Going to Nebraska

Going to Nebraska


wind winding wind down
green rocky plains singing wildflower dreams
primroses, cactus blooms drawing blood
for the watching streams
bloated with early spring snowmelt

why don't you come outside?
why don't you come outside?

wind spooks around the sandy hill lakes
fish and birds, egrets, eagles, the red-winged
and cowbirds who, who can you see today

why don't you come outside?
why don't you come outside?

ground blizzards rolling down from the mountain
hedges, hedges hedging in the plains
cold too cold to freeze unless you're standing still
tumbleweeds against the fence
their thistle skeletons dancing

why don't you come outside?
why don't you come outside?

the great mysteries
sandy pinnacles wind carved over eons,
eons before Sioux  before horses
before water rolling down swiftly
water swiftly kissing the sand goodbye
hello goodbye goodbye

why don't you come outside?
why don't you come outside?

toes covered heels plastered dug in
back holding up arms swimming
under the August sun September wind
stars quilt the night sky
the Pliedes  fled and shape our dreams

why don't you come outside?
why don't you come outside today?

"The world asks of us
only the strength that we have and we give it
then it asks more, and we give it"
            Jane Hirschfield:   The Giving


the clown is amused at the fright and delight
coupled in their faces,
while others are bemused
at the idea of preparing for death.

Do you not pack for a journey?
the road trip requires many preparations -
the tent, the food, the clothing.

Can the trip of a lifetime require any less?
what will you plan to carry
and what will you stow away
deep within your heart
for this great and wondrous ride.




Moment to Moment

the light zips between the curtains
in between their folds
racing across the living room, drenching the rugs, the plants
and his bare feet poking out from under the afghan

the water races across the yard
flipping stones and mud clods
rousing the worms from their tunnels
to the joy of the chirping birds

the clouds fold over one another
singing like sky dragons
thundering voices over the mountains
spreading their life over the plains

the waves blanket the shore
shifting the sands and sea creatures
nurturing the fens and bays
resting only to surge through our veins once again

the stars pebble the sky
singing planetary hymns to one another
guiding the sailor and the airman home
blessing us with cosmic bliss

how can we remember to remember
the light, the water, the clouds
who gazes at the clouds, the stars
how do we breathe in, breathe out every moment

Interall

I am connected to the planet,
to all plant life,
to all animal life,
to all life,
to all non-life,
to all matter,
to all non-matter,
to all existence,
to all non-existence.
I am connected to the spirit,
to all forms of form,
to all beings,
to all non-beings.
I am connected to everything.
I am unconnected to nothing.
I am not I.
I am we.
We are all.
All is all.
Interall.
One pulse--one breath.

Om.

Becoming An Indian

Just before my marriage, my soon-to-be mother-in-law told me:

“After marriage you will be Indian.”

I smiled and quietly laughed at the thought of me, a white American midwesterner, morphing into an Indian.

Then, a Hindu marriage ceremony: Pouring rice on each other's heads, golden necklace, tying knots of silk, putting on toe rings, bangles, bowing to elders and vowing to care for them, walking around fire, ash on foreheads. And, of course, brilliant silk sarees, hennaed hands, splitting coconuts, dancing to joyful Bollywood songs.

Then, being welcomed and accepted into an Indian family: Laughing with nieces, sisters-in-law calling me sister, tears of joy at the wedding, family photos in the living room; making coconut laddoos with (mother-in-law) Aatama, my hands almost twice the size of hers, shaping the melted jaggery and shredded coconut into the coveted sweet spheres.

Driving Aatama and Mamaya to the airport, struggling with bulging suitcases strung together and labeled to arrive on the other side of the world. Witness to tears, I promised to take care of her son. We arrived home to find her pink cotton sari, hanging to dry in the sunroom, left behind.

My new husband moved in and suddenly there was Telugu on my television; video chats with sister-in-law Akka, our bright niece and nephew’s silliness for their Ravi Chinnana (uncle) and Madalyn Pinni (aunt); phone calls to India, with attempts to speak the language: “Me abrogyam ella undi?”

The humbling experience of learning from my husband how to make the food he loves. His expressions of delight after I mastered the curry formula and even made curries he had never tasted. Plus rootis from scratch: hand kneading, rolling, oiling, folding, rolling again, and frying on a dry, hot skillet. Then one day finding myself in Global Foods picking out my own essential ingredients for our Indian kitchen: cumin, turmeric, green chillies, curry leaves, toor dahl... The faint hot tinge of chili powder perpetually on my fingertips.

One item from the Indian grocery I’ve come to rely on is coconut oil, applied after the bath. It ended up curing a skin condition I’ve had since birth. “I think it’s because you were an Indian in a past life,” said Ravi.

“Is that why you feel it’s acceptable to love me?” I ask. “It’s okay to love an American if she were an Indian in a previous life?” We laugh.

There’s always laughter with my lighthearted husband. And sunset runs in the park. Coming home to each other on lunch breaks to devour leftover curries. (No American lunch stop can compare to our own kitchen). We are also developing our own traditions as a new family together.

We celebrated our first Diwali, the festival of light. Wrapped in magenta silk, I drew a muggu (chalk drawing) of a lotus on our threshold. At night we lit diya lamps and candles and placed them throughout the house. Friends gathered for celebratory meals and temple visits, exchanged photos from afar. Our littlest niece Vaishnavi was captured with eyes wide in delight at the bright golden sizzle of a sparkler. Aatama and Mamaya called from Hyderabad to tell of “crackers” going off at all hours after days of celebration.

One of the most memorable moments since the wedding was our visit with Akka to her sister’s Chicago home. We spent the day playing carom, laughing with the children, and looking at wedding photos. As we were about to leave, they asked me to sit down. My Akka’s sister put a vermilion dot on my forehead and gave me a woolen shawl, welcoming me into the family. We video-chatted with their smiling mother in India who said she has a new daughter.

There are temple outings every Sunday with my husband -- me dressed in kurta, dupatta, and gold jhumkis. After the long drive to the white intricately carved temple, towering pyramid of gods, decades ago delivered piece by piece from India and assembled in the middle of suburban Midwest America, we remove our shoes and stand before Ganesha, Durga, Laxmi... watching all the ways Indians worship: circling, prostrating, crossed-arm bobbing squats. We sit in front of Shiva, the God of Destruction, meditating with intentions to clear obstacles for welcoming new beginnings.

I boldly ring the temple bell and eagerly head downstairs for spicy hot masala dosa, mango kulfi sweet, and chai. The “desies” have gotten used to me, the “gori girl” who tries to fit into their world while they try to adapt to mine.

Some who see my occasional Indian dress might accuse me of cultural appropriation. But my saris and silver toe rings were given to me and accepted in earnest. They are one way I can outwardly display the culture of the Indian-American family to which I’ve come to belong, the culture of my home.

My Indian family has shown that being Indian means generosity and acceptance, unwavering commitment to family, duty as the path to fulfillment, celebration year round, and love expressed by taking care of one another. Those are values I’m proud to take on. In less than six months after my wedding, I must admit that my Aatama was right.

American Individualism

What if you didn't have to buy a lawnmower, instead you shared one with several of your neighbors?
Same goes for the rake, drill, wheelbarrow, shovel, and trowel.


What if you lived with your parents, brothers, sisters? Maybe you could take turns minding the children, instead of leaving them with strangers.

What if you shared a house? Think of all the savings! One TV, one microwave, one of all the things we call necessities which fill our homes.

If the individual, or the household, is the economic unit
and a household is only you and me,

We must consume more.

We don't share.

"That is mine"
Mine is customized in my personal color combination.

American individualism is now about consumption, not independence.

If you're suffering alone, just go to the store.
You'll find lots of other Americans shopping for items to personalize themselves.

* Author's note: I am not this cynical all the time! America has a rich history of strong social capital--from social clubs to sewing circles and much more. At times American culture these days can feel very isolating and superficial. And for decades the dominant message has been that each nuclear family can have it all. But I believe people are starting to wake up and realize the strength of community--research is proving that it's directly related to happiness--and that more people are becoming disillusioned with a mass-produced consumer culture where the individual is the greatest good. I refuse to buy into the idea that I have to go it alone, and that what I buy is who I am. I am so thankful for our writing and meditation groups, where peaceful community and space for thoughtful sharing are thriving.

"I Know You Can Read My Mind"

You can cry on my shoulder anytime, no questions asked

You can use me to train for the Guinness Book of World Records for Lingering

You can take me for a Lou Reed ride in your badass White Lightning truck

You can leave inscrutably soft messages on my voice mail anytime you catch yourself feeling lonely, bereft, existentially woebegone

You can be a beautiful mess around me anytime between the hours of 10 a.m. and 10 p.m.

You can shriek, stomp, and stammer, but there you’ve got some competition

You can do yourself a favor and watch Kuch Kuch Hota Hoi three times within two weeks

You can keep sending notes, letters, scribbles, post-its, lists, a jewel jam of genres

You can be incomplete, strangely stuck, untogether, a fumbling work-in-progress, just like about 5 billion others of our species

You can seek refuge amid my persiflage, crème brûlée, and recitations of Paul Éluard

You can throw away that mask that flashes: “I’ve Got It All Figured Out”

You can relax when you arrive back home: In the precious present moment


-- Our Heroic and Ceaseless 24/7 Struggle against Tsuris

NOT written by me - though I should wish to be this universal in thought -

"Why should I wish to see God better than this day?
I see something of God each hour of the twenty-four,
and each moment then,
In the faces of men and women I see God
and in my own face in the glass,
I find letters dropped in the street, and everyone is
signed by God's name,
And I leave them where they are, for I know that
wheresoe'er I go
Others will punctually come forever and forever."

                                                   Walt Whitman



speaking to my love of glass

the glass and the water are one
and with the light and sun they are one
and I love the glass uncut and the water undammed singing over
the rocks and pebbles of the stream
the deep flow of the river and force of the ocean surge
and I put the glass away,
loathe to cut it, to destroy its elemental beauty for the sake of some poor
design some haggling client ( or even myself) craves.

glorious reflections of the sun
the glass and water flowing with the rising and falling light

carol