The theme calls for a discussion of phobias and for several days I have been giving considerable thought to this matter. The dictionary defines phobia as an exaggerated usually inexplicable and illogical fear of a particular object, class of objects, or situation.
Exaggerated and inexplicable fears...hmm...what qualifies? I felt quite healthy as I weighed all my inexplicable fears and found them all wanting on the 'exaggerated' scale.
There was a time when I was very fearful of the common wall lizard found in Indian homes, usually in the summer time. That fear was indeed exaggerated and inexplicable, for these creatures are quite harmless and timid. I probably scared them more, making them shed their tails all over the place, than they ever scared me. But I was fearful of their fear response.
I never wanted to straighten paintings on walls since the space behind paintings was like a picnic under the shady tree for them! I tried to find all kinds of excuses to not make tea for guests at our home or do anything to help mom in the kitchen because it involved opening up kitchen cabinets and they were always scurrying away surprised and scared when I did that. I was afraid that in their confusion they would try to find their path to safety by using my extended arm as a bridge or falling into a cup or a glass I'd be holding. They were creepy-crawlies in the truest sense of that hyphenated description.
They kept me from sleeping in rooms where they were traversing the ceiling, chasing after bugs and they kept me from showering in bathrooms where I saw them lurking behind the door. I didn't want to see them scurrying across beds, I didn't want them falling to the floor with that sick and thwacky sound and I never wanted to stumble upon a lizard tail graveyard in any corner of the house. My fear was certainly exaggerated and definitely inexplicable. So I was lizard-phobic. Perhaps it was this phobia that drove me out of that country and to one where these creatures do not exist, at least not on the north-eastern section of the Atlantic seaboard of the US of A.
Does distance from a phobia make a phobia extinct? I wonder.
I haven't felt an imagined shudder of a creepy lizard traversing my person in many years now. But I've heard the word "creepy" used to address all sorts of phobias. For instance, at a dinner with coworkers once I heard a young person say that the old person at a bar, who was trying to strike a conversation with her "creeped" her out. Another person added to this casual comment by saying that he couldn't understand why old people did that. He added that he wasn't afraid of getting old but he was deathly afraid of getting "creepy" when he got old. I suppose suggesting that he hoped he wouldn't be making efforts to talk to young people at bars when he crossed a certain age threshold. It seemed certain people nursed "old people" (I see...old...people) phobias and certain others nursed getting old phobias.
Inexplicable? Exaggerated?
As I scan for phobias now I realize I am not afraid of spiders, lizards, sharks, clowns or dolls (although I must admit that a disheveled Barbie in a ripped ballroom gown and magic marker enhanced runny raccoon eyes, positioned by my daughter at the edge of a dining table, did always give me pause and caused an unwitting shudder). I can't imagine being afraid of open spaces or closed spaces or doctors or nurses or needles...or wheelchairs...could it mean I am phobia-free now?
Or does the ending of the last paragraph with nurses, needles and wheelchairs hint at an unconscious consideration of a fear that is slowly uncoiling at the base of the skull, the amygdala perhaps, and emerging, standing straight, just a little every year?
I do worry about old age, not so much about getting "creepy" as I grow older and not necessarily about being closer to death as the years go by. The fear that could balloon and flare to gigantic proportions as the years go by is one of being utterly useless, helpless, hopeless and/or alone.
As I walked to work the other day I was listening to a podcast from a show called "This American Life", hosted by Ira Glass. The podcast I was listening to was called "Home Alone" and in its first segment it talked about an organization that has the task of digging through the rubble of the lives of those deceased without a will, without a trace; those that passed away unknown.
The interviewer was following around a worker of this organization who was trying to find clues, any clues that would tell her who an old deceased woman's (Marianne) family was. The worker once thought she had found a woman who knew Marianne. But all the lady said was that she had seen Marianne around and smiled at her a few times. The worker finally found some clues to Marianne's house. Once she entered she saw a complete mess - scattered pizza boxes, unopened and opened boxes from the Home Shopping Network Channel on TV, unwashed dishes, unmade beds, a brand new dining table stashed under the bed, old magazines, some books and nothing else. Among all these things there were still no clues as to who Marianne's family was, who would take charge of her body, her burial or who should be informed.
She talked to a couple of Marianne's neighbors. The neighbor on one side said that Marianne looked very lonely and extremely unhappy to him. The neighbor on the other side said Marianne looked happy, contented and always made a point to greet him. Neither one recalled her ever getting visits from any family or friends and to the worker their comments about Marianne's state of mind seemed to reflect more on their own personalities than on Marianne's.
The interviewer asked the worker from this agency if she was having any luck and she said no. She said she saw this all the time. People tended to build this sort of cave around themselves, a fortress of things, more and more things. They tended to inhabit a space surrounded by a wall of things and not people. Never people. She told of how in cases such as these the bodies were cremated and the ashes left sitting on a shelf for a year or so for someone to turn up and claim them. If no one did then the county arranged for them to be scattered in graves that were simply marked by the year - 1969, 1985, 1997...and so on...all alongside each other.
The interviewer also expressed incredulity, "Didn't she think she should arrange for someone to take charge of her things, her property in the event of her death?"
I was stunned to hear such a question asked. If we aren't people who have millions or dollars or an estate to leave behind, how many of us pay any mind to what would become of our things if we were to not wake up one day?
Listening to that account brought tears to my eyes. It made me think of old age and loneliness and getting cut off from people and surrounded by random things...everywhere, in every corner of an unkempt home whose owner had lost all interest in its upkeep.
I thought of the unmarked graves and the unmarked, unrecognized ashes within. Of people who came and left without leaving a single trace, without becoming a part of anyone's memories and recollection, achieving neither minor nor major immortality.
The tears were unbidden but they weren't a lament about life; one may take one's life for granted and death is inevitable, but don't we all strive to be remembered by someone, somewhere?
If we aren't remembered we won't be around to feel any sadness or grief about it but that's what makes this phobia inexplicable and exaggerated. The fear of dying unremembered, unremarked, as if we never existed.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Monday, November 17, 2008
In a New York Minute
There was a chill wind blowing. I had turned my collar up and was doing my best to bury my head in my coat by hunching up my shoulders. I was feeling miserable, the red lights at the crosswalks annoying me even more than usual since all I wanted to do was seek warmth, get inside somewhere, as soon as I possibly could. But my office was still several blocks away.
This was an unseasonably cold fall. The wind made the red, gold and green leaves traipse around the pavement and subway stairwells.
Leaves have this funny way of scurrying across the sidewalks on windy days. They float horizontally for a few seconds then hop vertically on the stem then tumble across to another point, dancing and shimmying along, unhurried and playful on a coldly golden day, joyous in death, mocking the living and their perpetual frowns and creases of worry.
I glanced up from the sidewalk to see if the other rushed New Yorkers shared my misery that day. I glanced upon several bundled up faces, shivering dog walkers, and catatonic folks without a home sitting and staring from sidewalk benches or sleeping flush against the walls, comatose. The runners were running, dressed in shorts and sweating even on the blustery day, giving the distinct impression that weather wasn’t a concern when there was running to be done. In other words it was life as usual on a November morning in the city.
Then I saw her again. Every hair on her head was now grey. She seemed to have added several new wrinkles around her eyes and her constantly moving and chain smoking mouth.
I first saw her four years ago, the last time I was working at this Park Avenue office. She was startling then, always dressed in red and gold heavily brocaded saris; the kind worn by Indian brides. She found a reason to wear all her gold everyday: the maang tika, mangalsutra, gold bangles, payals, toe rings, rings. Never before had I seen an Indian woman of a certain age (there were a few flecks of grey in her hair then) so passionately enthusiastic about flaunting every bit of her bridal finery on her way from her apartment to the drug store where she bought her cigarettes for the day, two blocks away. I used to see her during my lunch hour, either walking to the Duane Reade pharmacy where I usually picked up my 16 oz Diet Cherry Coke or at the Duane Reade cashiers desk, smoking, chatting and laughing with the store personnel, explaining the significance of all things red or golden on her person.
I changed jobs and worked somewhere else for four years. I forgot about the bejeweled Indian woman of Park Avenue. Now I am back, working for a different company but in the same building as the one I was in four years ago. Things have changed in this part of the town, some stores have closed and some new ones have appeared. The streets have seen the animated dance of the red, gold, purple and brown dead leaves four times since I left.
But gone are her red saris, rings, necklaces and gold bangles. They’ve been replaced by a grungy and faded nightgown of indeterminate color and a big, battered and lumpy purse that she hugs close to her person. I recognized her instantly the first time I saw her again a few weeks ago. There is something unforgettable about her face and her carriage. She still smokes as she walks her beat, to and from her apartment to the drugstore, but now she is always engaged in an active dialogue with herself, she asks herself questions and answers them, as though she shares a body with her imaginary friend. I don’t think she has fallen on financial bad times. No one residing on Park Avenue can be in such dire straits. But it has only been four years since she appeared bright, bejeweled and full of life. And so I wonder about her.
I wonder about the things that can go wrong in four years. I wonder if things changed in her life, if her husband or family hurt her in some way or if she just fell into a dark and formidable place within, from which there is no escape. How can things change so fast, so irretrievably?
The fallen leaves do a dance in the wind, then decompose into stillness. Spring makes them green again, what becomes of our lives? No rejuvenation, no rebirths, just layers of brown, grey and black accumulating around us, making us strangers to ourselves and to each other.
Whether she knows it or not she will always be as much a part of my memories, my myriad recollections. She’ll remind me about the importance of living in the moment, cherishing it, nurturing it, letting it sink in because we never know what surprises lurk around the corner.
For instance I could be watching a dancing red and gold leaf one moment and then find myself with the next stride poised in mid air as the leaf I was about to step on morphed into the tiniest red and gold colored bird I had ever seen!
A single New York minute that day was a host to the Ophelia of Park Avenue, the homeless, the runners, the dog walkers, death and dancing leaves and finally a tiny bird morphing out of a sidewalk leaf that I almost stepped on.
My daughter, an ornithologist at 7, assures me it was a wren I saw.
This was an unseasonably cold fall. The wind made the red, gold and green leaves traipse around the pavement and subway stairwells.
Leaves have this funny way of scurrying across the sidewalks on windy days. They float horizontally for a few seconds then hop vertically on the stem then tumble across to another point, dancing and shimmying along, unhurried and playful on a coldly golden day, joyous in death, mocking the living and their perpetual frowns and creases of worry.
I glanced up from the sidewalk to see if the other rushed New Yorkers shared my misery that day. I glanced upon several bundled up faces, shivering dog walkers, and catatonic folks without a home sitting and staring from sidewalk benches or sleeping flush against the walls, comatose. The runners were running, dressed in shorts and sweating even on the blustery day, giving the distinct impression that weather wasn’t a concern when there was running to be done. In other words it was life as usual on a November morning in the city.
Then I saw her again. Every hair on her head was now grey. She seemed to have added several new wrinkles around her eyes and her constantly moving and chain smoking mouth.
I first saw her four years ago, the last time I was working at this Park Avenue office. She was startling then, always dressed in red and gold heavily brocaded saris; the kind worn by Indian brides. She found a reason to wear all her gold everyday: the maang tika, mangalsutra, gold bangles, payals, toe rings, rings. Never before had I seen an Indian woman of a certain age (there were a few flecks of grey in her hair then) so passionately enthusiastic about flaunting every bit of her bridal finery on her way from her apartment to the drug store where she bought her cigarettes for the day, two blocks away. I used to see her during my lunch hour, either walking to the Duane Reade pharmacy where I usually picked up my 16 oz Diet Cherry Coke or at the Duane Reade cashiers desk, smoking, chatting and laughing with the store personnel, explaining the significance of all things red or golden on her person.
I changed jobs and worked somewhere else for four years. I forgot about the bejeweled Indian woman of Park Avenue. Now I am back, working for a different company but in the same building as the one I was in four years ago. Things have changed in this part of the town, some stores have closed and some new ones have appeared. The streets have seen the animated dance of the red, gold, purple and brown dead leaves four times since I left.
But gone are her red saris, rings, necklaces and gold bangles. They’ve been replaced by a grungy and faded nightgown of indeterminate color and a big, battered and lumpy purse that she hugs close to her person. I recognized her instantly the first time I saw her again a few weeks ago. There is something unforgettable about her face and her carriage. She still smokes as she walks her beat, to and from her apartment to the drugstore, but now she is always engaged in an active dialogue with herself, she asks herself questions and answers them, as though she shares a body with her imaginary friend. I don’t think she has fallen on financial bad times. No one residing on Park Avenue can be in such dire straits. But it has only been four years since she appeared bright, bejeweled and full of life. And so I wonder about her.
I wonder about the things that can go wrong in four years. I wonder if things changed in her life, if her husband or family hurt her in some way or if she just fell into a dark and formidable place within, from which there is no escape. How can things change so fast, so irretrievably?
The fallen leaves do a dance in the wind, then decompose into stillness. Spring makes them green again, what becomes of our lives? No rejuvenation, no rebirths, just layers of brown, grey and black accumulating around us, making us strangers to ourselves and to each other.
Whether she knows it or not she will always be as much a part of my memories, my myriad recollections. She’ll remind me about the importance of living in the moment, cherishing it, nurturing it, letting it sink in because we never know what surprises lurk around the corner.
For instance I could be watching a dancing red and gold leaf one moment and then find myself with the next stride poised in mid air as the leaf I was about to step on morphed into the tiniest red and gold colored bird I had ever seen!
A single New York minute that day was a host to the Ophelia of Park Avenue, the homeless, the runners, the dog walkers, death and dancing leaves and finally a tiny bird morphing out of a sidewalk leaf that I almost stepped on.
My daughter, an ornithologist at 7, assures me it was a wren I saw.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
An "infinitely" boring read, taking stock, that's all.
Perhaps I want to gloat just a little, perhaps I want to shed humility and suspend disbelief for a moment as I tell myself that it is possible for me to learn music, to let it seep into every musical corner of the brain, to know it as well as breathing. I didn't think it was possible. I never believed I would be able to read sheet music from a stand and play an instrument while reading it.
Two years ago, other than a certain, perhaps misplaced, confidence in being able to carry a tune, I had nothing. Musical notations meant nothing, keys and sharps and flats were alien concepts that I never believed I would be able to grasp. I only wished, desperately wished, I could.
When I participated as a back up singer in a work band, this desire intensified and went beyond a mere wish. It was just a work band that performed once a year, I was just a back up singer, but there were people in the band who had been drumming or playing the bass guitar or guitar or piano or mandolin for years. From the first day of the rehearsal to the day of the annual concert I believed I was witnessing magic before my eyes. The coordination, the collaboration the consonance of various voices affected me like nothing had before. It touched a part of me that I didn't know I had. So much went into the making of a band and such magic was possible. Words prove inadequate in describing how the experience changed me and made me wonder if I could be audacious enough to bring this desire to fruition.
I started learning how to play the violin. For the last two years I haven't missed a single day of practice. I have been meticulous, I've focused on my sound, my stance and sight reading and I periodically record myself to look for improvements. It is slow going. Sometimes my brain knows what I need to play and the tempo at which I need to play it but its instructions arrive just a few seconds later than they should have.
I can miss the beat and end up beating myself up about it. At other times I feel I am bowing and playing correctly but the sounds are scratchy and I am confused about what could be causing it. But if I look back over the last two years I see how much smoother my playing sounds. And if my teacher tells me that I sound good there's a warm glow that permeates my entire being.
I started playing Bach Chorales last week. I never thought I would be able to say that. I have to play first violin in a string ensemble that our teacher is planning for our Christmas concert. I will also be playing a song I have loved since I was a child - My Favorite Things. I never thought I would be able to play it on an instrument one day, that I could play with the metronome set at 200! I am in full-fledged gloat mode when I think about this. There isn't a soul around who would pat me on the back or not wonder why I am doing this, or what I hope to gain from this. If someone were to ask me why I am doing this my answer would probably be a question, "Why not?"
The madness didn't end there. I started learning Indian classical music around the same time as I picked up western violin. East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet. Be that as it may but music is music. It has been my dream to learn all the raags, what makes them different, the ways in which they color the spirit as they are supposed to. This has been an immensely satisfying quest.
I am learning raag Marwa these days. A raag of amazing complexities, depths and nuances. A raag with a personality so distinct, with its teevra ma, skipped pa and the constant emphasis on komal re and dha that it can transport one to a higher plane of consciousness. So far it has come to me with ease. I can close my eyes and sink into the sea of emotions it generates. I actually feel each note, it is hard to describe how it fills me up, how I feel I am sinking into it as I hear it and as I close my eyes and sing it. My teacher has asked me to perform it at the spring concert for her students in early January.
The last time I was at this concert I had been asked to perform raag Khamaj. I had practiced for days and without an audience and even at the rehearsal I did very well. At the concert I started with tremendous confidence but then I forgot the last few taans. I was unbelievably nervous, my palms were sweating, the faces in the audience were all merging into one blurry mass and I found a way to end the song sooner than I was supposed to. I thought I had done miserably. But the post concert comments and compliments surprised me. No one realized I had forgotten the last few taans, no one saw the beads of perspiration or my nervousness. They liked my performance. That was all very encouraging, but never again do I want to feel as nervous as I did that day.
And now it's going to be Marwa. It is rarely performed, there isn't much out there to listen to. There is a composition by Pt Bhimsen Joshi that I've been listening to and an Amir Khan performance that I haven't yet found. But I know I'll do well this time. This raag has seeped in deep and made an unforgettable impression.
So things are going well musically. I can't complain. I love the pursuit of things that stretch out endlessly, things that span eternity, things where the strength of ones aspiration is the only thing that counts. Music is that eternity, that infinite blessing that will shelter me like the sky and surround me like the air I breathe, trilling in my ears like the laughter of my daughter and shaking me to the core as her slightest tears often do.
Almost everything else is slowly morphing into something finite, almost all other paths appear to lead to dead ends or a brick walls through which one cannot pass. For two years I have been following the US elections very closely. I didn't bother myself with the nation's politics before. I read the headlines, prided myself on being generally aware and sufficiently educated about most issues. But beyond this cursory and often desultory interest I really didn't care much. I didn't care until the rhetoric got rancorous, until every issue took on a burning urgency and until the extent to which we were a divided nation sunk in. I found myself addicted to the news, carried away by opinions. I was a part of every analysis and had my own opinion on everything. I wanted to be more than just a little bit educated about everything. My day felt incomplete if I hadn't read every bit of news there was to read.
Our historic elections are over. The candidate I was supporting has won. There's euphoria, the celebrations continue even as everyone admits they are aware of the long and hard road ahead. There isn't as much news to watch anymore. However, the talking heads continue to talk, the op-ed pieces in national papers are still not tired of discussing the historic outcome. They can go on and on about how the Republican party will rebuild itself, heal its wounds, how President Obama will handle the pressing issues of the day, whether taxes will go up or not. The issues are always the same, the emotions, the opinions, the analysis is almost always the same no matter how diverse the pundits are. As far as politics is concerned it is a finite world, a gamut of options and opinions but finite, with boundaries and set choices. Or, at least that is the world to which we are accustomed. Will new things happen, will newer solutions emerge? That remains to be seen.
Work. My work. It gives me pause these days. I do my work well. I have responsibilities and tasks and I have a conscience and a work ethic that keeps me going. I arrive and leave at set hours, I do somethings on Mondays, somethings on Tuesdays, I attend meetings, put little numbers in little boxes and answer questions. Nothing changes, nothing is ever different, there are no signs of infinite possibilities and opportunities. I am ambivalent about routine and structure. But being ambivalent means I don't hate it or love it. Would I love a job I am not ambivalent about? Absolutely! Anything to erase this notion of things being finite, of there only being so many options from which to choose.
Our new President-elect has shown us that the world is full of possibilities, one can do what one sets ones mind to doing. There have been many moments in my life where I've believed this and have been rewarded by this belief. The most rewarding moments have been the ones where I have had to step out of my comfort zone, just a tad. Of late my comfort zones have become a bit too dear to me. I am unwilling to step out of them even as I wile away every twenty four hour period in idle contemplation and idle taking of stock on an obscure blog. This Sunday is over and I have nothing to show for it. The work week is here, the same repetitive tasks are at hand. I am dreaming of making a difference, of making a worthy contribution and I am paralyzed with inaction and have no plans, no ideas, nothing but an idle dream waiting for the impulse that would propel it into reality, into a world of possibilities as infinite as music.
Two years ago, other than a certain, perhaps misplaced, confidence in being able to carry a tune, I had nothing. Musical notations meant nothing, keys and sharps and flats were alien concepts that I never believed I would be able to grasp. I only wished, desperately wished, I could.
When I participated as a back up singer in a work band, this desire intensified and went beyond a mere wish. It was just a work band that performed once a year, I was just a back up singer, but there were people in the band who had been drumming or playing the bass guitar or guitar or piano or mandolin for years. From the first day of the rehearsal to the day of the annual concert I believed I was witnessing magic before my eyes. The coordination, the collaboration the consonance of various voices affected me like nothing had before. It touched a part of me that I didn't know I had. So much went into the making of a band and such magic was possible. Words prove inadequate in describing how the experience changed me and made me wonder if I could be audacious enough to bring this desire to fruition.
I started learning how to play the violin. For the last two years I haven't missed a single day of practice. I have been meticulous, I've focused on my sound, my stance and sight reading and I periodically record myself to look for improvements. It is slow going. Sometimes my brain knows what I need to play and the tempo at which I need to play it but its instructions arrive just a few seconds later than they should have.
I can miss the beat and end up beating myself up about it. At other times I feel I am bowing and playing correctly but the sounds are scratchy and I am confused about what could be causing it. But if I look back over the last two years I see how much smoother my playing sounds. And if my teacher tells me that I sound good there's a warm glow that permeates my entire being.
I started playing Bach Chorales last week. I never thought I would be able to say that. I have to play first violin in a string ensemble that our teacher is planning for our Christmas concert. I will also be playing a song I have loved since I was a child - My Favorite Things. I never thought I would be able to play it on an instrument one day, that I could play with the metronome set at 200! I am in full-fledged gloat mode when I think about this. There isn't a soul around who would pat me on the back or not wonder why I am doing this, or what I hope to gain from this. If someone were to ask me why I am doing this my answer would probably be a question, "Why not?"
The madness didn't end there. I started learning Indian classical music around the same time as I picked up western violin. East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet. Be that as it may but music is music. It has been my dream to learn all the raags, what makes them different, the ways in which they color the spirit as they are supposed to. This has been an immensely satisfying quest.
I am learning raag Marwa these days. A raag of amazing complexities, depths and nuances. A raag with a personality so distinct, with its teevra ma, skipped pa and the constant emphasis on komal re and dha that it can transport one to a higher plane of consciousness. So far it has come to me with ease. I can close my eyes and sink into the sea of emotions it generates. I actually feel each note, it is hard to describe how it fills me up, how I feel I am sinking into it as I hear it and as I close my eyes and sing it. My teacher has asked me to perform it at the spring concert for her students in early January.
The last time I was at this concert I had been asked to perform raag Khamaj. I had practiced for days and without an audience and even at the rehearsal I did very well. At the concert I started with tremendous confidence but then I forgot the last few taans. I was unbelievably nervous, my palms were sweating, the faces in the audience were all merging into one blurry mass and I found a way to end the song sooner than I was supposed to. I thought I had done miserably. But the post concert comments and compliments surprised me. No one realized I had forgotten the last few taans, no one saw the beads of perspiration or my nervousness. They liked my performance. That was all very encouraging, but never again do I want to feel as nervous as I did that day.
And now it's going to be Marwa. It is rarely performed, there isn't much out there to listen to. There is a composition by Pt Bhimsen Joshi that I've been listening to and an Amir Khan performance that I haven't yet found. But I know I'll do well this time. This raag has seeped in deep and made an unforgettable impression.
So things are going well musically. I can't complain. I love the pursuit of things that stretch out endlessly, things that span eternity, things where the strength of ones aspiration is the only thing that counts. Music is that eternity, that infinite blessing that will shelter me like the sky and surround me like the air I breathe, trilling in my ears like the laughter of my daughter and shaking me to the core as her slightest tears often do.
Almost everything else is slowly morphing into something finite, almost all other paths appear to lead to dead ends or a brick walls through which one cannot pass. For two years I have been following the US elections very closely. I didn't bother myself with the nation's politics before. I read the headlines, prided myself on being generally aware and sufficiently educated about most issues. But beyond this cursory and often desultory interest I really didn't care much. I didn't care until the rhetoric got rancorous, until every issue took on a burning urgency and until the extent to which we were a divided nation sunk in. I found myself addicted to the news, carried away by opinions. I was a part of every analysis and had my own opinion on everything. I wanted to be more than just a little bit educated about everything. My day felt incomplete if I hadn't read every bit of news there was to read.
Our historic elections are over. The candidate I was supporting has won. There's euphoria, the celebrations continue even as everyone admits they are aware of the long and hard road ahead. There isn't as much news to watch anymore. However, the talking heads continue to talk, the op-ed pieces in national papers are still not tired of discussing the historic outcome. They can go on and on about how the Republican party will rebuild itself, heal its wounds, how President Obama will handle the pressing issues of the day, whether taxes will go up or not. The issues are always the same, the emotions, the opinions, the analysis is almost always the same no matter how diverse the pundits are. As far as politics is concerned it is a finite world, a gamut of options and opinions but finite, with boundaries and set choices. Or, at least that is the world to which we are accustomed. Will new things happen, will newer solutions emerge? That remains to be seen.
Work. My work. It gives me pause these days. I do my work well. I have responsibilities and tasks and I have a conscience and a work ethic that keeps me going. I arrive and leave at set hours, I do somethings on Mondays, somethings on Tuesdays, I attend meetings, put little numbers in little boxes and answer questions. Nothing changes, nothing is ever different, there are no signs of infinite possibilities and opportunities. I am ambivalent about routine and structure. But being ambivalent means I don't hate it or love it. Would I love a job I am not ambivalent about? Absolutely! Anything to erase this notion of things being finite, of there only being so many options from which to choose.
Our new President-elect has shown us that the world is full of possibilities, one can do what one sets ones mind to doing. There have been many moments in my life where I've believed this and have been rewarded by this belief. The most rewarding moments have been the ones where I have had to step out of my comfort zone, just a tad. Of late my comfort zones have become a bit too dear to me. I am unwilling to step out of them even as I wile away every twenty four hour period in idle contemplation and idle taking of stock on an obscure blog. This Sunday is over and I have nothing to show for it. The work week is here, the same repetitive tasks are at hand. I am dreaming of making a difference, of making a worthy contribution and I am paralyzed with inaction and have no plans, no ideas, nothing but an idle dream waiting for the impulse that would propel it into reality, into a world of possibilities as infinite as music.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Hope
I was interviewed for a magazine awhile ago. The theme of the interview was parenting and the questions they asked me were about my parenting experiences.
If you have a strong broadband connection, oodles of patience to deal with "buffering..." or "streaming..." type messages and more than thirty minutes of time you can see see it here.
Many of my friends viewed it and offered a wide range of comments. But the part of the interview that gives me pause is a point in the film where I say I am not meeting the expectations I have from myself. In response to a question I say that my daughter is a better version of me and my Mom was a better mom to me than I am to my daughter, so I leave much to be desired where I am concerned.
This is something that I think about often. Which is why I was struck by some sentiments expressed by Barack Obama in his book: The Audacity of Hope. In a chapter where he is talking about his life, his marriage and his relationship with Michelle, Malia and Sasha, he discusses the point in his marriage where things were tough on them as a family. He was away in Springfield often and Michelle had to find ways to split her time between being a Mom and working. Things got tense often. In his book he said something about understanding how Michelle felt. He referred to her feeling as if she was inadequate as a Mom, that she wasn't being as good a Mom as her own Mom had been.
I was moved to hear that, moved at the realization that I wasn't the only woman in the world who felt this way and also at the fact that he understood how she felt. He often felt inadequate as a father.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
On Pennilessness
Rendered penniless! Perish the thought. There was a time several years ago when we were on vacation in Vermont. There were so many bottles of maple syrup to buy and so many quaint little train rides to take where we could witness a fabulous Vermont Fall. But all of these things required cash.
We felt quite confident when we inserted our ATM card into the machine and asked for $100 or so in “fast cash”. But soon enough it was abundantly clear that even slow cash wouldn’t be forthcoming! It’s a wonder our ATM card didn’t get shredded by the machine: our account showed us heavily overdrawn and in the red.
We were effectively penniless in Vermont. It was a sinking feeling. We had credit cards but many years of our misspent youth well defined the words “credit abuse” so we were trying to reform and weren’t up for mortgaging our future any more than it already was.
There was nothing we could do except get sullen, sulk, bicker and point fingers; we were a bipartisan household after all. I was certain I could blame our financial crisis on him and he was certain he could blame it on my shoe-lined closet.
We spent a miserable day or two walking around Burlington, VT and Lake Champlain and then came home to earn some more and get the checking account in the black again.
That wasn’t the only time we experienced poverty, however. During another financial meltdown we found ourselves in dire straits but thankfully not penniless. In our infinite penny wise and pound foolish wisdom we had stashed away several penny jars around the house. We spent many hours checking under sofa cushions, drawers, coat pockets and at the end of our labors emerged with $15 so we could head off to the grocery store for some bare essentials.
We’ve been rendered not penniless (thank god) but certainly nickel, dime, quarters and dollar less for days, weeks and months at a time. We let our credit bubbles get too big, we were out of jobs, we almost always spent as if we had an infinite, albeit imaginary source of money; we almost always had a very myopic stance toward money. Age has taught us some caution but hasn’t obliterated the spending impulse that won’t be quelled and won’t take no for an answer. The only thing that makes sense in those impulsive moments is Scarlett’s, “Tomorrow is another day”.
We know these things are cyclical. If you’re a country perhaps they hit once every seventy-nine years but if you’re a person perhaps the cycles have a higher frequency. So if we are riding a boom today, chances are that the next penurious moment is just around the corner.
We were younger and more agile in our previous troughs. We knew we would land the jobs we wanted, we knew our entire lives were ahead of us. In our weakest moments we even thought that the cushiony familial net would save us, be our own personal “bailout” if we were ever beyond help. Now, after all these years, we are at the age where whether we like it or not subtle and very effectively concealed age related job discrimination starts rearing its ugly head. Our safety nets are also much older themselves and with very specific health care needs and other concerns which are inevitable and only a couple of decades away for us.
So what would we do indeed? What could we do if it happened now?
These days the scene from the movie –Bicycle Thief – comes to mind. In a brilliantly nuanced bit of filmmaking, when the wife of the protagonist goes to the pawn shop to pawn her bed sheets to raise some money for her husband, she notices rows upon rows and shelves upon shelves of bed linen bundles at the shop. In one deft move of the camera we get a very real sense of the condition of the economy.
For similar visual impact one can glance at the boarded up stores, the empty parking lots with tufts of grass and weeds peeking through the cracks of what used to be busy and active manufacturing plants and thriving businesses, boarded up homes, foreclosure signs, signs that indicate that a business is going out of business or liquidating.
In the industry that helps me earn my keep I am starting to read about job eliminations, cost-cutting, streamlining, restructuring. Every day thousands of former colleagues and acquaintances find themselves jobless. Just like a friend from my Yoga class informed us today that she had lost her job last week but is continuing with Yoga since it helps.
I’ve lived through this before. The day I was laid off, several years ago, I felt as if I had fallen down a deep and dark well. I felt helpless and more frightened than I had ever been before. I remember cleaning out my office space then and collecting all the pennies that tend to accumulate in desk drawers and idle coffee mugs. However, I didn’t take these pennies with me. I left them in a quaint little jar and then took some pains to print out a neat little label to stick on it. The label said, “For help toward the cost-cutting efforts of Co. XYZ”. I left that jar on my ex-desk. At that moment my response to the situation was bitter sarcasm.
But what would it be now? No matter how hard I think about it I am not sure how I will react. These days I pass by the hobbling bag ladies and cart-men wheeling their way through the streets of Manhattan as the weather gets colder and colder…and the people who sit around with their head down and a cardboard sign detailing how they lost everything and just need some money for food, I curse myself whenever I have been lazy enough to not break my stride and drop some change in their cups, and the thought that trails me and starts to rise up through some corner of my brain says, “There but for the grace of God, goes Pragya Thakur”.
We felt quite confident when we inserted our ATM card into the machine and asked for $100 or so in “fast cash”. But soon enough it was abundantly clear that even slow cash wouldn’t be forthcoming! It’s a wonder our ATM card didn’t get shredded by the machine: our account showed us heavily overdrawn and in the red.
We were effectively penniless in Vermont. It was a sinking feeling. We had credit cards but many years of our misspent youth well defined the words “credit abuse” so we were trying to reform and weren’t up for mortgaging our future any more than it already was.
There was nothing we could do except get sullen, sulk, bicker and point fingers; we were a bipartisan household after all. I was certain I could blame our financial crisis on him and he was certain he could blame it on my shoe-lined closet.
We spent a miserable day or two walking around Burlington, VT and Lake Champlain and then came home to earn some more and get the checking account in the black again.
That wasn’t the only time we experienced poverty, however. During another financial meltdown we found ourselves in dire straits but thankfully not penniless. In our infinite penny wise and pound foolish wisdom we had stashed away several penny jars around the house. We spent many hours checking under sofa cushions, drawers, coat pockets and at the end of our labors emerged with $15 so we could head off to the grocery store for some bare essentials.
We’ve been rendered not penniless (thank god) but certainly nickel, dime, quarters and dollar less for days, weeks and months at a time. We let our credit bubbles get too big, we were out of jobs, we almost always spent as if we had an infinite, albeit imaginary source of money; we almost always had a very myopic stance toward money. Age has taught us some caution but hasn’t obliterated the spending impulse that won’t be quelled and won’t take no for an answer. The only thing that makes sense in those impulsive moments is Scarlett’s, “Tomorrow is another day”.
We know these things are cyclical. If you’re a country perhaps they hit once every seventy-nine years but if you’re a person perhaps the cycles have a higher frequency. So if we are riding a boom today, chances are that the next penurious moment is just around the corner.
We were younger and more agile in our previous troughs. We knew we would land the jobs we wanted, we knew our entire lives were ahead of us. In our weakest moments we even thought that the cushiony familial net would save us, be our own personal “bailout” if we were ever beyond help. Now, after all these years, we are at the age where whether we like it or not subtle and very effectively concealed age related job discrimination starts rearing its ugly head. Our safety nets are also much older themselves and with very specific health care needs and other concerns which are inevitable and only a couple of decades away for us.
So what would we do indeed? What could we do if it happened now?
These days the scene from the movie –Bicycle Thief – comes to mind. In a brilliantly nuanced bit of filmmaking, when the wife of the protagonist goes to the pawn shop to pawn her bed sheets to raise some money for her husband, she notices rows upon rows and shelves upon shelves of bed linen bundles at the shop. In one deft move of the camera we get a very real sense of the condition of the economy.
For similar visual impact one can glance at the boarded up stores, the empty parking lots with tufts of grass and weeds peeking through the cracks of what used to be busy and active manufacturing plants and thriving businesses, boarded up homes, foreclosure signs, signs that indicate that a business is going out of business or liquidating.
In the industry that helps me earn my keep I am starting to read about job eliminations, cost-cutting, streamlining, restructuring. Every day thousands of former colleagues and acquaintances find themselves jobless. Just like a friend from my Yoga class informed us today that she had lost her job last week but is continuing with Yoga since it helps.
I’ve lived through this before. The day I was laid off, several years ago, I felt as if I had fallen down a deep and dark well. I felt helpless and more frightened than I had ever been before. I remember cleaning out my office space then and collecting all the pennies that tend to accumulate in desk drawers and idle coffee mugs. However, I didn’t take these pennies with me. I left them in a quaint little jar and then took some pains to print out a neat little label to stick on it. The label said, “For help toward the cost-cutting efforts of Co. XYZ”. I left that jar on my ex-desk. At that moment my response to the situation was bitter sarcasm.
But what would it be now? No matter how hard I think about it I am not sure how I will react. These days I pass by the hobbling bag ladies and cart-men wheeling their way through the streets of Manhattan as the weather gets colder and colder…and the people who sit around with their head down and a cardboard sign detailing how they lost everything and just need some money for food, I curse myself whenever I have been lazy enough to not break my stride and drop some change in their cups, and the thought that trails me and starts to rise up through some corner of my brain says, “There but for the grace of God, goes Pragya Thakur”.
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