes in search of the work I want to do for this next decade. And there have been more dead ends than underground mansions in my quest to " make a difference" during what is arguably the last full tilt of my career. Even so, I have gotten a tour of New York's healthcare, not for profit and humanitarian sectors. What an immense playing field. What amazing talent. What enormous challenges/problems/barriers.

And I continue to have one foot on the dock with another on the bow of the boat, trying not to do the splits. I continue to want a presence in Pennsylvania where I have had roots for almost 30 years--and still mine the richness that New York offers in so many things that I value--the arts, possibilities doing work that might make a difference with the healthcare of the marginalized, a chance to live in one the most interesting places in the world right now ( recession or no recession ). And, then, of course, there is my family here, my beloved grandchildren, my nephews and their children--and a new grandchild soon to be born.

I look out my windows toward the darkening western skyline dotted with the lights of thousands of others' homes,where others dream, nurse their disappointments, navigate their worklife. We are all having our dinner hour in some way or another. Some out of a can, some served by a domestic, some drinking it. Some skipping it.

But for some reason, tonight it feels to me as if we are all in this same soup bowl together trying to find our way. Measure success by the small steps, I say to myself. Focus on "other" as the Dalai Lama teaches.

******************

I went to Sarah Lawrence last night for my first creative writing class of this semester. "Write about an ordinary day" our teacher had assigned in an email earlier in the week. One of my classmates who was diagnosed with ALS two years ago at the age of 56 did just that.

It is his written words that stay with me tonight.

"Ten inches. That is my view of the outside world, the ten inch space between the bottom of the window shade and the sill, the slight vista I can make out as I lie propped up in bed. I wake periodically and monitor the progress of the night. Before I was sick, my wakefulness tortured me as I tossed and turned. But now I am content to stare out through my narrow portal while I listen to the shallow breathing of my wife and the dg lying across the foot of our bed, their rhythmic ins and outs synchronized like a pas de deux. I have learned just to be. "

Beginnings

2010-01-26T17:17:00.005-05:00

New York

Christmas is a distant memory. It has been over a month since I have recorded my thoughts, learnings to this blog. But I have been drilling down for oil, focused on keeping on task.

January has a frigid stranglehold on New York. And yet, I cannot remember a January that I have found so interesting. Since November, I have been poking down a lot of rabbit holes as I discern what work I want to do with this decade of my life. My skill sets have always deepened in two broad areas: communications and, I suppose, social justice ( although I think that might be a little lofty for just trying to do the right thing with folks who are marginalized!). So, whether I was teaching nursing, conceiving and executing program materials with my communications company--those were the areas that make up the map of my work life.

In the process of running down possibilities to use these skills, I've had a chance to see just some of the people and projects that are helping people in New York City--from the YMCA of Greater New York with its 14+ branches to the incredible Hartford Foundation at NYU that offers practicing nurses accessible tools in their busy lives to deal with our aging population. There are lots of people making organizational change.

And new beginnings seem to be everywhere on a more micro level. Last Monday, I stood at the end of the 25 meter pool, getting ready to begin my 50 laps when a 30 something woman with a black two piece suit stretched to accomodate a very big belly. I smiled at her and said: "You look so beautiful!"
"Do you really think so?" she asked, smiling back.
"When is the baby due?"
"Two days ago."
We talked for little bit about this, her first baby, her excitement and the unknown.
"I guess this is the beginning of worrying about this child for the rest of my life," she said, her brow wrinkling as she spoke.

Talking to her, I felt that invisible bond that mothers seems to have. We talked a little about my babies and my vivid memories of those last days before their births back in the distant 60s and 70s. The first time I felt each of them move, their first gasp, their first day home.

Wednesday, I read my son, Ben's blog ( BenjaminWagner.com ) and read his account of the 20 week ultrasound for the new baby that he and Abbi are expecting in June. He wrote about the thrill, the awe of seeing this new life forming before his eyes. He wrote about the mix of angst and absolute joy. It moved me to tears.

Thursday, I visited a senior center on the Upper West Side that is open 6 days a week from 8 until 5pm. The director grew up in the neighborhood 40+ years ago and attended Booker T Washington middle school that is now behind the center. Mickey multitasked between talking to me, answering her phone, and waving center members into her office for a chat in rapid Spanish. But the best part was the feel of the place. This neighborhood houses naturally aging, generally poor population of many Latinos who, without this place to create community, might be isolated in their apartment-- without knowing what services are available to them--health screenings, legal help, transportation.

In many ways, this winter seems to be offering me a mini course in miracles.

M.C

This I Believe

2009-12-10T07:08:00.009-05:00

New York

This week marked my last creative writing class at Sarah Lawrence. For the second semester, I have made the weekly commute from New York's west side beginning with the M86 crosstown bus to Lex, then the #6 train to 125th Street, and finally the MetroNorth Harlem line to Bronxville. Once in this quintessential college town with its brick streets and cozy main street, I would either walk the mile to campus or, sometimes, one of my classmates would gratiously give me a lift. All tolled, it is about a two hour proposition from my door on the UWS to the Wrexham Road classroom.
There have been times this semester when the sun has set before I got on the first bus, times that I have questioned what I was doing making this trek since there are at least three major universities within 15 minutes of my apartment.
But last night I knew once again why I make this pilgrimage. It's the calibre of the writers. I have been in writing workshops off and on for the past decade or two, and I have never worked with such good writers--or such good faculty. This semester, Steve Lewis, our intrepid leader ( whose work is featured in publications such as the New York Times), prodded, quipped, and cheered as I wrote and wrote about Iowa in the 1950s and 60s. It became a running joke that my mostly Eastern-born and bred colleagues were learning more about threshing and Herefords than they had ever expected. I knew I had them when, in one class not so long ago, after I read a segment of The Red Bicycle, they were guessing where I had landed by plane to begin the trek along Interstate 80 toward Waterloo, Iowa, my childhood home to visit my frail mother.
" Well, she landed in Chicago, of course," declared Mel. "No, I think Des Moines is closest," said Lauren. Finally, Steve ( a Long Island boy who went to the University of Wisconsin at the height of the 60s student movement ) announced: "Iowa City, she landed in Iowa City." Close enough.
As our last assignment, Steve asked us to write an essay on the model of the "This I Believe" contest on public radio--and send it to him a couple of days before class.
We met at Lisa's house in Dobbs Ferry for a party and a little literature on Tuesday night. Steve had made a chapbook entitled Writings from the Edge of all of our essays about our belief systems. I was the first to read.

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Hopscotch

A couple of years ago, I was sitting on the beach with my best friend and her daughter Elizabeth. My friend and I were talking about what we were looking forward to in the next six months. Somehow, the conversation drifted toward our goals for the next decade—our dreams, really. Elizabeth was lying on her back, her lanky, bronzed, 25 year old body shiny with Coppertone deep tanning oil. She turned onto her side to face us, opened her eyes, and declared earnestly: “ I didn’t think people your age still had all of those expectations of the future.”

When I was 25, I probably believed that, too. But I think the amazing thing about growing older is that I don’t feel that old. Surely it must be true that I’m not the same in my sixth decade as my mother was in hers. It’s true that I look in the mirror more fleetingly now than I did at 25—or even 40. But I see the foundation of the same woman I saw in the mirror then. And aside from the paraphernalia of age—reading glasses, a must-take pill or two a day, and the fact that I lean in to hear some conversations---I am 25 in the land of my dreams.

My life and my career have been a working draft. Divorced at 35, (something I never ever dreamt would happen to me) with two pre-adolescent boys, I constructed a life for us from scratch. We moved to a new part of the country, and I set about getting my career back on track by accepting a position on a Ivy League faculty as an instructor (even less rank than a TA). I rented a little white cape near a good school, put a regulation basketball hoop at the top of the driveway, and stocked the refrigerator. It was a second chance.

Ten years later, I was an empty nester-- a term I hate (it always evokes a forlorn and feather-bare blue jay cawing in an oversized, untidy nest in the crook of a lifeless tree). By that time, I had left academia for business, found out what it is like to be fired (my gut said don’t-do-it the minute I walked into that ad agency to interview for the job), and started over once again. Because of career choices that I made during those decades, I have a resume today that is a mix of science and humanities. It looks unfocused to the unwashed who aren’t right brained, I suppose. And has cost me an easy fit into either the world of academia or business.

But recently, I realized that the hopscotch of my career is, in some ways, true to my ambivalence about what I really want to do.

So what do I want to do? My working answer is I want to do something in this coming decade that makes a difference. Maybe it is in healthcare reform. Maybe it is helping promote the little psychiatric center on 34^th Street and 9^th Avenue that counsels homeless clients, shepherding them through their recovery keeping them out of the hospital, out of the cold, and on their medication. Maybe it’s writing one truthful story that resonates with a yet to be found editor who publishes it.

I don’t know if any of those things will happen. But I believe in the timelessness of possibilities. I am just not done yet.

Can Winter Solstice Be Far Away?

2009-11-17T06:08:00.008-05:00

New York

It's still dark outside my window at 6am. This time of year as the smack of cold air hits my face, the winter solstice always seems too far away, too hard to hope for. How did people stand it in the days of caves and clubs, wondering if the sun would ever warm their soil and souls again?

Slowly, from my window, I see the sun begin to paint the distant buidlings' windows a shiny orange, basking in its reflected glory.

Below, I've posted a favorite poem of mine. A little morning gift for all of you.

The Journey by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.

Who Knows Where The Time Goes...

2009-10-25T08:09:00.003-04:00

New York

Dear Reader,

It has been weeks since my last post. Life right now offers me so many things to write about, it is difficult to stop long enough to comment on any of them. I find myself savoring them and frantically jotting down notes. In gratitude.

I continue to work on my writing at Sarah Lawrence. Every week, I gather with 12 other writers, men and women, and our (ponytailed) writing faculty at a conference table in Bronxville and sometimes read, sometimes write, sometimes

just listen.

I continue to be dazzled by all that Manhattan's richness: At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Vermeer's The Milkmaid, an 18 inch wonder that was loaned by the Dutch museum in Amsterdam to celebrate the 150th anniversary of Henry Hudson's sail down the Hudson River right past my backdoor; Robert Plant's quirky black and white photographs of unvarnished America in the 1950s--not portraiture or Adams' landscapes--but people, just people living our culture from coast to coast. Phillip Seymour Hoffman's performance at the new NYU theater of Othello ( he could read the NY phonebook and I would show up! )

I continue to be dazzled by the importance of the arts in my life: art films like the new wonderfully written and performed An Education; or the new, stunningly written Gates at the Stairs by Lorrie Morris. Both are smart stories about young women who are coming of age and grappling with the universal question---What the ....?

Writing is consuming much of my time right now. So, if I am absent for longer periods, don't' give up on the site! I'll be back with more stories, more insight...maybe even a manuscript or two!

In the meantime, enjoy the abundance of the arts that is at our fingertips wherever we are.

M.C.

From What We Cannot Hold The Stars Are Made

2009-09-29T08:42:00.010-04:00

New York

A dear friend in Ireland emailed me yesterday worried that I had not been posting for so long.

It is true, of course. It has been weeks. Weeks spent trying to discern what was wrong, cajole secretaries to let me talk to a physician to discuss what was wrong, and trying to manage the infection that has been a constant since I returned from SE Asia.

I hit the wall a few days before Labor Day when a specialist told me he wanted to do surgery as soon as possible to do a biopsy to rule out cancer. Stunned, I did the pre-op lab tests, tried to make arrangements for friends to take me to the hospital on the morning of the scheduled

surgery. The surgeon had not given many details about the rationale for ruling out cancer in this way especially since the infection was still raging with very high bacterial counts when I was cultured. I called my sons, listed as next of kin, in case something untoward happened.

The following day, I changed my mind about surgery and decided to postpone it, and deal with the infection. I wanted to consult another specialist for a second opinion before I moved forward--an infectious disease expert. That all took nearly two more weeks to arrange and during that time, I began feeling more and more fatigued.

The meeting with the specialist, Leigh Kennedy, was last Monday. After looking at the five sets of lab tests outlining my bacterial count, she ordered a super drug, Merrem, to be administered every 8 hours for 10 days via IV. So one week ago, a home care nurse threaded an 8 inch Midline catheter from my elbow to my shoulder through one of the brachial veins, brought me syringes filled with heparin and normal saline, dressing change kits to protect against infection, and lots of alcohol swabs.

Now, seven days later, I am still fatigued as the drug tries to stop the virulent bacterial strain that is so smart that it walls itself off from many incoming antibiotics. There are some other strong antibiotics to try if this fails to kill the strain, but not many according to the lab.

So, my time has been spent setting my alarm so that I can keep to the 6am, 2pm, 10pm schedule of infusion which requires taking the medication out of the fridge two hours prior to administration so that it reaches the right viscosity, then infusing for an hour followed by a a heparin flush so that the line does not clot off which would require re-insertion into the other arm. Add contacting Blue Cross every time something changed, or I needed something in New York instead of Pennsylvania, contacting home care agencies who will transfer care in the two locations, lab work, and this has been a challenging time.

I won't know for another week whether or not the bacteria have succumbed to the powerhouse antibiotic. Uncertainty is never the same as possibility. And the question of cancer will have to be addressed after this problem has been resolved. Then, on to the hip surgery that will probably occur next spring--a labrum tear--the scourge of athletes and ballet dancers.

It's too early for me to make many sage comments about what I've learned. But, like my experience in other periods of crisis and need, I have been surprised and moved by the unsolicited, genuine concern and support of people who don't have any family ties to me who consistently come through for me-- friends who have their own issues and concerns to deal with but who had known about the illness, and found a moment to respond just about the time I had reached another hurdle. Without them and their support, I don't know what I would do with the angst that accompanies being alone and sick without the benefit of someone listening to the options, helping review the potential for what could go wrong.

It raised the question for me from several years ago when I decided to do patient advocacy for elderly clients. Who can you trust to listen, then to advocate for/with you when you are alone? I was amazed at how little energy for decision making was available to me in the thick of it. Being sick really is a battle. All of my nursing skills, all of the patients I have cared for, students I have taught to care for patients, still doesn't translate to the of trying to decide alone what is best, who is trustworthy, what is the smart path to move me forward.

Finally, I am reminded that being young, something that I do not particularly want to revisit developmentally, has its physiological merits. Three years ago this November, I ran the New York Marathon. Today, that seems impossible. ( I use the lanyard that I had for my ID at the Javits Center registration, to hold the IV bottle for my infusion. I believe that is what we call irony! )

M.C.

Meditation

2009-08-26T10:19:00.009-04:00

Nantucket

The same thing happens every year.

Sometimes it's the first day. Sometimes it takes a couple of days. But it always happens.

I waken early to see the dawn's blood orange color grazing the eastern horizon as the blinding sun tries to rise above the low scrub, the boats bobbing in Hither Creek. Flags mark the morning's breeze.

And then a tiny bit of the crust of life just gives way to gratitude; a deep, abiding understanding of why I exist beyond my children, grandchildren, career accomplishments, existential journeys.

Simple. I find myself quieter in this place, happy in my solitude.

This drink of the elemental, the ocean's heart beating right outside my window will have to last, will have to sustain me through the coming months of unknowing, its constancy a good metaphor.

This year, it took until the last day for this place to touch me.

Sitting on my bed listening to the sounds of my son and his wife laughing in the next room, all I needed was a little nudge from Barber's Adagio for Strings, its harmonic journey rising, the volume reaching a crescendo then ending in a whisper.

Can this be all there is? A single morning of beauty seen from my Wedgewood blue and white room with a view of the sea out of every window for as far as I can see?

Probably.

M.C.

Reaching For Heaven

2009-08-23T11:13:00.007-04:00

Nantucket

My entire life I have wanted to be in the cockpit of a Cessna or Lear Jet. Whatever. In the perfectly perfect contradictions of life, yesterday was that day.

All I wanted to do when I woke up was get out of the rather creepy hotel that touted a harbor view ( marketing ploy--think views of rusting tankers and eroded pilings ) in East Providence, get some gas for my rental car so I could avoid the $5 a gallon surcharge for refills, and get to the T.F. Greene airport on time for my 35 minute flight to Nantucket. Oh, and to do all of that without getting lost or colliding with notoriously crazy New England drivers. Got the gas. Didn't get hit. Got to the airport. Got in the security line, e-ticket receipt and license in hand, laptop out, sweater off, quart size baggie ready for inspection, proper size Tumi carry on rolling along side of me. There were only 10 people in line. It was Saturday, not even 9am. In Providence.

First bump. "I'm sorry Miss ( why do they call me "Miss"? ), the seated, full bodied guard began." But you'll have to go back, find Cape Air--I'm not sure where they are this year...they move their location alot." She shifted her weight on the high stool where she was holding court, and added. " Can't go through here until she give you a REAL ticket." OK, I'm thinking already irritated. Whatever.

I scour the rest of the check in area for Cape Air amidst Continental , US Airways and Air Canada. In a far corner, I find a counter with the Cape Air logo in the far corner. No agent.

I wait. And wait. Finally, a thirtyish blond woman arrives. There is a family of five ahead of me with at least 10 pieces of luggage ( don't people read the surcharge info about checked bags? ).

I waited, checking my watch, noting the exponential increase in the security line.

Oh, and have I mentioned that Hurricane Bill at the time was careening up the coast line, skies were overcast, and there was a little bit of get the milk and bread it could be a big storm mentality in the northeast?

Victoria, the agent, checks my return flight. It is incorrect. Fifteen minutes later, Victoria gets the Cape Air office ( think 300 sq. ft. space in Hyannis ) on the phone ( can't access it by computer ), makes the change. Back to the line. I set off the security screening device. Please don't stop me for a search, I just want to get on the plane.

The screener pulls my bulging handbag off the conveyor belt and approaches me with it clutched close to her chest."Ma'am, you've got a water bottle in here," she says waving with her latex gloved hand. Damn. She's right.

The 30 people behind me are not happy. Can't blame them. Head for the gate, show my ticket, give her my weight, weight my carry on ( Always comforting to know that these small planes want these calculations to be sure we don't take a nosedive over Nantucket Sound. ) And I wait and watch the clouds thicken, the passengers ( all twelve of us ) arrive. The agent ( no mike ) announces the flight and we follow her like ducklings down a long hall, two flights of steps to the tarmac and our little Cessna. I take one last worried look at the cloud cover hoping that we get off the ground before the Nantucket airport is socked in.

I am first in line to get up the four wobbly steps to the plane. The guy in the orange vest, our escort, looks at me: "Ma'am, we need someone up front today. You wanna be the co-pilot?"

"Absolutely. Yes, yes, yes", I laughed. "I have always, ALWAYS wanted to be in the cockpit of a plane." The captain nodded as I climbed into the right hand front, strapped myself in. I could hardly contain my absolute delight.

I turned to the other passengers now sitting quietly in neat rows behind me. " Does anyone have a camera, " I asked scanning their faces. No answer. " Mine's broken. And I have always, always wanted to do this." The woman in the seat behind me poked her husband. " I'll take it on my Blackberry and send it to your email," he offered.

The man next to me ( he lived on Cliff Road come to find out which overlooks Nantucket Sound with stunning views ) gave me paper and pen to jot down my email address. The wife of the photographer handed it to her husband ( they are in Madaket where the surf is always up and the sunsets are brilliant ). "It's on its way to you," he said with a big grin.

"By the way," the photographer began, "are you serving drinks after takeoff."

Fred, the pilot, took off into a soupy sky talking to air traffic control. Minutes later, we had climbed to our assigned altitude and were heading almost due east, the hum of the motor comforting. From the cockpit, I had an 180 degree vantage point with windows on either side and windows above my head.

Fred stopped talking to the tower, settled back. We were over water now, and coming into the biggest, puffiest cumulus clouds I have ever seen. Certainly that I have ever seen this close. I imagined how it would feel to be able to slide my arm through the thin layer of metal that separated me from thin air in some kind of virtual experience, and touch them as we flew by. Just then, a shard of dazzling sun split the cloud with light. It was just like an old Cecil B. deMille film.

And, yes, I did feel, just for a moment, as if I was able to imagine the infinite.

Isn't that how life works? Just about ready to brace yourself for disappointment--a missed meeting with an old and dear friend, a numbing estrangement from a sibling or child, an injury that turns out to be chronic, possibly a disability. And then, on a dime, a wish come true.

( Note to self: look at the picture above ( thanks to a stranger ) and remember.

So what do I know today that I didn't yesterday?

That it pays to remember the singular moments that move me. Savor them. Store them in my heart for the winter-grim times that are sure to come. Maybe life is really mostly about persistence. Not being willing to give in to disappointment.

Could the quest for meaning be that simple?

Summer Reverie

2009-08-10T09:01:00.004-04:00

Philadelphia

The etymology of nostalgia is homecoming. If we didn't believe in homecoming, we wouldn't be able to bear the day.

W.S. Merwin

I have been postponing this post for several days. Up until today, I wasn't sure why.

For the past few weeks, I have had this growing sense that everything that I require in the world is right at my feet. That is not to say that it is everything I want. But whoever said that would happen anyway?

This summer is folding its tent. The cicadas return at dusk signal the beginning of the fall cycle, the end of long days of white light, the return of crisp cool days with brisk winds.

Most summers I am in my best physical shape, running at least a few races, and, for sure doing the NY triathlon in September. Most summers mark my family gathering in Nantucket for a week or two together, and at least one other journey to visit old friends or new ones.

But this summer has been different. I have spent it largely in the country where my days have been spent trying to meet some very specific goals: writing every morning ( 80% ); repairing/preparing the house for winter; taking care of a new set of mostly nuisance physical symptoms to be sure they are not going to become chronic ones; completing a video module on medical ethics for Villanova; pitching and beginning an article on finance for an journal geared toward trustees; submitting a short story manuscript for publication ( my personal deadline is this coming Friday ); and finally, organizing a mini summer book group to read and discuss Olive Kittredge by Elizabeth Strout which occurred on this past Tuesday night.

In the midst of those personal goals, my new granddaughter, Ella, was christened, my old and dear friend whom I have known since we were 13 and I had lunch at the Metropolitan dining room, then strolled across the park so that she could see where I lived, and I planned another journey for the winter--this time to spend two months in Africa to work in a hospital in Tanzania south of Dar es Saleem, then go on safari in the shadow of Kilimanjaro.

But what has been most interesting to me about this summer is the small things that I have seen or heard or felt. Deeply. The turtle who showed up near the deck after a big storm. The

heron standing silently in the stream beneath my bedroom window one morning like a sentry.

The hummingbird's faithful return. The look of my grandson's face at the opening sequence of Lion King as all of the animals parade across the Minskoff Theater's stage singing a thrilling African chant. The night settling into Central Park as the backdrop for the superb staging of Twelfth Night.

Or the touches of strangers. The woman from Continental Airlines who tried desperately to help me change reservations back from Nantucket without incurring a fee so that I could attend my son's birthday party. At the end of the conversation, I told her that our conversation reminded me of Olive, the protagonist in the Pulitzer prizewinning book, who had often meaningful moments ( although she steeled herself from any real connecting with others unlike this stranger and me ). " It's nice you're going to change things so that you can be there for the birthday. How old is he?" I think she thought he might be, say, 19 or something. "Soon to be 38," I answered, chuckling under my breath. " Even better," she began. " I wasn't much of a mother, actually," she continued. " But they're good kids, adults now, in spite of it, I guess."

Regrets. Moments of connection. It is the essence of Olive Kittredge which is its brilliance. It's the essence of life. Strout takes the day to day lives of ordinary people in a tiny town--people who don't go to Africa or Asia. They don't even go to Minnesota. But their stories are real, their heartaches as big as an ocean, and their struggle between hope and despair, palpable.

This summer, for me, has been just that. A chance to try to accomplish goals, meet obligations, prepare for the coming darkness, cold challenging winter. And a chance to take in the early morning light or noticing the dappling of the afternoon's yellow light on the garden as I sit by the stream. Trying to stand in one place. Even when I can't stand it.

All of that is what grownups do. Or what we aspire to do.

To be on our way in the day-to-day while we watch out of the corner of our eyes for the moments that move us, define us. The moments we've been waiting for. The non-showy moments that evoke little, tiny bubbles of silent gratitude.

The moments that whisper, You are alive.

M.C.

On the Appalachian Trail: A Happy Little Stone

2009-07-26T06:35:00.008-04:00

Philadelphia

I love stones. Always have. One summer when I was growing up in the midwest, we went on a very infrequent vacation as a family. To Minnesota, Land of 10,000 Lakes. And the Mesabi Range which is packed with iron, and other precious commodities that were deposited there compliments of glacial melting.

We were headed for Bob Dylan's hometown, Hibbing, where we stayed on Lake Vermillion (a deep red due to the iron content ) and stopped by one of the mines on the way. I begged for a mounted chunk of iron ore. And, somehow, I also was allowed to purchase what was basically a geology starter kit for kids that contained small samples of common rocks. Like mica. I still have the set somewhere in an old foot locker that belonged to my father. I haven't thought about those two treasures for years.

Until yesterday.

I was hiking the Appalachian Trail near Allentown, Pennsylvania with a wonderful group of hikers organized by Jules Geday who I met on Amtrak. Jules was returning to Pennsylvania, backpack and all, after having taken a group of local hikers to the Andes to climb the Inca trail. We struck up a conversation on the two hour train ride from New York, and Jules invited me to join the hiking group. I hesitated since I haven't really done any hiking for several years. The last challenging hiking for me ( and, some would say the extent of my hiking prowess ) was the Camino Santiago, a spiritual and physically challenging journey across a couple mountain ranges beginning with the Pyrenees near Pamplona, Spain. I hiked for four weeks, sometimes alone, often with new international friends, ending my hike in Lyon which lies right in the middle of the northern tier of Spain. Each night I slept in hostels, sometimes convents, sometimes pensions depending on what the tiny villages along the old pilgrimage route had to offer.

When we began the hike yesterday, I was right up front with this group of varied ages ( read younger, mostly! ). But something like ten minutes into the hike, I reminded myself that this was like any race I'd ever competed in during the past ten years ( including the New York Marathon which I completed two years ago ). The first half of any strenuous race or physical challenge, it's important to pace yourself, hold back, acclimate. All three of those verbs are against type for me, however. But, I've never run any race where I could pick up my time in the second half without practicing that discipline.

So, I had to physically stop myself, step aside and let other hikers who were moving at a pretty good clip, pass me.

It was a good decision. I fell into a spot somewhere near the middle and made new friends--Herb and Justin. We covered all the background data, occupation, and years/months hiking with the group. But at some point, we just began walking and talking about any manner of things.

We had just left the trail head on a 9 mile, 5 hour hike that involved fairly challenging terrain. The payoff, of course, were the vistas from the ridges after trudging ( there were 28 of us in total ) along flat areas of cleared brush that snaked up the mountain, the light falling daintily along the path. Or uphill in thicker canopy, negotiating boulders with care as we moved.

For me, when I wasn't watching every foot fall on steeper stretches, I could feel the rhythm that comes from walking with others with a common purpose, from having nowhere else to be for the next few hours, and sharing an unspoken belief that this mountain aerie was exactly where we belonged on a summer Saturday in Pennsylvania.

" See those wonderful stones that are everywhere underfoot?" I asked the men who flanked either side of me as we marched along, lock stepped. " What are they called? I forget."

Justin ( or was it Herb? ) had the right answer: " Mica. It's bits of mica embedded in the stone."

The flecks of mica along the meandering path seemed to mark our way like breadcrumbs in a Grimm's fairy tale; the stippled sunlight hitting many of them randomly so that they sparkled underfoot. I picked a small stone of the forest floor and slipped it in my pocket.

Last night, I put my red pack back on the shelf, my boots on the porch to air. As I emptied my pockets of tissues, used wrappers, a slip of meet-up directions, I found the little stone.

I couldn't help thinking of Emily Dickinson's poem as I put it on the counter for safekeeping.

How happy is the little stone

That rambles in the road alone,

And doesn't care about careers,

And exigencies never fears;

Whose coat of elemental brown

A passing universe put on;

And independent as the sun,

Associates or glows alone,

Fulfilling absolute decree

In casual simplicity.

Emily Dickinson

M.C.

On Seducing Hummingbirds in Eden

2009-07-13T15:12:00.009-04:00

Philadelphia

In a Garden

When the gardener has gone this garden
Looks wistful and seems waiting an event.
It is so spruce, a metaphor of Eden
And even more so since the gardener went,

Quietly godlike, but of course, he had
Not made me promise anything and I
Had no one tempting me to make the bad
Choice. Yet I still felt lost and wonder why.

Even the beech tree from next door which shares
Its shadow with me, seemed a kind of threat.
Everything was too neat, and someone cares

In the wrong way. I need not have stood long
Mocked by the smell of a mown lawn, and yet
I did. Sickness for Eden was so strong.

Elizabeth Jennings

This summer, I am spending more time in the country for several reasons. 1. There is maintenance, maintenance, maintenance to be done. And summer is the time to do it. 2. There is a recession going on which makes spending time there an appealing option without all of the cost of, say, a month in Nantucket. 3. I love my gardens filled with flower,s vegetables and herbs--and they need care. I have faithful help of the adolescent next door, Shea, who waters and weeds when I go to New York. All that is to say, the grounds look like the Botanical Gardens right now. Everything is mulched, growing like mad thanks to the twenty days of rain recently--thriving.

Earlier this week, I realized that I hadn't seen a hummingbird all summer, and certainly they had made their annual pilgrimage from the south long before now. What is it about hummingbirds? The fragility? Their industriousness? Their beauty? Their nimbleness as they dart from stamen to stamen in search of fuel?

The salvia, that beautiful fire engine red stemmed trumpet flower, had been eaten by the deer all the way down to the soil. And when I got to the nursery, there was no more to be had. So, the nurseryman suggested cuphea, a red trumpet flower with a tiny purple lip. " This will bring you a hummingbird," he promised. I planted both pots on the deck with the flouncy annual. And waited. That was Saturday. I waited and watched on Sunday, anxious to see this enigmatic creature once again in my very own backyard.

I watched from the breezeway, from the lawn chair on the deck. Nothing. Until I was just about to return to New York on Monday afternoon.

Writing in the early morning at the bay window overlooking the backyard, I caught something flickering out of the corner of my eye. And there it was, beak inside the slender flower just like last year. I sat there watching, amazed at how much joy it gave me. It is such a metaphor for the intersection when yearning for something meets wishes fulfilled. A memory, a lost photo, a disconnected friend from time past, a goal sought that had fallen short long ago, then preparing for its return/ another chance, and, then hoping against hope that the work of moving beyond wanting something would reap success.

I watched for the minute or two that the bird fed on my offering and, too quickly, flit away, disappearing into the thicket beyond.

It was that fast. Just a moment.

Sickness for Eden is so strong.

M.C.

A Trifecta: Duke Ellington, Bobby Short and Central Park on a Summer's Night

2009-07-02T07:36:00.002-04:00

New York

Last night I watched 14 jazz pianists, all the calibre of Frank Owens, play simultaneously on grand pianos that had been placed back to back on stage. Behind the pianists was a full big band complete with drummer, a terrific horn section and even a percussionist.

It was a tribute to Bobby Short, the famous cabaret singer who was an institution at The Carlyle, my ultimate, all time favorite venue in town for its understated elegance and beautifully appointed public spaces. Short, who died in 2005, played piano and sang many of Duke Ellington's compositions.

July 1,1995, Short dedicated a statue of Ellington that sits on the Promenade a minute's walk from the bandshell. So, on the spur of the moment, a mix of folks including Mercedes Ellington, the eldest of Duke's grandchildren who produced the show, garnered financial support and musicians to celebrate both Bobby's genius night after night at Betelman's Lounge to the delight of New Yorkers, and Duke Ellington's magic with both lyrics and musical scores.

I was in the very front of the venue with my friend and neighbor, Michael. We arrived early and planted ourselves on my kelly green beach towel on the hard courtyard. The wonderful thing about New York and outdoor concerts in general, is the people that show up. This was impromptu, so only about 300 people gathered, sitting on benches that surround the bandshell or on the ground with us. It was almost like being a voyeur at a private party as Ms. Ellington bustled around ordering sound checks with the pianists, and chatting with photographers.

The show started late, but no one seemed to mind. It wasn't raining for one thing ( it had been raining every day for 20 days of the month of June ), and everyone had a picnic of some sort.

When the music began, it was still light out, the sun sinking overhead, the sky a Maxfield Parrish blue. I stretched out on the ground, totally immersed in the sound and the stunning beauty of the night. This same bandshell housed Duke Ellington and his band years before, and folks like us, no doubt drank in the sophisticated sound he made his trademark.

Walking home, Michael and I stopped at Bethesda Fountain. He motioned for me to follow him to the edge of the terrace. In the darkness, there were six towers of famous West Side buildings like beacons in the night framing the fountain including the San Remo and the Beresford.

Elsewhere in Central Park, Anne Hathaway and a terrific cast were in the midst of Twelfth Night and giving another 300 New Yorkers a summer evening to remember.

I mused to Michael as we walked by the
Museum of Natural History in its
grandeur that I wonder if Olmsted
and Vaux had any
idea how many people would be
enriched bytheir brilliant conception
of Central Park?

John Lennon, Michael Jackson: Where's the Center?

2009-06-27T15:13:00.002-04:00

New York

Thursday was one of those perfect New York days with low humidity, no rain ( a minor miracle ), and blue, blue sky. I spent the morning at my little library ( where Wendy Wasserstein wrote Heidi Chronicles so I hope it rubs off ) surveying various magazines that accept short stories. My course is over at Sarah Lawrence, and I have a real, honest-to-god manuscript ready to submit for possible publication. Or so said my( published) austere faculty person as I finished reading the final pages of the story that I have crafted over the past month. I also reviewed criteria in Writer's Market 2009 that reports things like the percentage of manuscripts received that are actually chosen ( from 1% to 50% ), the magazine's rule about simultaneous submissions, and the amount of money they pay if they publish the piece.( range from two copies of the magazine free to $750 ) Oh, and the length of time you can expect before they read and respond to the submission.

Three hours of that was enough. So, I went to Times Square of all places to hand pick tickets for West Side Story, one of my favorite musicals of all times. On the way back up Central Park West, I walked through the very busy park and headed out toward the street on 72nd after passing softball games, bikers, runners, lovers, families and many, many non New Yorkers.
As I angled toward the access road near the Dakota, I could hear music beyond the bushes. I followed the sound into Strawberry Fields. The famous mosaic, Imagine, was in the middle of a small shaded area flanked on either side by green park benches only half full.

On a bench at the far side of the mosaic were four men of various ages--three strumming Gibson guitars and a drummer with his snare drums. An open guitar case at their feet signaled their hope from the crowd. An all Beetles repertoire. Surrounding the mosaic were a dozen foreign visitors posing, some inside the circle, some lying right next to the letters, some respectfully moving only along the perimeter. Lots of people were coming back and forth from east to west side on their way home from work. Some would linger, some would rush on by, some would walk slowly, humming along on their way. One wool capped, longish haired, lanky adolescent looked disinterested in the whole thing until he turned his back on his parents and suddenly began " whisper words of wisdom, let it be" before he turned back toward them, again looking detached.

I didn't realize at the time that Michael Jackson had died in LA earlier that afternoon.

These two men and their lives couldn't be more different except for their exceptional talent and their impact on the music of generations, The thing is though, I think both of them paid dearly for their contribution. It's tough to be gifted, no question.
It's hard to be the center of all people's expectations, I'm told. That from Lily Tomlin a decade ago when I was running a major fund raiser for the homeless, and Lily was the featured guest/performer. Before she went on, we were chatting in a makeshift green room in Philadelphia. I said something about how much the audience was going to love her no matter what she did. To which she replied: " Don't believe it. the public expects alot of performers."

I guess that's true. But they both paid a high price for that fame, for meeting up to those expectations. The situation is more complex than one quick blog, of course.

But I came away from Strawberry Fields amazed at how Lennon lives for many people as if his death were yesterday. And when I found out about Michael Jackson, I felt a deep sadness. Another Elvis? Marilyn Monroe? It is as if he could not sustain his center. Or find it.

MC

Choosing Between Two Goods

2009-06-04T11:56:00.007-04:00

New York

I have been woefully neglectful of this blog for the past two weeks. I can either write to you, dear readers, or write my short story. Both are good things but I cannot seem to do both at the same time. At least I can't for right now. Let me explain.

Several weeks ago, I was bemoaning the fact that I was not writing on a daily basis toward my goal of publishing a short story in some yet to be named journal. But, in order to be published, one must complete a story, submit it, and, finally, receive acknowledgment that it has been accepted for publication.

So, I decided to enroll in a course at Sarah Lawrence, the esteemed Seven Sisters school in Bronxville that has a reputation for having a fine writing faculty ( among a string of other "fine" attributes).

Two weeks ago, I began my first class. Those of you who have followed my blog for the past four years know that this is not the first writing workshop I have attended. Last year I attended Rosemont College's Writer's Retreat in June which opened up possibilities for me through working with other writers over a week's time. And I attended an NYU course a couple of years ago with alot of 20somethings who, when asked to write about their most exciting memory, wrote alot about sex in the backseat of the proverbial Ford.

However, this experience has been different from the very start. First of all, there is a substantial commute considering that it takes me 20 minutes to got to Columbia or, going the other direction, NYU. This commute includes the subway to 42nd Street; the Shuttle to Grand Central; then taking the Metro North for 35 minutes to Bronxville. Finally, walking the mile to the Sarah Lawrence campus.

But how bad can it be emerging from the shuttle with the rest of the mass of humanity and walking up the ramp to the central hall of Grand Central Station. Every week, as I approach the massive room, the four sided art deco clock anchoring the center of the room, I stop to remember where I am. I stop to look up at the amazing green blue ceiling with all sorts of constellations, and silently thank Jackie Kennedy Onassis for throwing her considerable weight behind its rescue from decay and possibly the wrecking ball.

Even Metro North is different. The ticket taker actually answers questions, and, occasionally smiles as we zoom past stops at 125th Street in Harlem, Fordham, Botanical Gardens, and, finally Bronxville. Walking to Sarah Lawrence involves up and down gentle hills through residential neighborhoods that could be anytown USA ( except this town is pretty upscale). The shops and cafes near the station look like a scene from It's A Wonderful Life.

I must admit that before my first class, I was intimidated. What will I bring to read? Is it any good? Will everyone else have completed at least three short stories, with one already accepted for publication in 2009? Nevertheless, I read a couple of scenes from my story. I am happy to report that they did not throw things after I finished. Indeed, the encouragement that I got from both Sarah Goodyear, our (published) faculty, about what was working in the piece, inspired me to keep truckin'. Whew!

And there is more good news. I loved the other writers' work, too. All 11 writers are struggling to authentically communicate their voices, their point of view. At times, I could see the mental angst of one or the other as she tried to tell us why she used a particular phrase, a specific strategy to move the arc of the story along. I could learn something from every one of these writers--something I cannot say about the past experiences in these settings. This is a serious group of writers. Hooray!

And these stories are not about backseat Ford scenes ( although there's nothing wrong with that ). They are about siblings who are found dead in their beds on an ordinary school morning, or cross-cultural marriages that scream with conflict, or poignant stories in a mixture of Spanish and English of a Latina mother who simply cannot nurture her incredibly sensitive, lonely child. Or, in the case of the youngest writer ( who reminds me somehow of the author of the book about the pregnant girl who ends up living in, and delivering her baby at KMart ) whose scenes evoke young adulthood with absolute resonance.

So, do you see why I have not been posting? I have been living in a dreamworld, that space where only ideas live. Where the world is transformable into whatever I want it to be ( as long as it moves the story along, of course ); where there are no rules about what one can feel or think or believe. Where the challenge is to create a structure, a form to offer the story, a platform to present the words so that they can be understood.

And so, for the next week, I will stay in that ether of imagination, floating in and out of consciousness, solving the problems of plot, place, presentation until the protagonist in my story tells me she is finished whispering in my ear.

So, I'm busy talking to my imaginary friend.

I'll be back here in a week. See you in my dreams.
MC

Memorial Day, 2009...Forever Young

2009-05-25T07:15:00.007-04:00

Philadelphia

May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
And may you stay... forever young.
Bob Dylan

It's all of our hope, isn't it?

I sit in the stillness of the early morning listening to Joan Baez sing the Dylan classic while the rest of the house is asleep wondering about the world today.

I know this is the day to remember those who fought for our freedom. The ones who will never grow old, who will be forever young.

The Vietnam War was the war of my generation. And spending nearly two months in SEAsia brought back all of the memories. Through the magic of television, it was the first war with extensive, nearly immediate coverage. So, the nightly news showed horrific videos of monks burning themselves alive in the name of peace. There was the now famous image of a young Vietnamese man on his knees, hands tethered behind his back, while a soldier from the opposing army put an automatic weapon to his temple, pulled the trigger, and the world watched as he slumped then crumbled to the pavement. There was the nightly report of the number of American soldiers who died that very day somewhere fighting in the land surrounding the same Mekong River I journeyed up just two months ago.

During my time in Vietnam, the War Museum in Ho Chi Minh City brought more of the war back to me. Two downed US fighter jets and a US rescue helicopter are the mainstays of the entrance to the museum, emblematic to the Vietnamese of their conquest of the invading American forces. Inside there are display cases lined up with artifacts of war such as the specific types of hand grenades used by both sides. Or various types of land mines including a graphic description of the destruction they levied on their victims-- both Vietnamese and American.

I was opposed to that war but never to the soldiers who had to fight in those days of conscription. And after spending nights sitting in the dark on the Mekong, riding in longboats through the narrow channels that led to villages deep in the jungle, I have more compassion for those soldiers than ever. I cannot imagine what emotion must have swept over them as they were airdropped into the jungle--especially as the war went on and it was clear that this was not going to be as easy as the administration had billed it to be.

This is a different time. With wars in Iraq and Afghanistan in the midst of a worldwide recession and palpable fear that the War on Terror will again strike American soil is certainly a reason for angst.

I think that is the challenge. To hold the fear as a reality and still live with the hope of solution, resolution, possibilities for dialogue.

That, I think, is what those men and women before us fought ( and are fighting ) for. A chance for us to do a little bit better at remembering the difficult but immensely moving examples of Gandhi and ML King, of the peace treaties that have succeeded.

That is my hope today. That one day, we can all be home for Memorial Day.

Then all of us, warriors and peacekeepers, can dream together the dream of remaining forever young.

M.C.

In Gratitude

2009-05-22T09:12:00.005-04:00

New York

Yesterday was a perfect day in Central Park. Every element that that magnificent landscape designer, Olmstead. did to create a diverse, visually interesting, and people friendly place was evident.

I had started taking the M68 crosstown bus back to the west side. I guess I felt a little tired by mid afternoon of a busy day because normally, I would have walked the mile or two. As the bus approached Fifth Avenue, preparing to take a right turn on the 68th Street transverse that runs deep under the footpaths of Central Park, I hopped off impulsively.

Entering the park, I couldn't believe the number of people: tourists swinging Metropolitan Museum or Guggenheim bags, nannies pushing sleeping toddlers along the shaded path, a forty-ish man in a wheelchair pausing next to the benches while his partner rested her feet.

I walked under the first bridge, and, for the first time noticed all of the bas relief on its archway, the work of artisans a hundred years ago. Walking toward the Mall, I stopped for a minute on Literary Walk to read the inscriptions under the statues
of Robert Burns and Shakespeare.Strolling down the Mall the angle of light against the massive trees created a stippled walkway like cutout shades of light and dark.

Bethesda's Fountain, the crown jewel of the park, was in its glory, the fountain teeming with tourists, their faces turned up to catch all of the warm sun, he boaters in the distance slowly dipping their oars in the moss colored water.

Walking through the Ramble, I was amazed at how quiet it was. I think alot of tourists are a bit afraid to take it because it IS a ramble and it is easy to get lost in the maze. So, I sat awhile, listened to a cardinal sing, and imagined how long it took to create this hilly, rocky space. On the Ramble's edge, there were two Asian couples posing for wedding pictures under a giant oak.

Finally I could see the mighty Dakota. When the Dakota was built, it was so far away from the center of New York City, that it was the laughing stock of the city. No one ever thought the city would spread north as far as 72nd street!

I realized after I arrived home, that I had seen the park with new eyes. Maybe it was the fact that it was one of the first warm, truly seasonal days we have had in weeks. Maybe it was the lure of the park where there is always an adventure. Maybe it was the thrill of seeing hundreds and hundreds of people embracing the day. Maybe it was entirely metaphysical.

I don't think it much matters. I'm just grateful.
M.C

...And I Shall Have Some Peace There

2009-05-16T16:15:00.006-04:00

Philadephia

Ten years ago, I saw the stream in the adjacent photo for the first time. Today I sat by the water for a minute to rest from trimming the holly, thinning the newly sprouted lettuce crop, and arranging the salmon geraniums ever so carefully in the terracota pot on the edge of the deck.

Sitting there, I noticed a wild hyacinth, a wildflower I've never seen before tucked under the rough trunk of the maple tree. The spot was beautiful in the afternoon light. In the still, clear water I could see a young bass swimming aimlessly back and forth.

It made me remember why I wanted this respite, my secret weapon against urban burnout.

When I moved in, I would read Yeats' fine poem over and over. Ten years later, I will share it with you, dear readers.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;

Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;

There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet's wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore:

While I stand on the roadway or on the pavements gray,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

--W.B.Yeats

Free To Be

2009-05-12T17:45:00.013-04:00

New York

Everyone knows intellectually that each child in a family constellation is an individual with his or her own special gifts, characteristics, and, of course, personality. In fact, in my family, I am always amazed that my siblings( both of whom are older) even came out of the same womb sometimes.

So, it is no surprise that Edward, my second grandson,well, is different from his big brother, Ethan, who is special and a delight in his own right--and my first grandchild. Recently, Edward and I have been going to the library--our version of Grammie Time. I pick him up after breakfast and slowly, ever so slowly, he gets on his shoes and jacket while nestling in his dad's chest. I think Edward may not be a morning person. We walk four blocks to the bus ( although he was negotiating hard for the stroller ) and he hops on, the steps easily 10 inches each-- a real stretch for his small legs. By the time we reach Central Park West, he is starting to warm up to this adventure, commenting for all the fawning elderly women on the bus about the tunnels that we sweep under on the trip across the park. Along the way we see a front loader, a fire truck, its siren blaring, and an ambulance. "There's somebody in there, Grammie. And they're sick." Edward doesn't talk necessarily to see what I think. He makes a statement, a conclusion. I find it amazing.

We get off the bus at Madison and 79th. Edward is carrying his yellow felt bag decorated with a duck face and stumbles off of the bus muttering to himself about the books he wants to get on this trip.

As we cross the busy 79th street to the library, I point out the flower boxes near the library. "Do you think the flowers smell good"? I asked. " Maybe," he replied somberly. The box of purple pansies with tiny yellow centers was his first smelling test. We saw ( and smelled ) rhodedendron, too, along the way.

There was no one else in the children's room of the library when we arrived. "What kind of books do you want to take out today," I queried. In his husky voice, he replied: " About submarines, Grammie. And...boats." For the next hour, we selected and read at least ten books that fit his nautical theme.

When it was time to go, the librarian smiled warmly as Edward hiked his precious books up to the counter, his eyes lowered shyly when she talked to him. Six books were stamped and handed back to him.

And we were off to get the bus again, have a snack, count the tunnels on the road that traverses Central Park back to the west side.

" I really had a good time, Edward," I said as I held his hand while we walked along Riverside Drive. " Did you have a good time?" Looking straight ahead, he nodded.

I'm hooked.
MC

Semper Fi

2009-05-03T17:33:00.003-04:00

Philadelphia

I took this photo while aboard a riverboat traveling along the Mekong River near the Cambodian border in January of this year. The sun was setting over the jungle that night, and I remember well waking up in the pitch dark later that night, listening to the sounds of the forbidding land along the shoreline.

I remember thinking as I looked out into the utter black of the moonless night, that 40 years before, 18 year old GIs were air dropped into the same jungle in the middle of the night, a jungle that was the home playing field for the Vietnamese and Cambodians but totally hostile to the Americans. They must have been terrified between the withering tropical heat and humidity, the danger of malaria and dengue fever, all manner of dangerous reptiles, swampland--the Florida Everglades that covered an entire region.

Last week, I was on the train traveling the northeast corridor alot. Trains were full. Maybe because of the time of year, maybe because usage is up. But, in any case, it is an irritant when all I ever want is a seat by myself on the cafe car so that I can write during the trip. En route to Wilmington from D.C., I sat across from an grey haired, slim man, about 5'10", wire rimmed glasses who had a baseball cap with the inscription " Semper Fi". He read his book, ( March by Geraldine Brooks ) while I wrote. But it was lunchtime, and we were right next to the concession, so the lineup of hungry people snaked right past our table the entire trip.

Somewhere around Baltimore, I heard a man's voice from the lunch line. "Hoo-rah", he said proudly. My table partner looked up and smiled. "What company were you with?", he asked. The man standing in line stood up a little straighter, put his hands on his ample waistline, and said: " I was with B Company near the DMZ." They continued their conversation as the line inched toward the counter. Frank, the Marine at my table, had been in DC to visit the Vietnam Memorial, and pay his respects to the three of his buddies who died and were commemorated on the famous wall. He said he had been there twice before but that each time, it meant more to him. I wondered why now? Why had he come back to DC this particular time? Was it an anniversary of one of their deaths? Or the anniversary of the day he returned from his tour of duty? A bit of survivor's guilt maybe?

The aging Marine standing in line had also been to the memorial. " I did a rubbing of the men that died with me," he began. " I'll never forget them. The rubbings will go on the wall behind my desk at my law office." He was almost to the concession as he added, with a faraway look: " They'll never be forgotten if we say their names every day--every day I remember what happened to them in Nam. Every single day."

I sat quietly for awhile, thinking about the dark nights I spent on the Mekong, and how I had thought about the boys who were just the same age as me, dropped into that netherworld all those years ago. It was an unpopular war, a war I opposed along with countless others because of its dicey beginnings and the now obvious political aspects that made it so hard to win--or even garner consensus from the American people. Nevertheless, I told Frank about my recent trip, about how much empathy I had for the courage it must have taken to fight an enemy who knew every inch of the lush and dangerous landscape, every waterway, every sound in the jungle.

Who would have imagined that I would have completed the circle in that way? Opposing the war but not the soldiers' bravery was always my stance. But I never dreamt 40 years ago that I would a) see the Mekong Delta; b)really understand the tremendous sacrifice those boys made in a new way all these years later upon seeing the land; and c) have the confluence of meeting two contemporaries on a random train on an early May day who had just visited their past, remembering a long ago war fought halfway around the world.

I believe more and more that there are no coincidences in bumping in to random people. Just opportunities for us to deepen our understanding of the unknown connection we have with one another.

Tiffany, LaFarge...Ethan, Edward... Beauty, Joy

2009-04-24T04:01:00.007-04:00

New York

Well, dear readers, my blog has been neglected for the past week. Life has intervened as evidenced by the photos in this post. But the joys of this week for me were all about the beauty of art, the blessings of living in New York City, and my grandchildren!

Let me explain. Ethan, my eldest grandchild lost his very first baby tooth on Saturday. A cause for great celebration at his house. And on Sunday, I took him to the New York Philharmonic to begin another series that the orchestra presents just for 3 to 6 year olds. This is the third year that he and I have gone to the performances with 200+ other very young music lovers and their parents or grandparents. I have watched him evolve from a little preschooler who was afraid of the sound of the bass viol and would not even sit in his assigned seat ( front row balcony ) because it was too scarey--to skipping down the stairs of the balcony to our seats ( the same ones we have had for three years ) and asking me what I think will happen to Phillipe the Penguin in today's story.

The orchestra has this program just right. We arrive at 3pm and inside the door, some one greats us with a small crayon box and two flashcards that have the theme of the day. On Sunday it was allegro and adagio. Then, they have orchestral members with their instruments stationed around the music hall so that the children can gather andlisten to music that has both adagio and allegro qualities. Finally, the very same orchestral members go to the stage, and the concert begins. Phillipe is projected on a big screen behind the musicians, and a storyteller, Dorian, comes out and reads from an oversized book while Dvorak is beuatifully played by the string quartet. Phillipe's unfolding adventure is illustrated on the screen just as if she was reading from a big book to only a dozen children. This program is truly a gift to the children of New York.

After the program, Ethan and I took the bus home. While we were waiting for his parents on the front steps of his apartment, he looked up at me and said: "Grammie, will you stay for dinner?" Now, who could resist that? I stayed for a wonderful pasta meal that Jennifer made from scratch, and after the boys showered, I read them four pages of the Airplane book that Ethan and I had gotten from the library earlier in the week. I know more about F16s than I ever dreampt I would.

But what about the other photos in this posting?

Ah, that is where my love of beauty, and most especially the Metropolitan Museum of Art come in. About a year ago, I made a decision that I was going to visit the Met at least twice a month, and attend a curator-led lecture in the gallery. I wanted to learn more about photography, so I would select those programs, and any other area of interest that I wanted.

You may recall that last year I wrote extensively about the Jasper Johns exhibit. That posting was a direct outcome of having attended a gallery lecture.

Now think about it--to walk into one of the best museums in the world, and have some of the top people in their field tell you about the art you are looking at--with ( on a busy day ) 15 other people joining the group. How can you beat that?

This past week, the lecture I chose was on Tiffany glass which is housed in the American Wing--probably my favorite section of the Met. In the large football field sized space that has floor to ceiling glass that overlooks Central Park, there is a real Frank Lloyd Wright room with all of its wonderful features--straight, clean lines, indirect light that creates a skylight effect, lots of clerestory windows that make the outside appear like it is inside, and no curtains; the exterior of a gothic style post office with massive columns, and the Tiffany window with iris seen in this posting with low hills and a river running through it.

Lest you think I lead a totally charmed life, it wasn't easy to get over to the Met last Thursday for the lecture. As is always the challenge for me, work, especially stressful work, gets in the way of plans for relaxation or edification for that matter. I literally had to drag myself away from my desk where I was trying to solve some problem that at the time seemed very important to catch the bus over to 5th Avenue. It was 10:58 when I ran up the steps of the museum, and hurriedly made a B line for the "big clock" on the south side of the large foyer where all of the gallery lectures begin.

And was it worth it. The curator, a specialist in stained glass, began NOT by talking about Tiffany glass, but John LaFarge. LaFarge taught Louis Comfort Tiffany the medium, and it was LaFarge who perfected the use of opalescent glass ( like the magnolia in the iris stained glass pictured here )--and experimented with using small glass pieces in the same way that medieval artists had, but with a contemporary flair. Up until LaFarge, most stained glass was beautiful glass with visible leading, and images hand painted onto the glass.

Tiffany, of course, was the son of the founder of the great Tiffany's in New York. Louis' father wanted him to go into the family business but he wanted to be an artist. A young man from a prosperous family, he was able to travel extensively in Europe and study there. He did paint, and began studying stained glass under LaFarge's tutelage. There is still controversy about the two men's relationship since LaFarge was actually doing plenty of stained glass at the same time as Louis Comfort Tiffany. However, LaFarge didn't have what I call the big three: lots of ambition, lots of marketing savvy from the family business to promote his stained glass products, and the knowledge of how to not only create the design ideas but execute them ( although he had a team of many cutters and craftsmen who made the actually windows, lamps and vases).

In fact, in New York City, there are plenty of LaFarge stained glass windows--as well as the better known Tiffany windows. And, although many of LaFarge's works seem darker than Tiffany's, his images are stunning. LaFarge's work( shown below from a commissioned church window ) is visible at Judson Baptist Church on Washington Square ( where everyone who was anyone lived at the time LaFarge and Tiffany were artists ), St. Paul's Catholic Church on W. 60th, several Episcopal churches in Manhattan. And, although some have been stolen, there are mausoleums in the five boroughs that have both men's stain glass as a memorial to those interred there.

There's much more to say about these two men. But LaFarge, also from a wealthy New York family, seemed to keep working but never at the fever pitch, or with the wild commercial success as Tiffany. I wonder if LaFarge resented the younger Tiffany taking his apprenticeship into big business. It is certain that there was conflict between the two. Early on, LaFarge patented the method he used to create and use opalescent glass. Soon after, Tiffany applied for a patent regarding the same creamy glass but with a variant technique. Both men got their patent, but Tiffany's ended up being more valuable to protect his work and bring him revenue.

I came away from the lecture better for the experience. I think one of the absolute essentials in this life is the ability-- no, the willingness--to see and surround oneself with beauty. It is a celebration of the natural world, and the creativity of humankind to harness it in a new way.

So, you see why I was not writing this post. I was living first.

M.C.

Picture, Picture

2009-04-14T08:24:00.008-04:00

New York

I know that it is a cliche to say that a picture says a thousand words. However, it is certainly true of the past week or so since I have last penned a posting to this blog.
But I got as far as the pictures above of Easter Sunday. And, now, I have added another picture of my newest grandchild, Ella taken at the Bronx Zoo.

But what is the context, you might ask, of all of these pictures? Easy. Since the first part of the year, I have been in SE Asia teaching Buddhist monks to speak English and traveling. Now that I am back home, I am enjoying catching up with my family and friends and beginning to sort out elements of the work I did in Thailand that I can adapt and apply here. One of those things is my commitment to continue writing, to continue pursuing people and opportunities to perfect my craft, to strengthen my voice and point of view. I've joined a terrific writing group of mostly younger writers some of whom are journalists or have been published ( the gold standard...).

The highlights of the past week including the visuals above?

*Easter Sunday with my sons, their spouses and my grandchildren. Dinner at the 100+ year old table that I love--especially since it has three extra leaves so that I could extend it from seating 4 to seating 12-- just so that family dinners in a smallish New York apartment can happen.

Ethan did a magic show after dinner--his first ever. Abbi, Ben's wife, was his assistant, holding the props as he produced coins and tiny round balls out of "thin air". Every once in awhile, in the middle of a trick, he would look over at his father, Chris, and say: " Now what, Dad." Chris would smile, chuckle and quietly tell him the next step of the sleight of hand. It was charming, fresh, magical.
Ben watched how airplanes work, a Discovery documentary with Edward and Ethan, their three sets of eyes glued on the big screen TV as the rest of us chatted in the living room.

The little boys hunted for the nests that Ethan had hidden the day before when he created the centerpiece for the table ( When he walked in on Easter Sunday, he ran over to the table and exclaimed: " Oh, Grammie, it looks so beautiful." Be Still My Heart, I have a grandchild that appreciates a pretty table--I'm in heaven! ). They both scurried around looking under, over, next to, behind...until... Then a squeel. Edward got a diesel train engine; Ethan, a cherry red convertible. Ella, a Pooh Bear rattle.

Ben brought pies. Chris brought eclairs. Dinner was Jenn's Mac and Cheese, and a French country roasted chicken with roasted veggies, asparagus, caesar salad. They ate every bit of it. Every bit.
It was a charmed gathering.

*The Bronx Zoo with my daughter in law and grandchildren. Who knew it was so incredible? And what a treat to watch the children's faces as they discovered one amazing creature after another. On the way home, Jennifer asked everyone what their favorite animal was: the boys, Ethan and Edward thought it was the giraffe ( the last thing we saw ); I said the guerilla who was huge and very human friendly. And Ella? She just smiled.

*Dinner with old friends at the BrickLane, a terrific Indian restaurant on the Lower East Side. The three of us have been friends for 20+ years, and every time we get together, we have too much to eat, too much to drink and lots and lots of laughs. Last week's dinner was no exception.

*My new writing group. I trudged to Cooper Village near the East River and 23rd by bus ( my new austerity move--no cabs ), then walked in the pouring rain. I had the name, address, cell number of a guy named Andrew. Cooper Village is huge with at least three buildings in a big green space.

The wind off of the river was biting, and I was just about ready to call it a day, turn on my heel and go home.Something pushed me on, though, and I tried one more building, holding my umbrella in front of my body to provide some shelter from the wind blasts mixed with cold rain.

And there it was 442. I pressed the code on my now wet information sheet, and was buzzed upstairs. The door was ajar, and inside were 30 people sitting on every available horizontal surface, already silent as they began to write. I put my shoes in the pile with the rest, propped my umbrella against a wall, draped my wet coat over a doorway, and began writing, too.

An hour later, we began reading ( 17 people had signed up to read their work for a five minute period; then listen to critique by the group ). I was #14. As my turn came closer, I could feel my body tighten, my mind reviewing the copy one last time. I wondered if the mostly 30 something crowd, closer to Richard Ford than to Wallace Stegner, would take to stories written about Iowa, the 1950s, growing up in a smallish town, attending one parochial school after another.

I read a piece about getting ready for church on Sunday--a process that was always funny, chaotic, tense--and, because of the circumstances--ultimately very sad. And, they liked it. More than like it, they could identify with it. That, of course, is every writer's goal: to create something however small, that can translate, that has universality, that is believable. All of a sudden, the rain didn't seem so bad.

So that has been my world, dear reader, since last I posted a blog.

Will I be more timely in the days and weeks to come? I think so. This was a week filled with new things and exceptions to the routine.

Now, it's back to business.
M.C.

The Prairie: 1964

2009-04-05T03:58:00.010-04:00

Philadelphia

"Papa, won't you dance with me, please dance with me, oh dance with me..." was the refrain I sang in my best mezzo. It was 1964, and I was Mama, one of the leads in Jules Styne's High Button Shoes. It originally debuted on Broadway in 1947, ( I was one year old that year just for the record ) and won a Tony award for its brilliant choreography created by the legendary Jerome Robbins. The story line is ala Music Man: con man comes into New Brunswick, dazzles the pretty girl, inflames the townfolk. The music is catchy, a little vaudevillian--and perfect for a high school cast--which we most definitely were.

I can still remember the dresses. And, yes, the absolutely real high button shoes that our director, a huge man who didn't so much walk as sway like a human version of a plastic punching bag clown, weighed down with sand. My husband, Papa, was played by John McClain. At the end of the catchy Papa tune, in which he stubbornly refuses to dance, I spin around, back to him, put my arms out as if they were wings to help me fly--and lean back for him to catch me--lifting my ankle length black velvet dress and kicking up the heels of my shiny high button shoes. Every night during rehearsal I prayed that John would make the catch. You see, John was about 5'2" tall and maybe 150# wringing wet. Me, at that time? Well, let's say 5'5", and ...probably 150# wringing wet. He never missed me, but sometimes, I thought I heard a quiet "Ugh" as I landed on his chest, his arms under my armpits.

And why all this memoir now?

It is ( can this be so? ) going to be the 45th anniversary of my high school graduation in a little over a month. And Mary Seifert, who has been the glue that keeps the remnants of our class of 200 communicating, if ever so slightly, emailed me. " If you have some stories from high school that you would like in the book we are producing, send them along to me." And for some reason, out of all the possible stories--other plays like Curious Savage ( my debut Freshman year ), Oklahoma, Arsenic and Old Lace ( yup, I was Abby, the arsenic-in-elderberry-wine sister) , a silly pre-Title 9 basketball team that I organized with ( of course ) no coach like the boys; piano recitals, creating the design and helping lead the effort for all the decorations for Junior prom ( It was a modern take on Roman columns)--I had one hoisted into my upstairs bedroom after prom and it stayed there, its white corrugated paper wrapped in hand turned rosebuds, until my mother moved almost 20 years later (; running for student council president, then treasurer; big choral gigs with other schools doing pieces like a gorgeous arrangement of "Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor " ( I can still sing the alto line ).

I wrote Mary back and recounted the story of me falling into John's arms for the reunion book. And for just a moment, I smiled at those innocent, yet complicated days of adolescence when everything seemed to me to be important, dramatic, meaningful. When I spent after school hours strolling home with my classmate, Jenny Boller. Often we would end up at my house, find a heavily carb-loaded snack and then I would go to the piano. We would sing from the musical scores of South Pacific, or This Land is Your Land by Pete Seeger or old spirituals. It didn't matter. We had nowhere to go, nowhere to be but right there. Two girls in Waterloo, Iowa, trying to find out who we were going to be when we grew up.

I don't know about Jenny, but I am still deciding.

M.C.

Verite, Liberte...

2009-04-02T05:23:00.005-04:00

New York

I left SE Asia exactly 25 days ago. And since my return, I have had time to reflect on the experience and its impact on me, what I learned from the time there.

One of the things that I came across again and again, was an attitude toward human life that was assaultive to my western spirit. Just to set the record straight for those of you who think this will be a nationalistic commentary on how great American freedom and justice are, it is not. Amnesty International, among other groups, has made it clear that there are violations of human rights in the U.S. We are not without sin in this regard.

However, the sheer quantity of suffering, inhuman conditions, crazy people running countries like North Korea and Myanmar, make the canvas much brighter and much uglier in Asia, in my view. In Thailand, I visited the refugee center in Bangkok and watched the process as Sri Lankan refugees, Tamil people, who fled for their lives, try to get either food or an apartment for one month from a local aid organization. One father, around 40, sat at a picnic table during the interview, his three children, ages 6 months, 4 years and 6 years of age, sitting there, too, watching while their destiny was being decided by strangers.

This is how it works in Thailand, or more precisely, in Bangkok . The borders are very porous, so it is easy to get into the country. The trick is staying there. If the police pick you up and you don't have papers, they can jail you ( unless, of course, you have a bribe handy..but that implies that you might actually have some money and most of these folks are poor--not America poor, but In the meantime, while you're trying not to get picked up, you go to the UN and demonstrate why you should be considered for political asylum. That process can take up to 18 months. And even with that documentation, there is always the possibility that the police will try to take you in anyway--and a bribe. Money is the currency of freedom in Bangkok.

Back to the Sri Lankan family. The social workers talk about what they can do for this family with the limited amount of money they have available to help several families on this particular day. The discussion goes something like this: "Well, they don't have a place to stay, and they don't have food. And we only have enough money for either food or shelter this month, so it should probably be the rent--at least they will not be on the street." That conversation is translated to the family. The Sri Lankan mother, holding the youngest child, asks: " Could we have some powdered milk for the baby?"

And that is just one family.

But this is simply the backdrop for my story today, the story of Pol Pot and his regime--the impact of which continues to reverberate in Cambodia. Pol Pot, as I have mentioned in previous postings, believed that a Utopian society built on an agrarian model was the answer to governance in the country. in 1975-79, his regime displaced the entire population of Pnom Penh, sending the urbanites to work on farms in the countryside. Brother #1, as he was known, was a dictator--and not a benevolent one, either.

In Phnom Penh, nearly empty, he established a prison, S21, where Cambodians were incarcerated. The prison, a converted school, soon became the macabre home of physicians, intellectuals, political dissidents--anyone who was considered any kind of threat to the regime. The commandant of the prison was a man called Duch ( pronounced DOIK ) who signed the orders for every torture session ( they were held in three hour intervals 8-11am; 2-5pm; 7-10pm.)--and participated along with is guards.

After the regime ended, Duch along with other Khmer Rouge leaders, disappeared. 20 years later, in 1999, a journalist found him. He was living in a small Cambodian village doing aid work with villagers. He had allegedly become "born again" and regretted his part in the Khmer death camp he directed. He was arrested soon after.

Just this past few months, 10 years after his arrest, he is being tried in Phnom Penh by a tribunal of five judges after major dragging-of-feet by Cambodian authorities for years. This week, Duch testified. He talked about the types of torture he authorized which included electric shock, beatings, tearing nails out of fingers and toes. And added that he was "only following orders."

It is estimated that 14,000 people from S21 either died there, or were trucked to a field outside of town, coined the Killing Fields by the movie of the same name, where while blindfolded and bound, they were led to an open pit, and one by one bludgeoned with a steel rod in the back of the head. After they were killed, they were thrown into the hole, lifeless.

I'm not a big fan of using the word "evil". But this is an exception. This is the same kind of disregard for life that can be found countless other places in the world -- and was certainly true in WWII war atrocities in Nazi death camps.

Cambodia, 30 years later, seems to be still reeling from the horrors of the past. 20% of the approximately 8million were exterminated by the Khmer. And it would probably be safe to say that many of those who are old enough to have lived through the regime either knew what was going on or in some way might have been complicit.

About 1/3 of my monk students were Cambodian. One of them remembers the Khmer coming into his village when he was 10 years old. They asked the monks to disrobe. They refused. They were taken to the edge of town and shot. The local school teacher was shot. The parents of village children were sent to work in the fields, and their children were housed communally in the remains of the village Buddhist temple where they were fed basically watered down rice. My student, Kim Yi, lived in a refugee camp for three years after the war. His family lost their farm.

So, I am watching the Duch trial with great interest. There are still Khmer in Cambodia, in fact, the prime minister was Khmer. And, I'm told that the Khmer who still fight near the border are fierce warriors and feared by other SE Asian soldiers.

I wish I could wrap this up with some one liner, or wise words. But I don't have any. Except to say that perhaps what I have learned from my time in SE Asia is that human life is more precious to me than ever before. And freedom? I think I have a deepening of its power for humankind and a renewed appreciation of the responsibility it implies to preserve and protect it.

MC

Edward's Adventure

2009-03-27T17:14:00.004-04:00

New York

I belong to a little library on the upper east side. I've always loved libraries, and in New York, the closest public library to me closed for renovations. Besides, it was small, crowded and noisy. I needed a place to write, so I started searching for a quiet space not too far from my apartment on the upper west side that was quiet, had internet access for my laptop and a good staff who really understood books and book lovers.

I found it a year or so ago. For a very modest amount, I became a member. Little did I know that besides the other musts on my list, they also had an excellent lecture program--and a lovely children's library with a terrific children's schedule of events.

I've been anxious to take my grandchildren to the library to take advantage of the programs. And today was the first time we could work out our mutual schedules. This morning at 9 am, I walked the few blocks to my son and his wife's apartment, and collected Edward, nearly three, to go to story hour with Miss Rachel, the librarian, and other two and three year olds. This was the first time Edward and Grammie had gone on an adventure without mom, dad and his big brother, Ethan, so I wasn't sure how reticent he would be.

Chris buzzed me up, and Edward was waiting in the foyer, his eyes big...and sleepy. But after his dad tied his shoes and gave him a hug, he slipped his hand into mine and we were off. First the M79 bus through Central Park, its arched bridges like tunnels as the big crosstown bus glided under them. We arrived at the library, a converted townhouse just before ten, and took the six person elevator to the third floor--the kind you only find in old New York townhouses. Miss Rachel, the librarian, greeted Edward as if he had been there every month this year. She handed him two felt cutouts that he held in a deathgrip, and then she began the stories.

Edward sat on my lap on the floor, as did most of the other seven children in the cozy parlor, as Miss Rachel read one of Vera Williams' stories about a caterpillar who ate every fruit and sweet he could crawl up to. And with each food, the child who held that felt image was expected to put the felt piece on the felt board that was adjacent to Miss Rachel's chair. So, first the two year old with the apple, then the plum, then the strawberry. And then it was Edward's turn. I had no idea whether he would parade up there like Peter Pan on the ship, or grab my hand in horror hoping I would do it for him. Well, he didn't do either. I had whispered to him a couple of fruits before that his turn was coming, and I'd let him know.. and go up if he wanted.

And then Miss Rachel called for ... THE PEAR. Edward gave me a sideglance, I smiled and nodded. He got off of my lap, walked straight toward Miss Rachel, and put that pear dead center on the felt board. I could not contain myself, and in a stage whisper said: "Bravo, Edward!" Back he came, slowly, solemnly, a little self contented perhaps.

Miss Rachel read two other books, everyone got to color the caterpillar, and then it was time to go. He spied a book about the first railroads, and almost had the umph to ask Miss Rachel if he could take it home. I translated a bit, and Edward proudly walked out of the library with his loaned books--including the caterpillar book.

On the bus ride home, Edward was still but occasionally his husky voice would fill me in on what was going on in that complicated head. "I run in the park some days," he confided. "It the one near your house." And indeed it is true that his parents do morning runs usually on the weekends, and the boys are in the new fangled tandem stroller that Chris pushes up and down the six mile course. It's a family staple.

It seemed to go well for Edward. When we got home, he told his mother with great animation about the computer video he watched of Thomas and Bob the Builder ( think Mr. Greenjeans and Captain Kangaroo, add forty years of technology and generational/cultural shifts and you've got the idea ). He kept the train book under his arm for safekeeping; then put his coloring of the caterpillar on the table to finish after his nap.

I kissed him goodbye and asked him if he would like to go on an adventure some other time. He nodded, preoccupied, his eyes scanning the page in the railroad book that shows 19th century locomotives next to Conestoga wagons in the old West.

The Power of a Swing

2009-03-24T06:12:00.004-04:00

New York

Yesterday was a grueling day in many respects. I arrived back in New York to a mountain of obligations and business matters that were both complex and, to be honest, a pain in

the neck. They ranged from the simple like packing up the Christmas holiday decorations and cards that I had left tucked in a corner in my rush to leave for SE Asia to following up on a particularly annoying letter from Blue Cross announcing that they wanted a refund from me of $375 for surgery that had been done in March 2007 because they overpaid the hospital. As I've said before: Who Could Make This Stuff Up?

It is still chilly in the northeast but I decided after an endless battery of conference calls and follow up emails, that I would go to Central Park. It was just before sunset.

My plan was to walk briskly and take in the late afternoon smells and sounds; to see how close the park seemed to bursting into greens and yellows, pinks and purples. It is my favorite time of year.

The northwest wind was daunting as I crossed Central Park West at 81st to enter the park. But once I had walked down the path aways, the park dips down a bit and the wind doesn't have the bite that it does on the street. I headed toward the Delacorte Theater, home of the wonderful Shakespeare in the Park series in the summer, and headed east toward my beloved Metropolitan Museum of Art. It is Monday, so the museum is closed but even so, as I peeked into the floor to ceiling glass dining room, I could see the French style bisto chairs flipped on their backs waiting for the morning and new customers.

As I walked I relaxed into the beauty of the day--clear blue sky with only a wisp of a cloud anywhere in sight, the trees red brown, the buds little nubs on the thin branches just waiting for a little more sun, a little more temperature before they sprouted. I reached the reservoir on the east side of the park and decided to do a little running--why not? The reservoir is bordered with hundreds of cherry trees that now stand dark and still waiting for their time. Runners, walkers, New Yorkers, visitors--they were all there. I smiled to myself at the beauty of the skyline from there--all of the apartments on Central Park West--the Beresford, the Dakota, once lonely upstarts when the upper west side was the frontier of Manhattan--now packed in with dozens of buildings of all manner of architectural styles.

I walked slowly back toward my apartment on the west side after I exited the reservoir. And for some reason, I saw a group of swings that I don't remember ever seeing before. I stood and watched three adults--two swinging vigorously, the third, sitting pensively, his back to the rest.

I hesitated thinking: "I'm too old to do this, really...", and started walking toward the west, watching the setting sun over the Dakota towers. "No one is too old", I heard myself mutter.

Besides, I justified, the sunset will be great from the top reaches of a swing.

And it was. My swing had it's own squeak every time I pumped higher and higher as if to remind me that I might want to cap it before I got too high. The air was getting cooler but it didn't really matter. I noticed two new spruce saplings that the Conservancy had protected with small wire fences, and a lovely granite formation just beyond the swing area.

And then I realized that I was smiling. No, that I was happy. For that one moment, I was the kid whose mother would say: " Not any higher, now, Mary Catherine. That's high enough, " as she watched me out the kitchen window. And it was spring, and I was alive.

And all the vagaries of day to day life had not made me forget the grace of a simple moment.

Of Clocks and Ireland and Those Who Came Before Me

2009-03-20T05:45:00.004-04:00

Philadelphia

The fog surrounding my brain has lifted. I'm back to multitasking, and running. Two very good signs. And sleep? Well, my endocrine system is still confused, but its coming around slowly.

Today, nearly two weeks since I landed at JFK, my monks and English class seem a distant blink of time. I still sit in my rocker in the predawn light and watch the fire, my legs wrapped tightly in a saffron and umber blanket.

Since I've been spending so much time in the living room near the fire, I have been watching time go by on the elegant old anniversary clock that sits on a shelf all alone, its pendulum silently spinning back and forth to move the large hand slowly around the circle of time.

I wound it yesterday, it's once-a-year wind. And wondered how many years my grandmother did just the same thing before me. It is the only thing of hers that I possess, and I love its delicate face, its wobbly pendulum, the lovely bell jar cover.

I treasure this memory that I have of my grandmother, my father's mother, Catherine Whalen. Catherine was born in Wisconsin, the eldest of several children. Her parents, my great great grandparents came over from Ireland during the 1850 migration of poor, often starving Irish families left that beautiful country for freedom from British tyranny.

Her mother before her, Mary Holloway, was three months old, the youngest Holloway child, when the family set sail on the ship Odessa for New York. James Holloway came to Wisconsin to help build the railroad, settling near Madison.

I'm named after both women, both full-blooded Irishwomen. I guess it's fitting to remember them this month of St. Patrick's Day, to pay a little bit of homage to their courage. Catherine moved to Iowa with her family, was the postmistress in a little town in northwest Iowa, and eventually married an Englishman ( of all things ). She had eight children, lived in a tiny house across from the Catholic school in Bancroft, Iowa, where all her children attended school. I didn't know her well. She died when I was five but I remember walking down the street with her to church once, and going to the five and dime store ( the Walmart of its day for those of you under 40 ) where she bought me embroidery floss---any color I wanted, she said.

Catherine was small framed, a little over five feet tall, her grey hair neatly tucked in a soft roll, her cotton dress always hung loosely. And she wore "granny shoes" just like grandmothers of her day were supposed to. Oh, and Ben Franklin glasses.

I can remember her softness, how gentle she was with me. It wasn't her words that stuck out but her presence.

When my father was born in 1905, she was recovering from smallpox, the scourge of that time.

He was born with smallpox, of course. The country doctor who attended his home birth told her to "let that baby die, Cate. Save your strength. You've already got six mouths to feed," according to my father's telling the tale. Apparently Cate looked at the doctor and replied:"Well, now I have seven. And I'll breastfeed this boy back to health." And she did.

So, to Catherine Lucretia Whalen, wherever you are, this is a granddaughter's grateful homage. I will remember again next year when I wind the anniversary clock until the key is tightly wrapped, put it on the shelf for the next year and the next and the next.

I wonder who will turn the key after me?

Untitled

2009-03-17T07:57:00.003-04:00

Philadelphia

But I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now.

Bob Dylan

Some final images, dear reader, of my amazing journey. Still setting fires in the predawn hours, still lighting candles, still rocking slowly waiting for the dawn.

It is ten days now, since I left the east. My mind clears with each new sunrise. My thoughts turn to my beloved, saffron robed monks and their separate journeys.

And to the massive spider web I saw in the jungle on one of my last days in Thailand. The spider worked tirelessly for a stunning web that was as fragile as a first kiss. My time here has been the same process; slowly weaving my thoughts and words around the journey, hoping to hold the wisdom gained in my web against the vagaries of everyday life that face me.

Is This Kansas?

2009-03-14T07:11:00.004-04:00

Philadelphia

It is cold here. I shiver in the predawn and set a fire.

I sit there silently waiting for the sun to rise on this, my seventh day back in the West. Each morning I sit in the same rocker watching the grey-blue sky yield to pinks in the east while I watch the moon set slowly in the west. In anticipation, I look for the sun to come from the other side of the world. I silently welcome it, remember those who are still there, wonder if they're having dinner, going to meet friends for a quiet Saturday evening or if they, too, are alone remembering. I salute the rising sun with a sunrise yoga pose complete with a respectful wai.

While I was in the south of Thailand that very short time ago, I jotted down several headings in my tablet. They included: People and Quotes to Remember; Things to Remember; and , of course, the 10 Best and Worst things about Bangkok.

So, here goes.

People/Quotes to Remember

( note: this list will be serendipitous meetings,

not my colleagues who I have written about

in past postings ).

1. Chris, the Thai who registered me at the Pimilai for my last three days in Thailand. I had just arrived at the porte chere of this four star resort. The serene entrance had piped in music, a small waterfall surrounded by stunning foliage, and a commanding view of the Andaman Sea. I should add that I arrived on the back of a noisy motorbike with a backpack, and

one small red duffel bag as my luggage. I was wearing my swimsuit, a pair of running shorts, and pink flip flops and a pink baseball cap. As he greeted me with a deep wai, he smiled and inquired: " Tell me, Madam," he asked as he nimbly picked up my backpack. " Have you been here awhile?" I smiled, and answered that I'd been on the island for three days, in SEAsia for two months. " Ah," he added knowingly, " I thought so. You look blended."

2. Laura, a 40ish woman who I literally ran into three times in an hour while I was doing some shopping on Charoen Krung Road near the Oriental one hot afternoon. The third time, I was sitting at a Starbuck's reading my beloved International Herald Tribune. She smiled and said "hi." To which I replied: " Sit down, Laura. Clearly we must have some connection here. Let's talk." And talk we did. She lives about 45 minutes from my place in Pennsylvania. Laura comes to SE Asia three times a year to buy textiles, then returns home to Doylestown and creates clothing for several clients. But she got hooked on the east years ago, and can't get enough of it.

In her own words: " What an inconvenient obsession."

3.Aman, who has been making alms bowls for Bangkok monks for 30 years, who showed me how he welded the 9 pieces of metal together just as it has been done for centuries.

4.Shiva, the tailor in the small village near the Pimilai who agreed to repair my nylon duffel so that I could get my belongings back to Bangkok in one piece. It took three visits to his little tailor shop before he returned from lunch ( must have been two martini lunch because he was gone for three hours ). When he finally returned and mended the bag, I smiled in gratitude. "How much?" I asked. " One thousand bhat," he replied. I stepped back, looked him in the eye, and said incredulously, "What did you say?" ( that's $28 U.S. --I could buy a new bag for that ).

He sat there stonefaced, then tiny bit of a grin began to show on his face: " Just kidding! 100 baht." Very funny, Shiva!

5.The cook at the Rio. She had no quote per se. But I miss her terribly. After the first couple of times I ordered from the menu ( she has wisely put pictures of the finished dish in a binder for those of us who are novices at Thai cuisine ), she would smile when I came into the little restaurant, and point to my favorite dishes which ranged from YumTomSoup with prawns to stirred fired chicken and bok choi. " Not too spicy," she'd add. And off she'd go to make me the best meals I had in Thailand.

So that's today's memories.

The sun is up, the fire only embers, the garden reminding me that I am not in Kansas, or Thailand.

But home.

Where Exactly Am I?

2009-03-12T09:37:00.003-04:00

Philadelphia

At three a.m. this morning, I admired the full-out moonglow on my yard creating shadows of crooked limbs and branches. This is the third full moon of the new year. And I have seen every one. But this is the first one I've seen in my own country. January's sighting was in Ho Chi Minh City. February's full moon bathed my little Bangkok apartment with soft white light.

As I swim upstream trying to adjust to night being day and day being night, I am reminded of how vulnerable our minds and bodies are to change. Physiologically, the entire endocrine system goes on red alert when you fiddle around with sleep cycles. No REM, or interrupted REM sleep, means that errors are frequent, decisions suspect. In the research that changed forever the shift work practice of rotating people between days, evenings and nights, the findings were conclusive that it took a solid month for the body's circadian rythyms, the body's alarm clock, to stabilize with rotation of shifts. And anyone who has worked in a hospital and seen a resident after being on duty 24 hours knows to check any chart he or she has reviewed or written orders for.

Slowly, I putter around the house moving piles of papers. Tax data, bills, mail, correspondence.

And then the screw ups, misunderstandings, the folks who didn't get the memo about my absence. The best one--the propane company topped off my propane tank that fuels my fireplace. They left a bill in the door in January. In February, they sent a bill. Two nights ago, I flipped the switch on the fireplace expecting the "whoosh" sound as the pilot ignites the gas cylinder. No "Whoosh". Nothing but darkness. No pilot, I noticed. So, I called my dear neighbor who came over presumably to light the pilot. After fiddling with it for five minutes, and expending many matches, he suggested we go check the tank to see if it was empty. The tank wasn't empty.

The tank was gone. They had taken the tank. TAKEN THE TANK!

Who could make this stuff up? The next morning I called County Propane and inquired as to where my tank was? " You didn't pay your bill, ma'am, and that's our policy."

After 10 frustrating minutes of pointing out facts such as: 1. no one called first; 2. I had been a customer for ten years with an excellent payment record. 3. I needed it replaced immediately. And the answer at the other end of the line: "I'll see what the manager says. He doesn't like people, so he won't talk to you. And it's our policy that once the tank is taken, we don't bring it back under any circumstance."

OK. OK. I"m thinking to myself, this is a test. Have I got a Buddhist bone in my body after the experience of the past months? Or am I back to my Western ways?

I told Gary, the messenger on the other end of the telephone, to check with the anti-social boss, Norm, and get back to me in one hour. If I didn't hear from him in that timeframe, I would make other arrangements. And ended with: " Does Norm know that this country, and every extant business in it, is in very serious financial peril? And does he know that he is turning away a customer with a ten year history of excellent payments?"

Just a little distraction, this little pain in the neck, I keep reminding my weary mind. But the sun is shining, and I'm not having to fight falling asleep at noon like previous days, so life is good.

But ... adaptation is hell!
MC

The Seeds In My Garden

2009-03-09T08:36:00.008-04:00

The heart is like a garden.
It can grow compassion or fear,
Resentment or love.
What seeds will you plant there?
Lord Buddha

Terra Firma

2009-03-08T03:28:00.002-04:00

New York City.

8:29 am Sunday, March 8,London time; 3:29 pm Bangkok time ( March 9, Monday ); 3:29 am New York time

I’ve traveled essentially from 7am , March 6 until Saturday, March 7 at 11 am. Mind you, I did two March 7s since I crossed the international dateline. Basically, it was 24 hours. First by boat, then car, to get a return flight to Bangkok from Krabi. I arrived in Bangkok in the late morning, caught a cab downtown so that I could retrieve my luggage and re-pack from the Krabi trip. I sorted two months worth of accumulated stuff, and was ready at 5:30pm, wine in hand, two large suitcases, and two pieces of hand luggage to begin the end of my journey.

I had been invited to dinner on Friday, March 6, at the home of an ex-pat couple, who had offered to have their driver return me to the Bangkok airport for my international flight which was due to leave at 00:10am on March 7. That was all quite an ambitious plan but I really wanted to see these new friends before I left, so had accepted their invitation.

Then Murphy’s Law set in. Or perhaps it was a test to see if I had really embraced the notion of the power of doing nothing and still knowing that everything would get done.

My ticket was messed up and required lots of care and feeding. Still made dinner with new expat ( Australian ) friends at their Thai style home with actual grass and a pool, and a proper dining table! And, like the old Bangkok that I’ve only heard about, it was tucked away on a soi ( lane) that made it hard to remember that I was in the midst of chaotic Bangkok. It was wonderful to hear their take on living in the East off and on for years with their twelve year old son, Jack. A cab spirited me away with my bags and my treasures. And, of course, my memories.

In the flight from London to JFK on a huge 747 airship, a day flight, there was an announcement from the captain that any medical professional should identify themselves.
So, I did. Turns out, a woman in coach near the back of this cavernous plane, is suspected of having a stroke. The next two hours were spent with me checking the woman’s vital signs and neurological status that was then reported to the captain and head steward who, in turn, contacted their medical emergency physician in the U.S. The question, of course, was: Do we go back to London? Or is she stable enough to keep going.

It was fascinating to watch the process unfold. She stabilized, they moved me to business class as a courtesy, and we made it to New York ahead of schedule where Port Authority medics took her to the ER for evaluation.

So, that says it all. It’s 3:30am. It’s my birthday. And, I’m glad to be home.

Good Morning, America.
MC

Slow Boat To Paradise

2009-03-04T01:03:00.005-05:00

Krabi Province, Thailand

So, I flew to Krabi, about an hour flight from Bangkok. My idea was to get away to a quiet retreat, an empty beach, lapping of the ocean the only sound-- a welcome departure from the inevitable noise in Bangkok. And my swansong since I depart Southeast Asia in a few days after two months of traveling, teaching, and generally experiencing as much as I could absorb of my temporary home.

I was going to an archipelago that I had heard about, read about, and fantasized about for months. To get there, I had to find transportation from the airport to the pier in Krabi to pick up the ferry. All I knew was that it was a two hour ferry boat ride, and that Pei, the manager of the little hotel where I was staying, would have someone to meet me. I had agreed to call him when the ferry left so that no one would have to wait for me, especially since he said it was another 45 minutes south to the little hotel, Phra Nana Lanta.Pei had urged me, his English perfect, to do private transportation. " It's the best way," he advised.

The Krabi airport was like alot of resort towns: not too big, not too organized, and full of hawkers. So, I had to decide how to get to my little paradise. There were taxis, of course, who wanted about $60 to take me by land and sea. And then there was the ferry boat, and the bus that would take me to the ferry boat. It cost a total of $15.

It was an easy decision. And I figured it would be a nice chance to see the Andaman Sea, and enjoy a boat ride. I'd been on many, many ferries in my long and checkered lifetime in places like New York, the Greek Isles, the Med, the BVIs. How bad could it be for two hours?

The bus to the port ( or so they said we were going ) was packed. It was a 1950s variety, maybe 40 seats, all filled. The luggage didn't go below. No, the luggage went in a horizontal space between the driver and the front row of seats. It was piled high, and from time to time on the fifteen minute trip several pieces teetered menacingly. But, amazingly, there was not one casualty.

All but 10 got off at Krabi Town. And five minutes later, at which time I was expecting the pier and a ferry boat, we were at a dive shop and tour operator glorified hut. There, we bought our ferry ticket. They conveniently also had food and Singha beer, the local Thai favorite.

I asked when we would go to the boat since it was 10:30 and the boat was to depart at 11am. Peng, the main man at this spot, smiled and told me not to worry, that we would not miss the boat. I had no idea who spoke English other than Peng, but I WAS worried. Somehow the topic of my reason for being in Thailand came up ( they seemed a bit troubled by me traveling alone. I wasn't sure if it was that I looked at least ten years older than the other "passengers" or if that is a Thai thing.) But when Peng found out that I had been teaching Buddhist monks English, it was like hitting a home run! I was something else, something special in his eyes.

At probably 11:20, a pickup backed into the road next to the hut. Peng motioned everyone to get aboard. I grabbed my water, a Singha ( I'll admit it...I was on vacation ) and was ready to get in. Not exactly a tsongtau, though. This meant riding on the bottom of the truck bed. Suddenly, Peng came out. " You ride with driver, yes?" , he said. And I didn't need to be asked twice!

The pier was close. Where's the boat, I kept asking. And then I saw it. Basically, it was a PT boat without a hinged exit. There were exactly two seats that I saw on the deck which had been taken by some early comers. So, we piled on and found a place to sit on the deck, using the maybe three foot metal railing as a backrest. My red duffel was stowed below where there were more seats but no air, and certainly no air conditioning. It was topside or seasickness. By then, it was easily 90 degrees outside.

I prepared myself as best I could: sun hat, shirt, two sarongs to cover myself, and I slathered on sun screen like crazy.

Across from me were a couple who looked like they belonged together--like out of a movie set. We started chatting. Yes, dear readers, it's one of those coincidences. She, Danielle, pictured above, along with her new boyfriend, Joel, were New Yorkers. But it gets better. Joel was born in Rogers Park, an area near the Loop in Chicago. Danielle is a girl from Allentown, Pa. Turns out they met in New York a bit ago. Danielle is a model for the likes of Elle. And Joel is in advertising trying to keep going in this economy. Danielle had taken a gig in Bangkok, missed Joel, and... well, he came 10,000 miles to see her.

Is that a great story-- and true-- or not?

The two hour trip was grueling. The boat speed was something around ten miles an hour. And we would stop in the middle of the ocean to pick up more passengers and deliver goods like Singha beer, a bushel of cabbage, and sundry other things to the various islands that we passed along the way.

No wonder it took two hours!

Joel, Danielle, and I got pretty well acquainted. We shared water, New York stories, anything to make the time pass more swiftly. We all decided that on the way back to Krabi, we would have to find another option. Danielle put on her Ipod complete w/ Bose speakers. She played Dylan for me. We talked about the Grateful Dead. We talked about our families.

On the second hour, Danielle looked at me and said: " I'll remember this for the rest of my life. Someday I'll be somewhere, and this memory will come back. And I'll remember you."

On shore finally, we hugged and went out separate ways. They had only three days on the island before Danielle had to return to her photoshoots, and Joel had to return to the U.S.

Yesterday, they emailed to say goodbye, and let me know that they were NOT taking the public ferry back to Krabi airport.

Two very interesting people just beginning their lives, maybe together, maybe not.But for now, it was fun to watch them play together. Somehow, its lovely to watch a holiday unfold as a mere spectator.

We agreed to remember our war story even before the ferry finally landed in New York sometime soon.

So, Joel and Danielle, if you're reading this, tell me where and when? I'll be there.

M.C.

MC

Sabai

2009-03-03T01:29:00.008-05:00

[Ed. note: I tried to publish this two days ago but the site was censored by the government. So, I couldn't access Rounding 60 at all. I have moved locations, although I am still in the south, and now am able to transmit via this http. That's a first! ]

March 1, 2009
Krabi Province, Thailand

My last day teaching the monks was Friday, February 27. We had class like any other day. Viby, his voice loud and clear, read about the Pol Pot commandant, Duch, who is standing trial right now in a courtroom just outside Phnom Phen before five Cambodian justices. Duch was the man who was in charge of the political prisoners in S21 which sits not far from the center of Phnom Penh, and, today, is a shrine to the thousands of intellectuals, educators and professionals who were tortured there, and eventually taken to the Killing Fields ( made popular by the movie of the same name ) to face certain death. It was his nod that started each prisoners’ interrogation which was conducted under the ruse of obtaining a confession from them about their supposed involvement in anything that might threaten Pol Pot’s dream of an agrarian Utopia in Cambodia.

It turned out that on the last day, most of my students were Cambodian men who had come to Thailand to join a monastery, and ended up at Wat Warachanyawas. Viby, Sa, Chieng, Veravong ( Cambodians ) and Suraphet ( Thai ) are all under 30, so they know about the carnage only second hand. Only Kim Yi remembers. He opened up a bit more, telling the others and me about a going to S21 when he returned to Cambodia to see family.
He began, his voice almost a whisper. “ I go to S21 and see the pictures of the faces on the prison wall. They are now all dead. I look at their eyes and they look at only me. Only me. It give me goose flesh even now.” And yet, there are many Cambodians of that age who do not know about the Khmer Rouge’s murders in the late 70s. These monks tell me that it is not being taught in school, and many of the older people don’t talk about it. It is as if Cambodia is shell shocked.

Then, I gave them my last day surprise, a new poem. I chose this one the night before when I was looking for just the right poem, just the right thought to leave with them as our time together came to an end. I wanted a poem that was East meets West. I found “In Silence” by Thomas Merton, an American monk who came to be very well known in the U.S. in the 1960s in some circles because of his interest and then real embracing of Buddhism in an attempt to recapture some of the ascetism of the early Christians like the Essenes; and because he was very outspoken in his writing from his strict Carmelite monastery outside of Louisville, Kentucky about the Vietnam War.

Just like every other week, I did a brief biography of the poet so they could get some context. When I told them that Merton died suddenly at age 50 something only about 45 minutes away from our temple classroom, I had their attention. Especially when I told them it was an accidental electrocution because of a faulty fan he was using after bathing.
Everyone in Bangkok appreciates the importance of a good fan on a hot day.

In Silence
By Thomas Merton
Be still,
Listen to the stones of the wall.
Be silent, they try to speak your name.
Listen to the living walls.

Who are you?
Who are you?
Whose silence are you?

Who ( be quiet )
Are you ( as these stones are quiet).
Do not think of what yu are
Still less of what you may one day be.
Rather be what you are ( but who?)
Be the unthinkable one
You do not know.

O be still, while
You are still alive,
And all things live around you
Speaking ( I do no hear )
To your own being,
Speaking by the unknown
That is in you and in themselves.

“I will try, like them
to be my own silence:
and this is difficult.
The whole
World is secretly on fire
The stones
Burn,
Even the stones they burn me.

How can a man be still or
Listen to all things burning?
How can he dare to sit with them
When all their silence is on fire?”

When class was over, we ate pizza from Pizza Hut that I had bought for our last day. It was a seafood pizza with a think crust, lots of tomato sauce, and, of course ( it’s Thailand ) a bit of spice. The monks slathered the pie slices with ketchup.

Suraphet, one of the assistant abbots who is extremely proficient in English, and currently has a BA in philosophy, disappeared for a few minutes and came back with a bag. “Teach- ah,” he began in his very deep tenor voice, his jaw set, his eyes looking down as he emphasized the second half of the word for what seemed like 30 seconds, his voice resonant. “Teach-ah, we wish to give you this special iron statue of Lord Buddha that is made in this temple. We will miss you very much. Thank you, Teach-ah.”

I said a few words, trying to express my gratitude for the statue for their attentiveness, for their hard work, for their willingness to try new things like reading aloud from some very difficult texts. And then I told them the truth. That I would remember them always.

Suraphet looked at the other five monks who were sitting at the table, the pizza devoured, their 10 ounce water bottles empty, lying on their sides, like a lazy dog.

“We chant a blessing for Teach-ah for her long jour-nee back to New Yawk.”

The chant lasted about three minutes. Each monk chanted on the same set of tones that monks have been using for centuries. Chanting is one of the things I’ve found that resonates most with me. I have, on several occasions done short videos of some of my monks, and others from the wat chanting the prayers for the dead ( a source of income for them ), or chanting for 50ish woman whose husband had treated her to a session to bless her on her special day, or in the large open space near the temple proper where, on occasion I will see monks chanting, a reclining Lord Buddha dressed elaborately in silver robe draped over the statue.

But to have them chant a blessing for me? Secretly, I had wanted to ask them to do it, but decided against it—not sure if it would be too pushy.

Each monk, my students, these men who are now meditating daily, living an austere life, sang for me, their heads bowed, their hands waiing. It was perfect unison from the first tone. I was overwhelmed. Tears welled up as their sound filled that little classroom 10,000 miles from home.

, I thought, where will they be next year? In five years? Will Kraingsak be a scholar which is his goal? Will Sa learn English will enough to study in Southern India which is his dream? Will Chieng be accepted to work with Mon monks in Toronto? Will Viby , a muscular and very bright young man from Cambodia keep studying? Will he stay in the monastery or leave to pursue a different life. Will KimYi come to terms with the horror he experienced as a boy under the Khmer? Will Suraphet stay in the monastery? Will he complete the MA he has begun in western philosophy?

I don’t know. Maybe I never will. A year is a long time, and some of these monks will surely be gone.

The other day, a couple from Washington state visited my class to get some feel for this project while they were in Asia for a wedding. Bill, an accountant asked me point blank: "Why did you want to teach monks English? What about working with refugees?" I answered something a little oblique like it's what they wanted. And that is true. The same question came the next day from a long time colleague. My answer was a sidestep. I wasn't sure what the question was about.

But in the meantime, I have thought alot about this past six weeks. I came here thinking I would learn a little about Buddhism not really having any idea how educated my monks would be, how eager they would be to learn English.

Well, they were very bright and very eager, willing to be challenged. I did learn about Buddhism.

But what I really learned was that people are people the world around. The monks were pretty typical students like other students I had taught. We connected. I had something to give them, and, as always happens with students, their progress was my reward.

I like happy endings. I admit it. And last Friday was a happy ending.

One that I'll remember forever.
MC

An End Or A Beginning?

2009-02-27T09:03:00.003-05:00

Bangkok

The Weight Due to the Alpha Male

2009-02-25T11:16:00.003-05:00

Bangkok

So, what on earth was I thinking when I put the symbols above on the blackboard today? Alpha and Omega? Because the term "alpha male" came up in one of the readings.

I found myself wanting to be sure my monks knew what these symbols looked like--and ( silly one that I am ) what they mean.

Sa, the youngest of my students, high school age, was reading from an article he had chosen. He chose an article from last week's Time magazine about Abraham Lincoln. At first I was skeptical ( they have to vet their topics with me before they can prepare to read ), not knowing why he wouldn't select something that was current about Southeast Asia. But, he seems very pleased with the article, so I let it go.

But today, when he read, I was amazed at the complexity of the language in this piece about Lincoln. The article was specifically about who he was, where he had come from--and all of the influences that either enhanced his political capital--or it diminished it.

Again, as I've written before, dear readers, there are times that all I can do to explain a western notion like alpha male is rely on lots and lots of words, examples--and hand gestures.

Today's class was smaller than usual because part of my students have exams this week which trumps English class for sure. And it's kind of nice. This group is beginning to tell me more about their country of origin, more about what they want to do when they are finished with university, more about their past.

For the second time since I've been teaching them, KimYi, a Cambodian from the province near Seim Reap, talked about being ten when the Khmer Rouge came to his village. This soft spoken, 41 year old man with the saddest eyes I've ever seen, told us today about that day. "The Khmer come to my village. They take the teacher out of the village and shoot. They take the monks and say to disrobe." Kim Yi pauses for a long while. "They refuse. They taken to woods. Shot."

I asked him about his family. "My brother fifteen years then. They take him to be soldier. He die." Kim Yi was ten years old when he witnessed all of this. After the Khmer killed anyone who was a threat in the village, they set up some local to take over. KimYi and the other children were brought to the center of town where the temple had been. The Khmer had destroyed it as one of their first acts of violence when they raided the village. The children lived there during the entire three year war. Kim Yi described the food--basically water flavored with small bits of rice which he and the others would eat after working in the fields all day. In the middle of the temple "orphanage" was the local Khmer and his family who in plain sight would eat large bowls of rice and fish.

See why it is so hard to try to seriously explain something so almost banal about western culture like "alpha male"? It seems so unimportant in light of the struggle of the past--and present -- of many here.
MC

An Angle of Light

2009-02-22T23:30:00.006-05:00

Yesterday, as is the custom, the group here had a farewell brunch for me. We did it a week early so that John Murray, the point person who has shepherded me along my way, could attend. He will be in Italy and Istanbul when I leave.

It was the first time I had seen everyone together. Most of the other workers I just know casually from seeing them in the office except for Daniel who manages the project with the Mon boys at Wat Prok that I visited recently.

Quite unexpectedly, John M tapped his glass, and started a little thank you. But then...he continued:

"And I've written a little ditty that is based on "The Wild Colonial Boy". It's an old Australian ballad that's a favorite of mine. It's called 'A Vibrant Lassie'".

Here is what he composed.

The Vibrant Lassie
--Dedicated to Mary Catherine

There was a vibrant lassie. Mary Catherine was her name.
She was born and raised in Iowa, where difference, not shame, was the game.
She was her family’s joy, full of life and promise.
And dearly did those who loved her see a future for this, their vibrant lassie.

So she went her way and sought a life of her own.
She got herself an education. She got herself a profession.
She also got herself a family. To them she is ever classie.
One loved by all, she remains their vibrant lassie.

Then to New York did she one day roam.
Life would change—full of writing, full of drama—this was her new home.
In the midst of all that was, a vision came.
It said—go to Bangkok, teach monks—don’t become tame, for you are our vibrant lassie.

So to Bangkok she got. Only to find God knows what.
She struggled, she questioned, she never gave in to the rot.
The puzzle proved a quandary—for all is never what it seems when rather messie.
So in face of all that came her way, our sister showed herself to be ever our vibrant lassie.

Here she has taught, she has written, she has discovered.
This is truly a place where life can once again be uncovered,
So we say Goodbye as we stand in awe of one who came our way.
You have made your mark, you have finished your school for now.
May you go always our vibrant lassie.

John Murray osa -- Feb 09

Once in a very long while in life, someone comes along and shines the light on you with just the right angle to make you wither with appreciation. John's poetry, to me, was just such a light.
MC

Body Lice? Life Is Stranger Than Fiction!

2009-02-20T05:36:00.025-05:00

Yes, dear readers. I came to Thailand to teach Buddhist monks English. They have been thriving as I've told you.

And, there is another kind of thriving going on. I have scabies. ( That's the nice way of saying: "I've got body lice"!

I found out yesterday, after several sleepless nights scratching what I thought was just very, very dry skin and three trips to the hospital to try to get a diagnosis for fatigue and a very visible rash.

According to the American Academy of Dermatologists, scabies is caused by a tiny mite that has infested humans for at least 2,500 years. It is often hard to detect, and causes a fiercely, itchy skin condition. Dermatologists estimate that more than 300 million cases of scabies occur worldwide every year.

Scabies is a contagious ectoparasite skin infection characterized by superficial burrows, intense pruritus (itching) and secondary infection. It is caused by the mite Sarcoptes scabiei. The word scabies itself is derived from the Latin word for "scratch" (scabere). It is most likely to be found in smaller dogs.

So, a week ago I began itching,had a serious rash on every limb, and was fatigued--and worried since I'm due to leave soon and if I've got a tropical disease, I want it diagnosed where they see it every day. I was doggedly determined to get to the bottom of it. I know when there is something wrong with my body. ( Someone in the project had suggested with all manner of sensitivity that maybe it was just culture shock! Psychosomatic, I said? After five weeks, I mused?? Pretty severe symptoms for a "non disease".

My MSN in nursing, teaching nursing at three universities, and a healthy respect for communicable diseases and public health issues allowed me to turn a deaf ear to the critique. It took three hospital visits, a CBC ( very high white count ) and liver function ( negative, thank God since she was worried about Hepatitis C ), and finally--yes--on the third visit--finally...a physical exam--before I was diagnosed by a Thai dermatologist ( checked her bio before I went for the appointment).

The treatment for lice is de-lousing with a chemical compound that kills the microscopic lice that have borrowed into my flesh. I showered, put on the lye-like compound. Then I began scrubbing my room top to bottom, stripping and washing every sheet, every towel, every piece of clothing that I had warn in the past ten days. And shoes. Scrubbed.

It turns out, the temple where I am working has a bit of a...well.. what we would call in health care a ( ahem.. ) public health problem.

That problem in this situation, simply put, is that the doctor confirmed that some of the animals in this temple have mange and are carrying the mite that infected me, and perhaps humans as well, are obviously harboring lice. And make no mistake, lice is very, very contagious. Ask my dermatologist! When she examined me, her comment was: " If the causative agent which is the dogs that live there that have mange--and probably a student as well isn't eradicated from your environment, you are likely to be reinfected over and over."

My understanding of the Buddhist notion that all life should be honored is not a problem for me.I've been around the block. I know that the idea of expecting another culture or religion to adhere to standards of another culture is just unrealistic not to mention disrespectful. Look at the struggle to change habits with HIV. Or birth control. Or teaching mothers in third world countries to breast feed their newborns for a better beginning.

Because I have a background that includes a graduate degree in theology in tandem with the healthcare background--this is a perfect storm for me!

So, I get it. I don't have a problem with my students' belief system. And, frankly, even without the degrees, this is common sense. And the questions I ask are the same ones that have been asked for as long as people have been trying to help other people from the beginning of civilization.

The rhetorical question this scenario raises is this: When one does work outside one's own culture, how can one be stay safe and strong so that you can do the work you were sent to the other culture to do? Or a parallel one, are there strategies to discern the risk/benefit ratios?

***********************************

But the immediate question for me was simple: What to do about teaching my beloved monk students?
When I was diagnosed with scabies, two solutions to the problem of the infested classroom were offered: 1)stop teaching
( unacceptable to me, as I believe I owe my students more than that); or 2) the offer of switching to an upstairs classroom which has basically the same risks--feral cats and dogs roaming freely.

Let me explain. We have been working together for five weeks. So that amounts to 25 days more or less considering their high holidays and worship days on which we do not have class.

When I began, I had 8 to 10 tired looking monks. I had no idea how much they understood but, after the first few days, knew how much they understood about grammar. Their diction was awful--not their fault, just was.
My takeaway message for this entire time to them has been this: If you want teach something to someone in English,whether it is about Buddhism , or for those of you who will leave here after a time and want to get ahead in an English speaking job, you must be able to be UNDERSTOOD.

Number One.
I asked them to only speak English in class--not to help one another with a word or phrase that I was saying by translating it into Thai. That was hard for them.
But they did it.

Number Two.
I learned how to say " poot chaa chaa". That means "speak slowly" in Thai. Their diction improved markedly with slow deliberate speech. It was hard for them because it's easier to breeze through a sentence hoping you'll be understood.
But they did it.

Number Three.
I did everything I could to get them to look at me when I was teaching them pronunciation. That sounds easy but some of them are shy, and some of them have been taught that you do not look at a woman in the eyes. Being a teacher, it was a bit of a get-out-of-jail-free card, but still hard for them.
But they did it.

Number 4.
I told them that I wanted them to recite on a topic for the whole class on a topic of their choice--Buddhism, or if they were studying something else at university, that would be OK, too. I started buying and bringing in the International Herald Tribune and Time magazine for them ( too expensive for them to buy on their own ) so that they could read good English writing ( unlike the local English papers which are so-so..maybe on par with USA Today.from a writing perspective ).
The first readers chose pretty simple texts that they had, presumably used in prior English classes. It was still hard for them to read, to be corrected by me.
But they did it.

Number 5.
I taught them how to look up some good resources on the internet, how to discern if a site was any good with a battery of questions to ask themselves.

Soon, they would come into class and say: " Teacher, I looked up Time magazine on the internet last night, and the New York Times, and I saw some things."

I use the topics by the students to teach vocabulary. So, while they are reading aloud, if I think it is a big word or the other students look confused, I stop the reader. " What does abolish mean?" Someone other than the reader ( who is supposed to know ) gets a chance to answer. About half the time, now ( not so in the beginning ) one of my students will know the word. If not, the students with English dictionaries, look it up.
I put it on the board: Abolish ( v ) to stop or discontinue. And then I ask: who can use it in a sentence? In the beginning of this process, not one student ventured a guess. But now, they rush to be the first to speak. "Teacher, ...ah... In America, it took a long time to abolish slavery."

It was hard.

But they did it.

But the monks, especially the assistant abbot, Suraphet, and I came up with a solution. There is a small office that is at best 10 by 12 feet, that has a door, is clean. Poignantly, it was the suggestion of the Assistant Abbott, Suraphet, that we meet in his office which not only has a door that is closed and locked--but air conditioning ( did I mention that it is moving up in to the 100 degree range? ). He and the other faithful monks helped bring in the blackboard from our classroom into the little space, and class began.

It's tight with 8-10 monks who must keep a distance from me since they are forbidden to touch a woman. For the days since my diagnosis, that has been our makeshift classroom.

John Murray, my colleague, happened to be there the day after the diagnosis and ( bless him )told the monks that I must keep my shoes on ( against the custom when entering an interior room in this culture ) because I had an infection. Somehow, it seemed easier for them coming from him. I was concerned that it would be a sign of rudeness on my part. But I finally put my worry aside, and was reminded of what is my understanding of the "middle way" of Buddhism which I've mentioned before. The Lord Buddha would never want me-or anyone-- to do anything that would be harmful to themselves-- even if it was out of the ordinary rules of conduct ( ie the monks fasting after their noon meal as an example).

And what has happened in that little office for the past two days has been more than my wildest dreams. Amazing. It's as if it is all coming together. All their hard work.

These young men, whose diction was, at best, difficult to understand, were reading articles aloud from the International Herald Tribune on everything from the Khmer Rouge trial in Phnom Penn to an editorial by the president of Liberia about the importance of Abraham Lincoln to the growth of freedom in that country. And, it isn't rote. They understand the story. What is torture? What is persecution?

Where is Liberia? I ask them. And, with their earnest, bright minds and eagerness to please, one or the other will begin with:
"Teacher...I know what persecution means. I will use it in a sentence."

So, I don't care where I teach as long as the students are getting the instruction from me that will help them in their future. Some will stay monks. Some will become tour guides. Some will--who knows--be politicians--or fathers-- or merchants.

But I simply want to give them what I came here to give them for these last few days. Oh, and not get sick doing it.

Today, Chieng, one of my students who speaks French, German, Cambodian, Thai, and English said: "Teacher, when you leave next week, we will be sorry.We will email you in English And, before you leave, we will say the poem you gave us when you came,he poem Benaught, to bless you on your journey home."

In closing, it occurs to me that this six week teaching assignment isn't grand. It isn't going to bring world peace, it isn't going to save even one refugee from Sri Lanka or Uganda or Myanmar. It isn't going to create a solution for the Palestinian/ Israeli struggle. Or Egypt's oppressive legal system in regards to women's rights.

That's one of the reasons I wanted to do it. I had run a business, sat on boards making policy, had faculty management positions at university. I just wanted to give back to the grassroots with no fanfare--no charity fundraiser balls, no business expense account, no glam.
It is the day-to-day, that I think,that is the challenge, the tough stuff.To do the right thing when no one is watching. No papparazzi. No press of any kind. Just doing the work. Just finding the best solution to meet your commitments gracefully. It makes us better people. It's those little-bitty challenges,that we say "yes" to, that make us authentic. More-than-we-thought-we-could-be. It isn't the drama--or the people who live the drama.

And that is what my little classroom represents to me regardless of critique or struggle. The image will live in my heart. When I am old, I will remember the saffron robes and the deep brown eyes of Nan and Sa and KimYi and Kraingsak. And wonder where they are, what they're doing, who they've become?

But most of all, I'll know I did it best I could.
MC

The Story of Chai

2009-02-18T20:19:00.010-05:00

Bangkok, Wat Prok

This is Chai.

He is about eight years old. He is Mon, and came to Thailand with his parents.

I met him yesterday at Wat Prok, a lovely temple built and run by Mon Buddhists from Myanmar ( Burma ). Chai now lives there along with 50 or so other Mon boys. He was left here at the temple by his parents some time ago. It is common, according to the project director, Daniel, of a rudimentary school housed on the temple grounds, designed to teach the boys basic "three Rs" and some vocational skills, for parents to visit their children no more than a few times a year.

The boys are housed and fed by the Mon Buddhist monks. In the morning, they accompany the monks on their alms journey, assisting the monks with the food and drink that is given to them by the people in the community near the temple. The boys live in the temple complex, and sleep on mats in a large hall/ dormitory.

Many of the parents are working in canning factories south of Bangkok to eke out a living. Daniel said that they hope to return to their homeland, Myanmar ( Burma ) if the current repressive regime can be overturned.

I asked Daniel what these children, who are not allowed in Thai schools, would do when they were 16? He replied that often, the parents return for the boys when they are old enough to work. His hope is that the vocational skills--car repair, electronics basic skills--will give them a leg up in their village. So that via word of mouth, they will be called on to fix a motorbike engine or appliance.

The history of the Mon people, according to the University of Buffalo is as follows.

"The Mon are the earliest known inhabitants of lower Burma. They founded an empire, and introduced both writing and Buddhism into Burma.

In the year 573, two Mon brothers, Prince Samala and Prince Wimala, founded the Mon kingdom Hongsavatoi at the present site of modern Pegu. This kingdom flourished in peace and prosperity for several centuries until it was occupied by the Burman dynasty.

In 1757, the Burma ruler U Aungzeya invaded and devastated the Mon kingdom, killing tens of thousands of Mon, including learned Mon priests, pregnant women, and children. Over 3,000 priests were massacred by the victorious Burmans in the capital city alone. Thousands more priests were killed in the countryside.

The surviving priests fled to Thailand, and Burman priests took over the monasteries. Most of the Mon literature, written on palm leaves, was destroyed by the Burmans. Use of the Mon language was forbidden, and Burman became the medium of instruction.

Mon people were persecuted, oppressed, and enslaved, and countless people were burned in holocausts. Mon properties and possessions were looted and burned throughout Burma. Mons fled further south into Burma's Tenasserim Division and east into Thailand.

Unfortunately, the oppression of the Mon people has persisted to the present day."

Chai ( in Thai it means "yes" ) and I chatted for a bit while he was beginning to complete a page from a classroom workbook. He told me in very clear English his name and age. But most compelling were Chai's eyes. They were wizened for one so young.

So, what of Chai? What is his future?

Like so many stories of refugees--from Myanmar, from Sri Lanka, from African nations--there is no real answer. Thailand,
which has porous borders, is easy to enter, but not welcoming for most --even legal refugees.

Uncertainty is the norm for many, their refuge tentative, their future one stop short of hopeless.
MC

Nothing Is Left Undone

2009-02-16T21:03:00.004-05:00

Bangkok

The Tao abides in non-action,
Yet nothing is left undone.
Lao Tzu

It's 9a.m. I'm sitting by the open window at the Rio. I can faintly hear the tuk-tuks and motorbikes as they pass along nearby Challim Nimit Road but competing with that noise is the sound of rushing water from the waterfall down below. Terra cotta pots of bougainvillea are perched on a small ledge, and one mourning dove sings plaintively in the distance. It is already nearly 95 degrees with little breeze to move the muggy air. Summer approaches rapidly.

Today, class is suspended for my monks because they will spend the day worshipping. This morning while I was sipping my green tea, glad to be able to rest ( yes, another bout of probably a virus this time ) and not rush out into the morning heat, I was thinking about my students.

Almost by accident, I began giving them poetry to read. I was skeptical at first because poetry relies on being able to create word pictures, so to speak, and I wasn't sure that their English skills were going to be ready for that level of comprehension.
The first poem, an Irish Blessing, was an experiment, and I introduced it by telling them that a friend had sent it to me to bless me on my journey to teach them. Painstakingly, we worked through each stanza looking up words like indigo, balance, clay.
The stanzas were manageable, and the students seemed to like the form of poetry versus reading from the Bangkok Post which has far more words to decode just due to its density of format.

I told them I would choose another poem if they wished--and they agreed. So, week two we studied Robert Frost. I told them his story--his boyhood, his discouragement from the Atlantic when he submitted his first poetry, the tragedy of his many family deaths, and his triumphal reading of the poem he had created for John Kennedy's inauguration. Then we read "The Road Not Taken". In a strange way, it was magical. Every time I try to reach across language and cultural barriers, I feel as if I am trying to reach into a deep abyss, tentative about my ability to reach them on a meaning level of understanding. And each time I try, I am rewarded by twelve sets of eyes yearning to understand.

What does "trodden" mean, I ask? KimYi, my oldest student, a Cambodian who experienced the horrors of Pol Pot, is the first to speak. "Trodden", he began in his softspoken way, "it mean...about ...walk on something and make it a little broken." And I knew he had it! When the code is broken and they get it, it is thrilling.

Week three we read Emma Lazarus' The New Collossus because they wanted to know about New York and mentioned the Statue of Liberty as the icon they knew about the city. We read the poem stanza by stanza. And at the end of class, I sang it, my contralto a little throaty, hoping there was no rule that a woman couldn't sing to her students. "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to be free.." What are huddled masses, I asked? I showed them a huddle, rounding my shoulders and crouching down beneath the desk. I imagine at least some of the monks from Laos and Cambodia were poor and certainly understand the desire for freedom. Emotionally, almost intuitively, they seem to understand my intentions--or so it seems.

This week, I thought it would be interesting to choose an Eastern poet. I have always liked the existential poetry of Lao Tzu, his emphasis on nothingness, the essence of Taoism. So, with a little hesitation since I had no idea how good the translation was from Chinese much less Thai, I brought two short poems by Lao Tzu. I asked them if they knew Lao Tzu. Suraphet and Kraingsak both knew that he was a Chinese philosopher, and most likely a contemporary of Confucius. They seemed pleased to be able to tell me about his philosophy which emphasizes nature vs. Confucius who was interested in societal norms/ moral order.

What is it, I asked myself this morning in the quiet of the dawn? What is it that is so inspiring about these students? Is it the garments, their bare feet, their shaved heads--all foreign to me? Is it the fact that they are such eager learners unlike many students in the States, who bored with the subject of ethics, would begrudgingly show up for class just because it was part of their grade. Is it a sense of gratitude? Is it because it is a joy to see them get a concept?

Who can use the word "serious" in a sentence, I asked yesterday. Kraingsak replied: " I am...ah...serious about learning to speak good English." And his face lit up as he could see apparently from my face that he had said it perfectly.

There's something about the East that almost makes you WANT to stay in the moment -- especially when I am with these monks who, no matter how long they stay in the monastery, are, for now focusing on the elements that seem most important to me--to try to develop an interior life that can sustain the suffering that life inevitably serves up without devastation but simply as part of the journey.

The Writing Life

2009-02-15T02:04:00.013-05:00

Philadelphia

In third grade, a new girl came to Our Lady of Victory Academy and she became my best friend. Ellen and I shared lots of things: an Irish father, a love of basketball, and a love of writing. We would write notes in class and pass them while Sister Danette wasn't looking with little limericks. We thought we were very clever. Her father was the basketball coach at East High, frequent winner of the All State title, and all around terrific basketball team. Mr. Doyle was such fun. I can still remember walking down the street with him on cold Iowa winter days; Ellen on one side, me on the other. He was very tall, always funny and upbeat. He had the capacity to make me feel safe and happy. I didn't see Ellen much that summer because she spent most of the time with her grandmother in a neighboring state.

The following year, Ellen came to school for the first few months, but something seemed wrong. The nuns would whisper in the hallway when she and I passed by, and she didn't play dodge ball on the playground anymore. Then one day she just didn't show up at school. Finally, my parents told me. Ellen had leukemia. I went to see her a couple of times while she was at home with her large Irish family, looking very small, thin and pale in her twin bed.

Ellen died that year. I wrote a poem about her the night that she died. I didn't now what else to do. At the age of 11, emotional resources for loss are sort of limited. But somehow it comforted me. I showed the poem to my father before we went to the wake at OKeefe and Towne funeral home. He asked me if I would like to read it after the priest offered the prayers at the wake. " She'd like that, I'm sure," he said, his arm on my shoulder. I did. And it served, for me, as a way of saying goodbye.

Years later, I think of Ellen, the first person close to me that had ever died, often. And that poem. It was really the first time I had experienced the power of writing. The amazing, complex process that occurs when a writer begins to construct a story or a poem. It's a combination of intellect, emotion--and something totally unpredictable--the muses, a gift, luck, a third eye. I don't know. But I do know that it is what keeps me writing because often what I thought was the "story" isn't it at all. It's almost an exercise in Zen. The ( for me ) incredibly difficult task of just letting the writing be truthful to the voice and point of view you've chosen; then letting that voice go. And editing, editing, editing so that all of the cliches, anachronisms, and tempting pat strategies to move the story along don't taint its own "life".

I finished the course at Sarah Lawrence last week. And I finished my short story. The faculty working with me and the other terrific writers, urged me to submit it for publication. And I will. But the success for me was constructing a story that was complete, was vetted by a mentor who knows the craft, and that feeling of completion that is so satisfying.

This has been my summer of a bit of affirmation for my writing. An article I wrote for In Trust magazine, a journal for trustees of graduate schools ( www.InTrust.com ) received Honorable Mention which was a complete surprise. And, now, a story to finally submit? That's a good summer in my world.

The book that is at the top of this post is one that my great grandfather wrote in Cleveland, Ohio. James Lawrence was a Spiritualist, and prominent in Cleveland church circles at the time. He reportedly was very good at channeling both ordinary individuals and well respected leaders of his day. The book is an account of his conversations with these other worlds.

When I found and acquired the book several years ago ( an entire post in and of itself ), I was thrilled to see that one of my ancestors had been published--something I aspired to. OK, so it isn't exactly mainstream! But one can presume that he knew how to write. And how to get published.

So, on this sunny morning, the second day of summer 2009, I am reminded of Ellen and my first poem; and of my great grandfather and his book. And I thank them for their part in this journey toward writing down the stories of my life.
M.C.

"Hey, Hey.. better to burn out than fade away"

2009-02-15T02:04:00.007-05:00

Bangkok to Hua Hin

So, I thought it would be a good idea to take a train from Bangkok to the seashore town of Hua Hin ( apparently a favorite of the king who has a palace there until his health failed recently ).

I’ve already told you that Bangkok traffic was chaos. There don’t seem to be any traffic cops. You know, the kind who stand at major intersections and stare down anyone who doesn’t comply. Nor are there any restrictions, apparently. You know, like no taxis or buses allowed on 5th Avenue from November 15 through New Years. But let me expound more. You can sit in a traffic jam in Bangkok for 30 minutes; 60 minutes. Everyone that I have spoken with has instructed me that the only way to get around Bangkok is via skytrain, the river ferries or subway—in a hurry. OK, so we way that in New York about the subway or walking. But, frankly, the subway is systemically available to at least three of the five boroughs. In Bangkok, I’ve found the distances I’m traveling usually too far to hoof, and often require at least two modes of transport. Sometimes songtau and walking or bus; sometimes skytrain, walking ( almost always ) and taxi. Sometimes taxi and river ferryIn order to get to Hua Lumphong Railway Station which is ( as the crow flies ) about 6 Km from my apartment, After much discussion, I took a taxi to the skytrain station at the central pier, about 1 Km or so from the apartment; then the river ferry to Sa Phraya; then a taxi the 2 Km to Hua Lumphong. I had allowed two hours because it was Friday afternoon. “You don’t want to miss the train because of some traffic jam”, a neighbor at the Rio advised.

The train station is one enormous room with a glass roof. It is air conditioned, always worth praise in any form in Bangkok. The hall was filled with people sitting in the red molded plastic chairs on one side. There were stalls with newspapers, some clothing. And even KFC, I guess to represent the western world. People are on the brown flecked terrazzo floor waiting for their train to be called. It reminds me faintly of Victoria Station in London—or any European train station in my travels.

I had purchased a one way ticket to Hua Hin on one of the only two air conditioned cars on the entire train. The two cars were sleeper cars, and I wasn't planning on spending the night getting to Hua Hin, a three to four hour train ride from Bangkok under normal conditions. However, I wasn't prepared to be in a third class seat with people, animals and, I'm certain, a modicum of noise--and open windows.

You can see the train in the first picture. Yep. USA, circa 1930s--maybe. I entered the train, found my seat and settled in. The seats were not Amtrak or most of the European trains I've taken; but more like SEPTA or NJ Transit--stiff and small. Across from me, a 50ish Thai man arrived soon after I did. He was tall for a Thai, maybe six feet, and was dressed for the beach with shorts, sandals and Tshirt. Next to him, a young woman showed up. Looking around, I realized that I was the only foreigner on the train. Why is that, I thought? Train is such a great way to travel. I was soon to find out.

The train set out nearly on time at 3pm. Leaving Bangkok for the south, I could see some of the poverty that is in every pocket of the city: tin roofed shacks with no bathing or bath facilities that I could see, and children that could have been part of those wrenching ads for Feed the Children. Soon thereafter, the scenery became bucolic with water buffalo standing in yellow-green rice fields for miles.

About 40 minutes later, the train stopped at the first train stop amidst lots of walkie-talkie fortified trainmen walked briskly to the end of my train car, speaking in rapid Thai. After a few minutes, they all rushed outside, and stood looking under my traincar. More talking. I finally asked the Thai man who was across the aisle from me what was wrong. the A/C in our car had gone out, and they were trying to fix it or they would have to send for another train. Somehow I knew this wasn't good--Friday night, and the way things tend to delay in Thailand, I could picture my arrival at my resort destination about midnight instead of around sunset.

The train personnel were all active in this problem-solving effort. They would pace, talk, pace again. Then, a new uniformed man would arrive and it would all be repeated. Finally, one of the men climbed up between the two cars that were coupled together, and tried to find an attachment that would connect our car's A/C supply to the car just behind us, the only other sleeper car. All the time he was wedged between the two cars, he was talking rapidly. Finally, someone handed him some pink string--it looked just exactly like the kind we use to wrap packages--and he joined the two electrical circuits--yes, yes--with the pink string. Note the picture. I couldn't make this stuff up.

My Thai train companion and I watched amused throughout this process from the platform which was hot, but not nearly as hot as inside the train car. He smiled a very warm smile at one point and pulled out two small oranges, the kind that are traditionally Chinese New Year fruit, and gave them to me.

During this drama, all sorts of hawkers walked through each train car seizing the opportunity to sell everything from oranges to full blown meals of pad thai. We left after an hour delay. No sunset for me.

The evening wore on, and I turned on my Ipod to pass the time with Bob Dylan and Neil Young. No surprise, I suppose that I played the Neil Young song, "Hey, hey, My, My Out of the Blue" over and over. "Better to burn out than fade away"--what a line, huh?

Again, the Thai man gave me a Thai sandwich that looks like a dumpling on the outside, and inside there is wonderful pork patty. He told me his name was Lee, and he was from up north near Chang Mai,which meant that he had been traveling already for several hours. He was headed down to near the Malaysian border, and would arrive there around 7am. Lee's English was very good, and we talked about his work ( constructing Thai style homes ) and his father who was a stationmaster on the railroad and took him all over Thailand on the train.

We must have talked for two hours. I told him that I was teaching monks to speak and comprehend English, and his face brightened. We talked about Bangkok. By then, the steward was making all the seats into berths, complete with sheets and pillows for all of these overnighters. I haven't seen a berth since the 1950s when my father used to travel on the Illinois Central railroad to Chicago on business, and would take the night train.

I was about an hour from Hua Hin when Lee came over to my seat and handed me a small box. Inside was a 4 inch in diameter image of Lord Buddha, into a medallion shape and it looked like it was made out of an incense material but carved in high relief. "This for you," he began. "I know when I see you that you are good woman. A monk who is my friend in the north gave this to me. This Buddha is very famous in the north. I want you to take. Smell the fragrance and it will remind you. It will keep you safe and you will not be afraid."

I tried to tell him it was too much, but he insisted. Then, all of a sudden, the conductor came round to fetch my bag and motioned toward the exit. Lee followed, stayed right behind me as I got off the train in pitch dark, waited on the platform so that he could see that there was a porter to help. Only then did he get back on the train. I waied him, bowing gratefully.

The train ride was long, dirty ( I spared you the bathroom story ) and terribly rich. It took five hours instead of the three that it would have taken on the 40 seat bus that was available.

But look what I would have missed?

Thailand: A Paradox, A Paradox...

2009-02-10T19:48:00.005-05:00

Bangkok

I slowly reach to turn on the bedside lamp and read the clock squinting against the light. 5:30am. The cool morning vanishes rapidly in Bangkok, so I decide to get up against my instinct to stay put. I turn off the egregious A/C and slide open the deck door. Dawn is breaking over my little Thai world, my little soi in a modest neighborhood where everyone is stirring but there is no sound except a bird literally whistling in the bamboo beyond.

I put on a cotton shift, slide on my sandals and walk the four flights to the Rio desk where the night clerk, a young Thai man, is chatting loudly with the equally young Thai day clerk ( new, hired away from the 7-11 just weeks ago ). I pass the night guard, an older Thai man, his blue uniform looking surprisingly crisp after an all night shift, and head down Soi 6. It's a half block to the corner but I smile every time I walk it. In the morning, there are tables set up for breakfast and lunch against the far wall. After dusk, on that same spot, the garbage truck parks and local residents cart their trash in large wicker trash bins to be dumped against the same far wall where under blue flourescent light, the garbage workers sort all the trash, separating out recyclables and god know what else.

I look up to see the full moon not quite ready to set in the west, it's light soft against the sky. I am after yogurt for my breakfast. And, as one of the many paradoxes in Thailand, I have a 7-11 around the corner. Inside, the music is blaring but the A/C feels so good that I factor it out of my mind. I get a English language Bangkok Post ( no International Herald Tribune to be certain ) so that my monks can read from it aloud today in class to practice comprehension and diction.

I take the long way back home, down the main road sidewalk. The shopkeepers are setting up for the day: soda of all colors in glass bottles being iced for the increasingly summerlike days; preparing congee, a Thai breakfast of rice and milk and chicken balls flavored with ginger, a little bit of peppers and several condiments I don't understand yet for workers who will walk down this street on their way to work; lining up fruits of all kinds--dragonfruit, papaya, mango, tangerines, oranges, bunches of thumb-sized bananas. The street isn't noisy with traffic yet--no motorbike roars or tuk-tuk sputters. Not yet. It is one of my favorite times of day.

Back in my little studio, I prepare my oatmeal and yogurt adorned with a lone mini banana and sit down on my deck to watch the sun rise over the city.

I watched the same sun rise in Hua Hin just two days ago. The scenery is different. There are no cocoanut palms in Soi 6. Not a one. But I'm coming to like the city of Bangkok with all of its paradoxes.

The sun is fully up now. Time to prepare for my monks. Class begins at 9a.m.

Good evening to the West. Namaste.
M.C.

Mahka Bajaday and A Bangkok Wat Up Close

2009-02-07T04:54:00.007-05:00

Bangkok

This past week has been rich with new experiences and a deepening of my understanding of Thailand and Buddhism. On a personal front, I have turned the corner. Hans Selye, the father of adaptation theory, would be proud. I no longer open my sliding glass door to the deck in the morning after I've switched off the A/C, and sigh as my senses are assaulted with the odors and overcast that is a Bangkok norm. Now, I just embrace it as part of the gig, the way it is for now. First, the feral dogs and cats; now this acceptance. What next? A friend after a phonecall from the States this morning ( my time ) emailed me after the call. 'You're sounding very zen these day," he wrote.
Maybe so.

I have a few new students who have been trickling in from other temples in the area. I asked them how they knew about class. With a very slight smile they all reply:"my friend is a this wat. He told me about English class." These monks travel a good way considering the transportation system in this city. (Don't get me started. ) One of them, Kraiksuk, asked me if I would come visit his wat one day soon. He asked three days in a row, and finally, I consented. I hadn't been reticent because I was too busy, but because I wanted to be sure he wasn't being polite since I was his new teacher. For example, every day, there is lunch on my desk before class starts, and, often, water. It is part of the alms that the monks in my class have received from the lay Buddhists in the community that morning before class that they are sharing with me.

After class, Kraiksuk and I went down to the river pier near our classroom. We took the sputtering river ferry four stops on the public ferry boat. The boat is an old steel-hulled boat, about 50 feet long, that rushes up and down the river dropping mostly Thai but some tourists back and forth to work or school or to do errands. The boatman whistles as the boat arrives which I'm guessing is a signal for the pilot, then the stern of the boat whips around to the starboard side, and the boatsman ties off a single, mammoth line as the passengers hop off ( often with a gap between the pier and the boat...and believe me, you do NOT want to fall into the Chao Phraya River. Trust me. ), and new passengers embark. A woman comes by to see how far I'm going so I can pay the tariff. My monk student is free. All monks are free on public transportation as far as I can see.

Kraiksuk points to the port side of the boat as we take off again with a huge lunge. He leans in close to me, and says after clearing his throat, a bit nervously: " Teacher, do you know that monks cannot touch a woman?" I told him that I did, and that I was very careful about that, and careful about what I wore in class so that I showed respect. He smiled, looking relieved at at least my rudimentary understanding.

After leaving the boat at Sa Phraya pier, we walked a couple of blocks in the punishing sun to another ferry pier that would take us across the river to the area of Bangkok that he lives in, Klong San district. After that quick ride, we walked through a street market with lots of textiles and footwear, a very narrow alleyway, and then out onto the street where Taksin Hospital, all shiny white takes up almost a block. The whole trip took us about one hour. That's how it works in Bangkok. If you catch the boats just right it could be faster, but, like the subway, you never know.

We arrived at Wat Thongnopakun about noon. This was to be Kraiksuk's last meal for the day, so I asked if he would like to go with the other monks and eat while I waited outside their two story residence. Instead, he brought me water and strawberry soda. He introduced me to his friends, three or four other young monks, maybe 25 or so, who I imagine had been told that I was coming to visit. One monk arrived with a digital camera, and started taking pictures of Kraiksuk and me.

The temple complex seemed much larger than the temple where I am teaching, and Kraiksuk told me that there were 50 or more monks living there--some as young as 8 years old. He handed me three books on Buddhism since I had told him I was studying the religion. One of them, a scholarly text from a symposium on buddhism and ethics, seemed too much since I imagine he has used it to study. But, over my protests, he insisted.

We walked to the wat itself and all the time, his fellow monk taking pictures: in front of the temple, in the temple, at the door of the complex. This is the very first time I have been in a temple in Thailand, and certainly the first time a monk has shown me it personally. We removed our sandals and went in.

The temple was about the size of an American protestant church--or maybe a very large chapel--chandeliers, rich red floor coverings, gold from the Buddha dazzling. The interior was a rectangle, and in the center, there was a raised platform that was probably 30 feet wide, and is the special place for only monks to sit and pray. Non monks are not to step onto the space.
The three youngest monks were in the back of the temple giggling at the farang ( foreigner ) who my student had brought home with him.

On all of the walls, there were depictions of Buddha's life that had been painted over two hundred years ago. For some reason, the coloring ( grey background and very intricate detailed figures ) reminded me of the mural of the people who were falling off of the ladder to heaven that I saw and loved at St. Katherine's monastery in the Sinai which, while it is much older ( my memory is 12th Century? ) the craftsmanship was similar.

Kraiksuk took me back to the pier near the Klong Son market, and bid me goodbye. I would have never found my way back alone--not because I couldn't have figured it out, but because without Thai, I am very conscious of the energy it can take to be understood without either specific written instructions ( in Thai ) so that someone along the way can help me.

The experience was important for many reasons, not the least of which was Kraiksuk's real desire to learn to speak English. His grammar skills are excellent, and his written work is good. But he wanted to learn how to be understood, and that is what we have been concentrating on--meaning and diction.

What a perfect segue to Mahka Bajaday which will be celebrated tomorrow evening with a candlelight procession ( called Wian Tian ) and chanting.
Three of my students spent several minutes on Friday teaching me about this, one of the three high holy days in Thailand. This holy day commemorates the spontaneous arrival of over 1200 monks from different places all converging to pay homage to the historical Buddha. It was not considered just some amazing coincidence. Oh, and there was no internet to coordinate such a large showing! So tomorrow night, at sundown, temples all over Thailand will open their doors to lay Buddhists to share this holy day--especially since this is the day for lay Buddhist to show special appreciation for the monks or "songha" which means literally the body of monks.

Now back to the zen remark. How could it not be rubbing off? Do you know how they determine their holy days? By the lunar calendar. The moon seems to be theme for this journey. The moon is the East. The sun, the West, said a colleague the other day.

It's almost full. Again. A month has passed swiftly. A million miles from home.
MC

A View From My Thai Deck v. A View High Above The Chao Phraya

2009-02-03T16:18:00.006-05:00

Bangkok, Thailand

I've written a bit about my neighborhood which I would liken to living in Queens. The pictures above are the view of my neighborhood, or at least the lane that abuts my apartment building. Although there isn't a person in sight in these pictures, each of these concrete structures is inhabited by someone. And I see them at various times in the morning when I sit on my deck to have tea and toast. Or at night when I wash the dishes ( my sink and hot plate are on the deck since I have no kitchen ) or have a glass of wine at the end of the day. My Thai neighbors are quiet. No yelling, loud music. Nothing except an occasional yip from a little Pomeranian who lives just below my window.

In contrast, the river view pictured first, is panoramic and shows the river where ferries shuttle Thais to and from work and play every day-- a major transportation option-- and barges bring fuel and dredged silt to be deposited up river. The world looks different from this aerie. The one that most foreigners would see if they were staying at a river hotel. No noise, lots of English speakers, lots of Western food. A different Bangkok vantage point.

But I've come to rather like my microcosm of Thai life. Last night I walked home from the office after dark instead of taking the songtau. I walked along the street market that goes on for about a half mile past every conceivable kind of food from raw meat to sweet cakes. Men were drinking rice wine, smoking and having a chat, their shirts open against the thick, hot night. Motorbikes were competing with songtaus, tuk-tuks and taxis, dodging and weaving, revving their noisy engines as they sacheted along the narrow street without grazing a single human or dog or even fruitstand.

I turned onto the road leading to the Rio, and for the second time yesterday walked all the way home. Even at 9 pm, there were Thais having their evening meal at small card tables set up next to food stands. Two or three motorbikes are parked haphazardly on the curb; a hot pink Thai taxicab has his blinkers on close to the curb as he sits at a nearby table grabbing a quick meal. I walk by a series of businesses which consist of a concrete, one room open air room--and there are twenty five men glued to soccer in schoolroom-type chairs. I'm guessing there is more than watching going on, maybe a little betting as well.

"Assimilate" was one of the vocabulary words this past week for my monk students. The context: people who came to the United States ( says the students' text ) had to" assimilate" to the culture leaving their old culture behind.

I guess I'm assimilating--in reverse.
M.C.

Bangkok: City of Contrasts

2009-02-02T05:00:00.007-05:00

Bangkok, Thailand

5pm

First of all, to all of you, dear readers, who have emailed me worried about my health, I am on the mend. I imagine that it was a combination of culture shock and illness. I realized I was better last night when I went to the 7-11 ( yes, there are 4 within a Km. amidst distinctly non-Western stores and whatnot many of which are open air ). I walked over the feral dog who was sleeping at the doorway, and didn't even think to myself--what is wrong with these people?

Last week, as part of my apparent immersion into Thai culture, I had the dubious distinction of going to not one but two Bangkok hospitals. I went to St. Louis Hospital on Thursday to see an internist. The hospital has alot of marble, doormen, English speaking "nurses" in crisp uniform and cap. And best of all, there is no waiting. You are registered, and promptly spirited off to the appropriate section of the hospital. All my angst about waiting for hours was incorrect information. I was out of there in two hours after Dr. , suggested that I stop taking Cipro, and that I would be fine now. So I wasn't dying of tropical sprue ( a disease I saw at Mayo Clinic as a student--ugly disease then and I'm certain still is. Imagination has its liabilities. )

On Sunday, I had another chance to see healthcare up close in Bangkok. A molar had already lost its enamel during my Mekong trip which I nursed along, hoping to work around it until March. But that wasn't intended to happen.

My morning routine yielded a pinky nailbed size piece of filling. So, being a careful person with my mouth a million miles from home, I called one of my resources, the Penninsula Hotel, and talked to the concierge who gratiously told me that they recommend Bangkok Nursing Home Hospital for its dental clinic. Well, I was ready about 9am to trundle over there and wait when I decided to call instead.

Figured out how to dial the damn number ( don't ask about the phone system ) and magically got someone in the clinic. "We very busy," she offered. "Tomorrow better. "But I gently suggested there was a cavern where both enamel and a metal amalgam had lived. So, my appointment was set. 1pm with Dr. Anakam.

I fretted, fearing that this was a just graduated dental student who got the Sunday gig because she was the low woman on the totem pole. Or worse, she had just seen Marathon Man, and I was going to be the patient who she needed information from. Then, I had the inspired thought to look the hospital and the clinic up on the internet.

Ah, the age of technology. I not only found out about the clinic but also a bio of all of the dentists including their pictures. She looked about twelve. I cancelled my plans with colleagues for the day, and set out to get to BNH as it is fondly known.

Another marble interior, more crisply dressed registrars right inside the front door. And off I went to see my new dentist. Some of my reticence is squarely on the shoulders of my friend and dentist at home. When I emailed him about the situation earlier in the trip his reply read: " Don't do anything until you get home. If you have to do something because of pain, call the US Embassy or Consulate in Bangkok." Now that would put the fear of god in anyone, right?

Another debunked American notion. My dentist, I found out after extensive vetting with her staff prior to agreeing to go inside to see her, had been practicing for five years, and had graduated from the best university in Thailand with a DDS. Dr. A was great, her English was great like everyone else I encountered at the hospital, and she ended up putting in a temporary. End of story.

Now for the small pictures above. Thiw is the American Ambassador's Thai residence. Why do I know? Because it is very near the hospital and I walked by both the embassy which is a double walled fortress--and later, today, this mansion.

Know that the picture doesn't do it justice. It is immense. It is completely surrounded by a trench full of water. Yes, the embassy has a moat. Who would believe it? But the hard part for me as I become aware of the great divide between the haves and the have nots, is how the poor Thai who make a daily wage of 195 baht ( about $5.80 US ) must perceive it? Mind you, my question also relates to the immense airconditioned malls that rival Columbus Circle/Time Warner complex or the chic Water Tower Place in Chicago. I saw no Thais in the upscale Paragon ( although there are very wealthy Thais.) It's impossibly expensive, full of Versace, Jimmy Choo, and a floor with showrooms for BMW and Lamberghini.

If I sound like I'm becoming sensitized to the working class Thai, I suppose that's true. And, as I learn more about the shut down of the international airport in December, I can imagine that some of the anger is that the Thais are becoming more aware of the disparity.

I only have begun to unravel the paradoxes of this ever churning city. But I am aware of this--I could spend years in Bangkok and never understand the nuances. This is, indeed, the other side of the world.

M.C.

Student Monks...Random Thoughts

2009-01-28T06:59:00.004-05:00

Bangkok, Thailand

Still not 100%, so will post these photos from the field trip one week ago to the zoo, stone garden, etc. The monks in the pictures are in my class at the wat.

Tonight, I watched the sun set from the opened window of my floor on the western side of the building. In the distance, I could hear someone on a microphone, and see many building roofs. I toasted the sun and sent it your way. You Americans on the East Coast should be awake by now.

I miss the U.S. tonight. Even the snow...

Good morning.

Happy Chinese New Year from Bangkok...and Much, Much More

2009-01-27T03:38:00.002-05:00

Bangkok, Thailand

Yesterday began the Year of the Ox. In Bangkok, the 20% or so Chinese who live here ( or are of Chinese extraction ) celebrated in Chinatown, and I presume, other parts of this city of nine million.

I, however, did not attend any festivities. I had food poisoning.

Now, dear readers, I'm not looking for sympathy. Everyone has to adjust to their new environment in various ways, especially half way around the world. But this was a doozie--even caught me off guard since I have been vigilant about what I eat and where I eat it. Well, I obviously touched something to my lips and down my throat that was full of ( my guess ) Salmonella, a gram negative bacteria for those of you who might be interested.

There is little as bewildering as being sick away from home. At home, one can regress into a state of comfort however pitiful that might look to any onlooker. So, I set out to get my comfort needs met in this exotic land as best I could with a massage, lots of fluids, lots of rock and roll music that I have downloaded on my Mac, and lots of sleep. It still took my immune system ( and still is taking ) a very long time. I can only say that I've now got the dubious distinction of getting food poisoning on the Nile, in New York ( oysters --never on Sunday--yes, I did ), every single time I ( used to ) go to Mexico, and now in Thailand.

A sidebar:

( Now for those of you who are reading this who are not family, friends, or long time readers--who may be involved with the teaching project here in Bangkok--know that my illness is not an outcome of anything anyone could have prevented short of putting me in a bubble. No worries. I survived! It is part of the experience which I am busy absorbing--both the good and the bad. )

Life comes at you fast, as the ad says. And this city rivals New York, in my view, in its complexity --and the degree of difference between the haves and the have nots--and Cairo in its degree of incredible chaos. At least to my Western mindset.

This is my impression of Bangkok thus far. ( Again, those who are here, this is my early take on the city, not an indictment. ) It is extremely noisy. It is dirty. The water is thick with debri; the sky often smokey, smoggy ala L.A.

It is hot in the way the deep South is hot. Think Savannah in the summer away from the water. People consequently live, cook, chat on the street to beat the heat, drive any manner of vehicles ( no animal drawn buggies, thus far! ), all without mufflers and certainly without any environmental controlled mechanisms to keep pollution at bay.

I find thus far that each day my journey becomes a bit easier as I decode the streets, the snaking river's route, the intricate system of canals, lanes, roads, buses, songtaus. I practice Thai as best I can-- for my students' enjoyment--right, left, happy new year, but my retention is poor thus far which is to be expected at this stage of the game.

This is a "typical day" since my first teaching day, one week ago.

6am--

I wake in my studio apartment, air conditioning droning, to the alarm, and see the sun creeping around the corner of my building, soon to create withering heat.

I shower with a sprayer that has a life of its own as it spritzes the tiny bathroom, my hand grabbing it as it careens around the shower stall. The water heater reminds me of Ireland where you have to heat the water in advance if you want it warm. But this is a heating mechanism that provides instant, albeit lukewarm water.

I take my vitamins, put in my contact carefully so I don't lose it since I have only two more to last the six weeks here, and turn on the computer to pick up messages. ( Another blog to tell you the funny way I find a signal for WiFi...)

I dress, eat something light out on my little deck, wondering about all of the houses below me and their inhabitants, and leave for the Wat.

8:10am--

I walk out of the Rio and walk down the soi ( lane ) to the corner and cross the street ( think I 95, well, maybe not quite that treacherous ). I hop on a crowded, open air red songtau, usually the only Westerner ( see earlier entry for a description ).

The red truck with seats travels down the main road near the Rio for a minute or two, then takes a left onto a 1/2 mile soi with an open air market on either side. Everything is being prepared right on the street, and various fruits and vegetables are available from the stands.

There are Thais everywere walking down the street. And motorbikes, and taxis, and tuk tuks puttering along the way. The songtau stops at the end of the soi which is a blessing because I don't have to worry about watching for my stop. Then, I cross another very busy street to the office which is less than a block away. (New York readers, after I complete that portion of the morning, I feel like I've been on a crowded, unairconditioned subway during rush hour that got stalled in the middle of August.)

8:30am--

I arrive at the office, greet Sakhorn and John B, the head of the teaching program. John and I walk over to our classrooms that are adjacent to the Wat. Usually, one or two of my monk students are there to greet me.

9am--( or so )

Class begins, not always at the stroke of 9 because I'm told the monks have chores and other responsibilities and so they meander in anytime between 9 and 9:30am. This is an extra English program for them as many are already getting a structured English course in high school or their university course. The first day, I had six students. But the next day, they just kept coming in. I welcomed every eager face, told them my name, and asked them to write their name on an improvised tent card so that I could call them by name.

10:45 am-- My monks are dismissed promptly. They are about to have their second and last meal for the day, and I do not want them to miss one second of it. Just for the record, they are allowed liquids for the rest of the day but nothing they can chew. I'm told, however, that Buddhism is " the middle way" so that if a monk needed more food, the abbot would make sure he had what he needed.

11am--I return to the office.I give the sack lunch that the monks have put on my desk for me to eat to Sakhorn because my GI tract could not take the street food it contains. ( The monks gather alms in the morning on the street, and the people, good Buddhists, give them free food to "gain merit", and, hopefully get closer to nirvana. Again, Cliff notes! ). Then, sometimes I go to lunch with John B and others; sometimes return to the Rio.

My afternoons have been spent trying to sort out all of those things one sorts in a new environment. Where can I get a diet coke? Is the food good in the restaurant downstairs at the Rio? How does the pool work for laps? Who are the receptionists and guards--how can I communicate with them? And many other mundane things that create order, nesting if you will.

At night, sometimes I have an early dinner with new friends. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I just fall in bed, exhausted.

I haven't written about my teaching methods and experience with the monks. But I will. I'm still distilling their very different teaching needs. I've taught at universities, colleges, clinical practicuums for nursing majors. But the challenge here is much different. Simply put, we come from different worlds and are intersecting in that little classroom--east and west--young and old--Buddhist and Christian.

Before I go to bed, I think about their faces and their many shades of saffron robes as they sit around the table with me: Cambodians, Vietnamese, Laotian, Thai. And I wonder how I could be so lucky to be here. It is touching the ineffable.

M.C.

Irish Prayer Chanted by Buddhist Monks: A Blessing All Around

2009-01-24T08:42:00.006-05:00

Bangkok, Thailand
January 24, 2009

Dear Readers, This poem was sent to my by my dear friend Yvonne in Dublin. It was her gift to me before I left for SE Asia. I decided to use it in class to try to connect with the notion of blessing, something Buddhist monks understand. I read it to them, gave them their own copy, read it again. And we used the words for vocabulary: stumble, deaden, indigo, nourishment. What does the poem mean, I would ask? Twelve pairs of eyes would look at me quizically. But slowly, slowly, we broke it down into its parts. They distilled a bit of the meaning. Just listen to the sound of the words, I would say. It has its own rhythm.

And then I asked them to say the poem with me.
In perfect unison, they marched through the field of words. It was wonderful.

Of course it's wonderful, I realized, finally connecting with a bit of the reality of their world. These men know how to chant. They do it every day.

And so it was. They said Yvonne's poem in perfect harmony.

What a blessing.
M.C.

Beannacht

On the day when
The weight deadens
On your shoulders
And you stumble,
May the clay dance
To balance you.

And when your eyes
Freeze behind
The grey window
And the ghost of loss
Gets into you,
May a flock of colours,
Indigo, red, green
And azure blue,
Come to waken in you
A meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
In the currach of thought
And a stain of ocean
Blackens beneath you,
May there come across the waters
A path of yellow moonlight
To bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
May the clarity of light be yours,
May the fluency of the ocean be yours,
May the protection of the ancestors be yours.

And so may a slow
Wind work these words
Of love around you,
An invisable cloak,
To mind you on your journey.

John O'Donohue

One Week in Bangkok--Astonishing

2009-01-23T05:48:00.006-05:00

Bangkok, Thailand

Today I have completed one week of classes with my students. We meet in the wat where they live, work and pray.

In the morning, I leave my apartment and take a songtau ( an open air truck that has two long padded boards in the back and passengers hop up for a ride along an assigned route--similar to the cable cars in San Francisco ). I now know some landmarks, and when to hop off.

The ride, which takes about ten minutes, goes through a street market for about 1/2 mile. In the morning, everyone is scurrying around getting their morning food; motorbikes buzz by the stalls on their way to the main road, and an occasional taxi ( small by our standards ) muddles through the maze of people and vehicles. There is everything on this road: fruit, vegetables, poultry--even a 7-11 midway along the route. I hop off at the end of the line, and walk to the office where I am always greeted by a smile from Sakhorn. He is the office manager, and the fixer of all things gone wrong.

Case in Point. I have not been able to make my connection via dial-up work in the Rio. It has been the cause of great frustration for me because I tend to write at odd times, and use the internet for research as well as email. For three days, Sakhorn, who had eye surgery last week because of an accident, has been patiently trying to solve the mystery of "no connection". And so have I. These are the times that I wish that I could speak Thai and solve the problem myself. But, it is apparently a time for humility and accepting help. It's not impossible to use an internet cafe a few minutes walk from my apartment but it is a bit impractical in the middle of the night--and not secure for transactions that I might want to make.

Yesterday after class, Sakhorn tested the system in our office. It passed with flying colors. I went home, feeling a bit sick from the food, the water, the air--a mix. I put down my things, and sighed a sigh of relief that I had found my way home--still a bit of a challenge for me-- and enjoying the air conditioning after the withering heat. I set up the computer as he had told me--watched as it connected, authenticated...and ( oh, no ) disconnected. I tried again. And again. And again. I went to see the woman in the office of the Rio. She tried. No success. I called Sakhorn. Busy signal. So I did what any red blooded American would do, I turned on the TV to the three channels that are in English listening to pundits wager on Obama's first 100 days.

There was a knock on my door. I answered it and it was Alma, a colleague from Sacramento who has been coming here to teach for six years. She had a helium balloon in her hand and a smile on her face. We talked for awhile and I discovered through listening to myself talk that it must be "hump day" or culture shock whichever you prefer. Alma listened as I described my frustration at not being able to log on and write my blog or email or just google. And how tired I was after not doing even a full day's work.

There was another knock on the door. It was Sakhorn. Can you believe it? He had come all the way to the Rio because he saw my unanswered call on his phone, and said he knew it meant that I wasn't connecting on the internet. It was a party in my little apartment. One half hour later, Sakhorn had solved the problem, his dark eyes squinting a bit against the light, his soft voice soothing as he explained what I needed to do to make a connection after he left.

And then they left--Alma, Sakhorn and Sasha who had accompanied him. I had expressed my gratitude but I couldn't really articulate it. It was too hard.

I will tell you this, though. Seldom in my life have I been with people who have been available to me without crowding me, and have respectfully given me the help I needed without making me feel awkward--or worse, inadequate.

Tonight I am grateful. I have completed the first week of my assignment with my student monks. And I have received the gracious help of nearly strangers who were available, not hovering, just brilliantly astute to my needs.
M.C.

They Call Me Teacher

2009-01-21T20:53:00.005-05:00

January 18,2009
Rio Monte Apartments Bangkok, Thailand

I arrived on Bangkok Airways from Seim Reap in a half full plane just as the sun was setting. Bangkok from the air is a sprawling, smoggy morass of canals and the Phraya River snaking erratically through the major centers of the town. There were no business travelers on the 35 minute flight. Seim Reap is totally a holiday stop for foreigners and SE Asians who want a little culture, a little nightlife, and a bit of money left after the trip is over.

Customs was surprisingly fast and uncomplicated which was an answer to one of my travelers’ prayers as I raced toward immigration hoping that I would get an agent who was both kind and quick. The airport is new, a mass of glass and chrome with shapes that are reminiscent of the Opera House in Sydney. Hard to believe that this same huge space was taken over by protesters, unhappy with the Thai prime minister, less than two months ago.

A colleague was waiting for me above the foray of what is called The Meeting Place, a confused space with hawkers, drivers with signs, and general mayhem. John handles new recruits here, and is an old hand at orientations which he does brilliantly.
Night had fallen by then, and the famous song from the Broadway play, Chess, was ringing in my ears: “One night in Bangkok…” The city of nearly ten million smells like ( dare I say it ) a bit of a bad odor( which probably comes from the polluted canals ) and car fumes—a departure from the countryside in Cambodia, and even HCMCity. The skyline is a hodge podge of skyscrapers that pop up in all directions. Bangkok has many centers, and each one seems to have a “temple skyscraper” to denote it. And, there are temples or wats as they are called, everywhere because this is a very Buddhist country.

The next day, Sunday, John shepherded me around Bangkok, patiently tutoring me in the simplest directions. The challenges are many. For example, it is very easy to mistake one street for another--and believe me, they aren't laid out like Manhattan. Thai is difficult to learn. I don't know it, and it isn't possible to try to figure out western words that are similar--different alphabet and tonal. John patiently suggested that I learn landmarks to find my way to my teaching assignment, about twenty minutes away. He took me for food ( although he and another colleague, Alma, had already stocked my little fridge, made the bed, brought iron and hot pot for tea.

But Monday was the real baptism by fire. John B, who has been in Thailand for 18 years, had scheduled an outing for all the English students--both the monks and the lay students. It was a bus trip toward Pattaya, a seaside town about 90 miles from Bangkok.

We met at 7am ( Alma got up early I'm sure to take me to the meeting place, near the office, amidst my protests! ), and that was my introduction to my Buddhist monk pupils. During the whole trip--the zoo, a miniature park w/ replicas of world icons like the Eifel Tower, Angkor Wat, the Colosseum, and the Stone Garden which was acres of beautiful sculptured stone amidst topiary type gardens--all 40 students were asked to speak English. As we rolled down the 6 lane highway as the sun tried to burn off the smog, one of the assistant abbots of the Wat where I will be teaching, picked up the mike and asked each of the passengers to come to the front of the bus, and speak English for ten minutes. " English today", he would say, his dayglo orange robe bright against the dull bus decor. He introduced me to all of the passengers. "This is our new teacher. She is from New York. Welcome, Teacher Mary Catherine."

During the day, all of the students, lay and monk alike, greeted me, asking me if I would pose in a picture with them, their warmth absolutely overwhelming. The day was long, we returned to Bangkok at 7:30pm but it was a great way to meet them before we were together in the classroom at their temple.

And so I begin, hoping I am up to the task of teaching these men most of whom are in their mid20s how to improve their facility to speak English .

But more likely, they will teach me things I never knew I didn't know.
M.C,

Angkor Wat: Rival in Grandeur to Tikal

2009-01-16T21:22:00.007-05:00

Seim Reap, Cambodia

Yesterday, I woke at 4:30am, picked up my box breakfast from the front desk at 5:20am, and joined a fellow traveler to watch the sunrise at Angkor Wat. A guide and driver met us in the lobby of the Victoria Hotel, ( my new favorite hotel site in SE Asia ), and shepherded us into a 1990 era black Toyota Camry. In the dark we drove the 6Km. to the site of the ancient Khmer ruins and walked the 1/2 mile into the temple complex along the king's road which was once lined with silver. About 200-300 others were waiting in the dark, all of us watching our step on the uneven stone slabs as we walked.

Directly in front of Angkor Wat is a huge pond filled with fuschia water lillies that, from the distance, look like graceful pink dots against the still black pond. I ate my breakfast as I watched the temple grow slowly lighter, the night giving way to greys, then soft lavenders and baby pink as backdrop to wisps of white clouds. The three towers of Angkor Wat stood like massive soldiers against the new morning glow, the detail of each tower emerging as if we had just put glasses on our myopic eyes. Cameras were poised around the pond, tripods set up, a little soft chatter as the drama unfolded.

And then, just off the far eastern tower, the tip of the yellow-red sun slid upward. In 3 minutes, the temple was flooded with bright light, and the magic moment was over, the temple again looking stark against the bright light. It is a sight I won't soon forget ( and you may already know how I feel about the sky and connection--see earlier posting from the Mekong for details.)

While that was the highlight of my visit to the Khmer ruins, there were others in this vast network of ruins that were accidently found by a French naturalist who was in Cambodia to research a species of insects and stumbled onto the mounds of jungle growth that had covered the ruins for the past 4-500 years.

The Khmer dynasty reigned in SE Asia from the 9-15th century and the most significant ruins are in Seim Reap although there are other sites throughout Cambodia. The Khmer civilization is now considered the largest pre-industrial city in the world, covering 3000 square Km.( about the size of Los Angeles.) At its height, there were probably one million people living in the area. Until the excavation and research had been accomplished ( which was largely impossible during the Civil War when the Khmer Rouge were in power ), Tikal, the stunning capital of Mayan culture located in Guatemala, had the prize for most advanced, largest city.

There were two kings who researchers have credited with the most magnificent structures in Seim Reap. Suryavarman II, who ruled from 1113-1150 built a personal temple mausoleum known as Angkor Wat. The religious emphasis of the temple was influenced by India's Hindu beliefs which were transmitted to the Khmer during the long period the traders who traveled by ship to SE Asia waited for the winds and tide to favor a return to their native India. During the 6 months they were in the Khmer empire, their many Hindu gods became known to the Khmer and are reflected by the sheer height of Angkor Wat. The temple was dedicated to Vishnu, and the bas relief telling the stories both of the king and the gods are remarkably well preserved--and represent brilliant craftsmanship.

Jayavarman VII, a great warrior, was partial to Buddhism, so the complex of his temple, Angkor Thom, is adorned with the smiling Buddha carved on all four sides of the temple to represent Buddhist virtues such as kindness and equinimity. The structure is maybe half as high as Angkor Wat.

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It's worth mention that the difference in the two temples is significant from the standpoint of world religions. The Cambodians now have a mixed religion that embraces both Hindu and Buddhist tenets. ( Again, this is the Cliff Notes version not my theological explanation based on my theology studies. ) Looking at the image of the two temples from a distance, and understanding the emphasis of each one is like having a primer in two philosophies that permiate both eastern and western religion--the notion of the imminent and the transcendent.

In the western world, Christianity embraces both but different sects of Christians emphasize one or the other of these viewpoints. The imminent philosophy leans toward seeing man/womankind as flawed, sinful,marked by Original sin but having God within so that if we can dig deeply toward our inner goodness, we can reach paradise--with great difficulty. The transcendent advocates, however, believe that man is innately good, made in the image and likeness of God, and is able to change, grow, prosper in goodness--has the ability to transcend and become more and more God-like, more holy.

The Buddhist/ Hindu mix is the same notion--even the structures support it. The Hindu, more transcendent viewpoint, build high structures to reach close to the gods. In the top of these temples, only the high priest and the king can go to get closest to the gods--to become god-like.

Conversely, Buddhist temples ( true with Angkor Thom ) are architecturally more horizontal, emphasizing the importance of the individual within community--people on earth trying to alter their karma to reach paradise.

So, there you have it. The Khmer were smart enough to eventually encourage both Hinduism and Buddhism, to embrace both.

I leave Cambodia today, this land of the poor, marginally literate, family oriented and conservative society. But they appear to be struggling mightily, at least the people I have met, to overcome years of battling and corruption. It is almost otherworldly here with the smell of jasmine and wood fires in the air, the sounds of kookoo birds, the cappuchin monkeys playing overhead--even an occasional elephant and nearly extinct crocidile for the undiscriminating tourist.

I wish them good luck and blessings on their future.

M.C.

Cambodian Life: The River and the Land

2009-01-14T17:23:00.007-05:00

I've left the Mekong behind and replaced it with the ancient ruins of Angkor Wat. But the river stays with me. At this end of the river, near Seim Reap, there is a tributary of the Mekong, the Tonle River, that takes you to the most incredible lake in SEAsia, the Tonle Sap Lake. The picture above was taken close to where the Tonle intersects the Mekong.

I miss waking up to the sound of fisherman's diesel fueled motor as they set their pre-dawn nets.The catch goes back to one of hundreds of villages along the river where women split the small fish in two, then skewer them onto a dowel and smoke them. When they're finished, they are mashed into a fish paste that is used in cooking a variety of dishes.
In these river villages, the houses are on stilts to protect them during the three month floods. The water rises onto the steep riverbank between twelve and fifteen feet. The villagers are in peril very year.

Some houses are made using bamboo for the base and palm branches for the sides and top.Because of the the weather, the palm branches have to be completely replaced every three to four years. Can you imagine having to side your house three times in a decade?

Electricity varies from village to village. But generally, our guide Roth said that there is some electricity available to homes from dawn until noon. After that, the only sources are battery power ( used almost exclusively to power their TVs!) and kerosene or glow lights. There are no refrigerators, so women shop for produce from the local market twice a day. There's the familiar at the market like tomatoes, cabbage, onions. And the unfamiliar like century eggs--duck eggs that are placed in a saline solution and essentially preserved. The eggs take on a smokey grey exterior appearance. in side, the yold is firm and turns black while the egg white is geatinous and translucent. Farm animals live under or adjacent to the one room house--water buffalo, pigs ( we say twelve piglets not more than a couple of weeks old).

Education is compulsory through the sixth grade. A small percentage, about 10%, complete high school which often requires significant travel. Roth said that he traveled 24Km every day to attend high school-- including during the monsoon season.
Rice is the biggest export crop, and Roth would say that the Cambodians raise the rice--as much as four tons are produced per hectare--and sell it to the Thais who act a s the broker. It irks the Cambodians because the Thais claim on the final bagged rice that it is Thai rice. The rice fields are a yellow green, and more often than not, as we passed there was at least one person working in those fields, the water up to midcalf, their bodies hunched over the growing rice stalks. There is rice growing even in the rainy season. That rice, " special rice" can handle the flooding and this long grain rice will grow as high as the water level rises--even if it gets to five or six feet,

In terms of ethnicity, many countries in SEAsia are also the home of immigrants from southern China during the early part of the last century. So, Khmer and Chinese are intermarried although the Cambodians ( nor the Vietnamese for that matter ) seem to talk about that. One of the passengers on the riverboat had that exact story. His grandfather left China to find more opportunity, hitched on a boat headed for Singapore-- and stayed there only returning to So. China once and then saying there was no reason to return.

This primer, of sorts, isn't intended to be complete but to provide a smattering of the complexities faced by the current Cambodian who is poor, uneducated largely and performing techniques that have been used for fishing and farming for hundreds and hundreds of years.
M.C.

Cambodia: Will They Remember?

2009-01-14T07:30:00.005-05:00

January 11, 2009
Phnom Penh

Phnom Penh, a city of 1.5 million, looks impressive on arrival from the Mekong. The Royal Palace with its red and gold gilded exterior and the characteristic dragon’s tails on each corner of the roof eclipses any other structure visible from the water.

The palace is the home of King Sihanouk who has a reputation as a chameleon, a betrayer of his countrymen during the time of the Khmer Rouge. In a word, he is an opportunist. For example, it is Sihanouk who has prevented the top level Khmer Rouge responsible for the genocide in Cambodia from being prosecuted. His Prime Minister, Hun Sen,( the real leader since the king is the titular head )blocked the UN’s intention of holding tribunals. He is quoted as saying: “We should dig a hole and bury the past and look ahead to the twenty-first century with a clean slate.”

Some facts about the country. Cambodians, the majority of whom are farmers and fisherman, make, on average, $1-2 per day. The population, in stark contrast to Vietnam is only 13 Million. The historical period that put the country on the map was the Khmer rule from the 11-14th century that is reflected in the temples and artifacts of Angkor Wat, about 100 miles north of Phnom Penh in the Kampong Cham province. Cambodia was liberated from French rule on November 9, 1953. Since independence, the major industry ( still in its infancy ) revolves around women working in garment factories, and, since 1998, when Cambodia opened its doors to the world, tourism. There are reports of oil and natural gas resources in the Gulf of Thailand but in Cambodian-border waters, which seems to offer hope for some future income.

My take on Phnom Penh, with its two story colonial stucco, balconied houses, was that the Cambodians had built an impressive exterior in this urban center, but what about the infrastructure, the healthcare system, education—all of which are sorely lacking by all accounts. In Gargan's The River's Tale, he notes that there is reason to believe that every home in Phnom Penh has a weapon in response to some degree to the Pol Pot regime that devastated the country and created distrust in its people.

That regime is the crucial piece of recent history about Cambodia, the reign of terror of the Khmer Rouge led by Pol Pot from 1975-1979. During those difficult years for Southeast Asia with the close of the Vietnam War, and the agression of the Vietnamese into Cambodia, the Red Chinese-backed Cambodian group, angkar, recruited illiterate or poorly educated adolescent boys as foot soldiers and ravaged every part of the country. Pol Pot gained a foothold after the king abdicated the throne, and the puppet government, supported and propped up by the U.S. to avoid a Communist takeover in the country, failed. (This is admittedly the Cliff Notes version of the period.)

The first major move of Pol Pot or Brother One as he was known by his troups, was to march into Phnom Penh amidst cheering crowds. Shortly thereafter, though, those same people, nearly two million of them, were not cheering. They were ordered to pack up and leave the city. The ideology of Pol Pot was simple: there is no religion, there is no family loyalty, and there is no property. The future of Cambodia, he told the people, was the return to an agrarian society. There was no need for art, literature, education. And, so, they went, many of them on foot, to the countryside, and started over. The old, anyone who resisted and the hospitalized were shot.

Pol Pot's credo is nothing new for a communist philosophy. But his cruelty to his own people was. 10,000 people were rounded up for no reason, tortured into making forced confessions about others just to stop the pain. Then, most of them were murdered. Political prisoners included journalists, educators, religious—the intellectuals were all killed, leaving this culture without the key artisans and intellectuals whose human richness advances generations by passing on their traditions and values and adding new ones.

The most famous of the prisons was in Phnom Penh. S21 was a converted three-story school with a wide central courtyard not far from the king's palace.

I went to S21 with a Cambodian guide, probably 30 or so,who was from northwest Cambodia, near Battambong. In the courtyard, near flowering trees today, he pointed out two poles about a foot in diameter each that stood ten feet off of the ground and connected by an iron pole that had two sets of shackles soldered to it. The young guide explained that prisoners who were not confessing to the liking of the interrogators were shackled to this pole by their wrists, their hands tied behind them unprotected from the searing sun, and enduring the agony of holding their entire body weight by their shoulders and hands for varying amounts of time.

When prisoners were processed at S21, they first had their photos taken with an assigned number. The S21 commandant, Kang Kach Ieu who kept meticulous records of prisoners. He had been educated under a program sponsored by the U.S. Agency for International Development, attended high school in Phnom Penh where he scored second on a national exam. He was teaching math in the capital when he became involved with the Khmer Rouge guerrillas and eventually became the chief interrogator--
and the man who signed the death sentence of all those who died in S21.

Now, these photos in faded black and white, line wall after wall of the former prison. Men, women, children—all have what we would call “mug shots” a straight on picture of their face and neck. But instead of the cocky, or drunken or lost look of any mug shot I’ve ever seen in the U.S., these pictures telegraph fear in numbing consistency.

I walked from wall to wall and it was clear from the eyes of every one that they knew that they were in for first horrendous pain, and starvation, and then, probably, death. Prisoners were kept in S21 an average of four months according to the guide before they were either dead from the torture and lack of food or else they were transported by truck to the Killing Fields made famous by the film of the same name.

(When Roth, our guide, spoke of the holocaust his eyes filled and his voice cracked just a bit. Two of his uncles were taken away. One returned years later, his life spared at the last minute before his execution because one of the Khmer found out he was a mechanic and could fix their equipment. He only returned in 1985. Roth's grandmother was blinded by the Khmer. Almost every family in Cambodia was touched in some way during the swift but deadly timeframe of little over three years that Pol Pot was in power.)

Prisoners were brought by truck to Choeung Ek, marched blindfolded to one of several pits and either bludgeoned with a pipe or shot, then pushed into the hole. Almost 9,000 people were exhumed. Today, there is a giant stupa (a mausoleum of sorts) that is filled to the brim with skulls to commemorate this holocaust. Nothing could have prepared me for this prison.

I took only one picture. It seemed irreverent. It felt exploitive. And, I suppose, it was too much, too overwhelming, to see this much depravity, this demonstration of man’s inhumanity. I took a shot of the courtyard just as a reminder that things aren’t’ always what they appear. The neat quad looked so benign in the midafternoon, the trees swaying in the hot breeze. This could have been any school.

But the images and torture chambers I saw stayed with me. I could see rooms with simply an iron bed, shackles soldered to the foot, and a battery used to administer the electric shocks that night when I closed my eyes. The poster size wall photo showed a dead prisoner left there after the quick exit of Khmer guards when Vietnam invaded in 1979—his skin draped over his protruding ribcage, blood on the floor, his mouth agape, eyes lifeless.

There was one image that will stay with me until my deathbed. It was a tight shot of a young woman, pageboy length hair, moonshhaped face, dark eyes. She was holding a three month old in her arms, cradling his head with one hand. But somehow her grasp looked loose, tentative. And her eyes were haunting. They were the eyes of the Madonna, Mary at Calvary. Her face showed the fear any mother knows when her child is in imminent danger. Her eyes were the eyes of one who is lost, the look of utter hopelessness.

Pol Pot, during his last interview in the 1990s, said that he was ignorant of what went on at S21. In fact, he insisted that he had no knowledge of the torture chamber at all. He went on to say: “ When I first heard about Tuol Sleng (S21) it was on the Voice of America (in 1979). Tuol Sleng was a Vietnamese exhibition.” ( Vietnamese propaganda to defame him. ) He never admitted any guilt or remorse—even to the end of his life. But then neither did the the Nazi leaders at the tribunals in Nuremburg.

But what about the king? Or Hun Sen? Have they seen that young mother’s anguished photo shortly before her certain death and the death of her infant? Or felt the nearly palpable grieving that seems to envelop you as you walk from room to room. Why have they blocked prosecution of the Khmer leadership who are responsible?

Do they remember that one in five Cambodians died under the regime? Do they know that it could happen again in the midst of instability, corruption, and staggering poverty?
M.C.

Phnom Penh--A City of Contrasts

2009-01-10T18:03:00.003-05:00

Phnom Penh

6am

I lose my connection in a few minutes. So feast on these photos from Phnom Penh where I am moored this morning ( Sunday, by the way ). Yesterday, the Killing Fields and the Royal Palace. Welcome to Cambodia.

Goodbye Vietnam

2009-01-09T15:44:00.007-05:00

Mekong River near Phnom Penh, Cambodia

3:30 a.m.

Like every night at this time since I left New York, I am awake, alert, and ready for TV, a cup of tea, internet access or a walk.

However, I am literally moored in the middle of the channel of the Mekong where much of that is just not available. So, after doing some yoga to try to bring my travel jostled body back to equilibrium, I walk the 180 foot long promenade deck from bow to stern barefoot, a shawl wrapped around my shoulders against the night air on the water. I check out the visibility, the night sky and try desperately to imprint the sensory wonder of all that surrounds me.

I want to take in the river's night rhythm while the rest of the ship is silent save the slightly built older Asian with rounded shoulders, his blue baseball cap bowed as he passes me while swabbing the deck and watering the tropical planters outside each cabin.

Usually I write in the night to pass the time ( and to keep my promise to myself that I would write at least one hour every day so that I would not lose events/ impressions because I forgot them), knowing that I won't be anywhere near a wireless connection until the next day. I sit here in my cabin bunk under a ship monikered blanket very near the ship's bow looking out through my slightly opened sliding glass doors into the deep dark stillness of the Cambodian jungle a quarter mile away.

It is so quiet tonight ( unike docking in Chau Doc ) that I can hear the cold night wind curling around the bow interrupted with a very occasional fishing boat as it motors stealthily by with no running light of any kind. Every once in awhile, I can hear the plop of a fish jumping in the water. And now an hour later, as first light approach, I can hear male voices singing Buddhist morning prayer from some unseen stilted house on the riverbank beyond, the steady sound of chant soothing in the stillness. Another morning begins.

I am reminded again ( as I have been so often during this portion of my journey ) of the frightening shock it must have been for the GIs in the 60s and 70s when they were dropped into the totally alien land that is perilous to our western sensibilities at anytime much less wartime with people that have been slipping in and out of channels of this river for centuries in handmade dugouts like the picture above.

I opened my laptop a bit groggy. To my surprise, the magic windshield wiper shaped wireless icon appeared asking: Would you like to join the trusted network dlink? Voila! I am in the middle of the jungle and somehow someone ( and it isn't anyone on this boat since I've done everything but storm the office to be sure there wasn't some kind of satellite arrangement. I could find only a phone connection which won't work with my present set up. I walked the deck as I do every morning when I awaken so early and from the bowsprit I can see Phnom Penh a few kilometers away which may be the source of my miraculous internet kismet.

I'll miss Vietnam, that small, S-shaped country, roughly the size of Italy. It can boast being the country in the world with the highest density of population ( 68 million ) and one of the lowest per capita incomes ( about $500 per year ). I'll miss the fresh, light, healthy food and the people of the south who generally ( including my friends in Saigon ) love America and Americans in spite of the fact that we left them in the middle of the night as the Vietcong moved closer and closer to the city in late April, 1975 to fend for themselves, a troubling finale and certain death or "re-education" for the many U.S. informers, guides, interpreters or drivers.

In The River's Tale by New York Times foreign correspondent Edward Gargan, writes an account of his year long journey down the Mekong from Tibet to the Mekong Delta through five countries and nearly 2000 miles of waterway. Gargan was an antiwar activist in the 60s ( as was I ) and part of his rationale for returning to the region was to reconcile the past with present day Vietnam and the effect on that country of our 15 years trying to vanquish the interpid Vietcong in comparison to the French influence prior ( until Dien Bien Phu in 1954 ). "Despite more than three million people being killed, swathes of the country being defoliated or carpet bombed, there remains, at least in the south of Vietnam a yearning, perhaps an uncritical yearning, for things American.The hamburger has not replaced the baguette, but Coke and Pepsi are everywhere, and English is the second language of choice."

In Chau Doc, I put on my running shoes, disembarked my floating paradise and moved into the morning chaos of the town. I ran along the edge of the street alongside motorbikes, bicycles, some rickshaws, vendors in palm leaf hats pushing hand carts. I ran through the town market, essentially a giant palapa weaving through narrow aisles filled with local Vietnamese women gathering their day's fresh produce--displays at every stand of miniature bananas, mango, freshly butchered pork, grains, gladiolas, bonsai. Past the market, I ran down a street of lean tos where young mothers were feeding their toddlers pho, men were sipping their morning tea, and the local military post was bustling, motorbikes leaving the small compound.

I must have looked strange, my running shorts, pink bandanna wrapped like Axel Rose, Ipod earbuds draped around my neck and my graphite silver sports sunglasses hiding my eyes. Some people smiled, the military vespa cut in front of me in a not too subtle way, children would sometimes wave. But everyone looked. It was a wonderful feeling actually. A triumphant feeling to be parallel to this culture absorbing all that it could reveal to me in such a short time. I felt exhilaration for the first time on this journey--as if I was beginning to be able to adjust enough to penetrate the chaos that anyone feels when thrown so totally out of their element, and the commonality of us all. We all get up, begin our day, dream our dreams, love and hate. All around the world.

M.C.

Vietnam: A Country Filled With Waterways

2009-01-08T09:12:00.004-05:00

January 8, 2009

Mekong River, Vietnam near Cao Liu

4:30 am aboard the Pandaw Riverboat

After a luxurious room service breakfast that soothed my severely jetlagged body, I traveled by bus from Saigon south to the delta. Destination: MyTho. The countryside outside the city was not what I expected. The highways could be any secondary road in the U.S. that has four lanes not the dusty, bumpy two lane route I had expected. Motorbikes ( many more than other transportation modes as in Saigon ) share the lane with buses, trucks and an occasional car, all jockeying for position. The government continues to work on infrastructure with the promise of universities along this new highway and commerce of all kinds since it connects Hanoi and Saigon both to the mouth of the Mekong in the town of Can Tho.

It took nearly an hour to reach the end of HCM City. The city sprawls nearly eighty Km north to south and thirty east to west, and is, sadly, dotted with a mixture of new, shiny high-rises that look terribly out of place next to tin roofed shacks. After nearly an hour as the city disappeared, the landscape changed to the lush green of rice fields, sightings of water buffalo, and egrets gracefully standing in the endless waterways that lead to the delta. This is truly a culture bound to the plenty of the water and the abundance of the jungle.

As the landscape changes and we enter a new province, a large monument looms tall against the flat land leading to the delta that was erected to the “martyrs” of the war along with a huge cemetery, the burial ground for all Vietnamese soldiers from this province who died in the Vietnam War. Our guide tells us that each province has its own monument and cemetery.

Midday, I boarded the riverboat that will be my home for the next eight days near MyTho which is about 30 miles from the Mekong Delta along with twenty other passengers and then headed north toward the Cambodia border. The boat could be a partner to the one in Murder on the Orient Express with beautiful wood floors and cabins and brass fittings everywhere. The ship is outfitted for fifty or so passengers but lucky for us, there are less than half the quota.

The Mekong River reminds me of the Mississippi in width and importance to this country (and it is muddy with a strong current as well), and if you look at the geography of Vietnam, it accomplishes much the same thing—it is roughly in the center of this long, narrow country and provides a major artery for transport of products downstream to either be used in Saigon/HCM City, or exported via the Delta to everywhere in the world.

As the hot afternoon sun moved west, we were taken yy small skiff on an ecursion into some of the backwaters of the Mekong to small villages. Local Vietnamese farm/harvest luscious fruits like lichee, pineapple, mango, and jackfruit or run brick factories evidenced from the river by the beehive shaped kilns or fish the river with cantilevered nets that catch local fish as they swim by with the current.

The river is tidal, and the depth at low tide is only about six feet, so the local boats are long and flat with either very noisy, put-put engines or the traditional canoe-like boats that are often steered by women in the palm leaf pointed hats who use two long poles to move the boat forward. As we went farther away from the main channel that is probably a mile or so in width, the small waterways snaking off in all directions are maybe sixty feet across.

It’s essentially jungle. Instantly as we entered ever smaller channels with low lying vine branches grazing the canopy of the boat, I could see images from Apocalypse Now or any number of Vietnam movies. It was otherworldly. I felt totally remote from the rest of the world as we moved deeper into the mix of jungle and waterways, and an occasional tin roofed concrete block small house There’s stillness about this fairly remote part of the country that sends chills up and down your spine because it is so difficult—and different from a western reality. I had a renewed compassion for the Americans that walked these swamps in the sweltering heat with danger from both the terrain and climate but the Vietnamese who know every inch of these backwaters. In the village ( only a bonsai farm so far as I could tell ) we stopped and admired the nursery, and, as a sideshow, got a chance to hold the 50 pound python caged in a far corner. The final kitch of this pretty touristy sidetrip was an opportunity to have snake wine, a local delicacy that is very strong rice wine that is fermented in a jar with a dead python. I’m told it makes everyone sexier.

The boat is anchored overnight in the center of the this very big river. The moon has set but I can see the big dipper and hundreds of stars that I don’t know or maybe just disoriented enough not to recognize. I can hear the engines of small skiffs of local fishermen and see in the distance little dots of lights, some channel markers (even red and green signals to guide boats in and out of the small waterways which I didn’t expect). But mostly, it is humid and very, very dark. It is the second time on this trip thus far that I have felt a million miles away from home.

Travel requires three essential needs to be met, I think: shelter, food and safety. But I’ve got my own additional set that centers me in a totally unfamiliar culture. Top of my list is being able to see the night sky—the same sky that, generally speaking, I could see in New York, Philadelphia, Nantucket.

I saw the night sky—even the half full moon that had been just a sliver when I left New York-- on my first night in Southeast Asia from behind my friend’s motorbike in Saigon as we whizzed through the mayhem of the city with thousands of other bikers. I saw it again from my window high above Saigon the following night—even the evening star visible despite the city lights. And, tonight (this morning), the big dipper. The North Star.

So, the song lyric is right, I think. It is a small world after all.

MC