In defense of the imagination

Yesterday was one of the most beautiful days I have experienced in a long time. Today was one of the most frustrating. In both cases, it's amazing how the whole day-- not jsut work, not just the evening, not jsut the morning, but the whole day-- turned out the same way. Anyhow, I won't get into details of either, because talking too much about yesterday would be disrespecting several confidential spaces, and because talking too much about today is unfair as i will be presenting very one-sided versions of a story that clearly has many sides. So, let's drop them both.

Instead, I will focus on one thing from today (and from several months in some sense of the other) that has been on my nerves. Below is a fictional letter (which i probably will send sooner or later) to the director of the Transformative Language Arts (TLA) program at Goddard college and, by extension, to all TLA practitioners out there whoahve contirbuted ot the amazing reader "The Power of Words".


Dear Caryn,

Remember me? We met at the "The Power of Words" conference held at Goddard in 2007... I was the odd international student (both, student and international, were odd) who flew up to Vermont from my college in California. What a beautiful four days they were! What a delight to meet so many people, attend so many workshops, and learn so much together.

Caryn, did I ever tell you just how relieved I was to discover TLA? To discover that somewhere out there, there were other people like me, people who had a sneaky suspicion that creative writing and stories were intrinsically connected to personal and social change... people who have devoted their lived to exploring this connection. Honestly, I am tired of people telling me that art is irrelevant in the context of society, that it is more the "fancy (read: superflous) stuff," or at most that it is a tool for self-expression... I hear that about poetry above all, and that stabs me because I love poetry, I live through poetry. For too long, i too had grown up thinking that my passion for creative writing (reportage bores me) somehow contradicted my desire to work for social change. TLA was such a perfect coming together, such a comfort, because suddenly I saw that my life could be whole, my two greatest passions could speak to each other, could even work together to create something even more powerful and beautiful.

I have written to you, haven't I, Caryn, about the Creative Writing for Personal and Social Change workshops I did here in Delhi? I worked off of your book "Write where you are" and Linda Christenson's "Reading, Writing, and Rising Up" to create the curriculum. It was such a beautiful expereince for me to facilitate that workshop, to see how these two passions of mine could indeed converge, to experience rather than just read about TLA.

And yet, despite everything, i seem to always hear people say that creative writing is irrelevant to the real world, to the world beyond "I." Have you heard that, Caryn? And do those words hurt you too? They hurt me deeply-- TLA, or my interpretation of it, has become what i really believe to be my life's passion, the meaning i find when all else is muddy, and it just hurts to have people tell me it does not, cannot, even exist.

Today was one such day. So after I got home from work, I opened "The Power of Words." First, I read Katt Lissard's story about her work on HIV in Lesotho-- that's always been one of my favorite TLA stories. Then I went to the dramatherapy for troubled teens one, because i too work with teenagers. And then I just read through a bunch of other essays like the one about making the journals and finding the students writing their names in it... lots of other ones. It felt so good to read it all.

Earlier, i have read this book for ideas, made little notes about how i could try out some of these techniques. Or i have read it as stories about the power of words. But today, the stories themselves were the words that had so much power. They reminded me that I am not alone in these dreams, that stories and poems and theater do indeed have so much transformative power, that even if a million people disbelieve in the sheer power and beauty of the imagination, there are a handful who believe... and that changes everything.

I think I can take up this conversation again at work tomorrow, this time more equipped with a sense that it IS possible and important, even if others don't think so. I think I'm going to take this book along to try and prove a point to those who still won't believe. Anove all, I think that now even if this project were to fall through, i will be disappointed but not totally disheartened. Because i will know that I have succeeded with one small group, that many others have succeeded with many other groups, and that even if not yet, eventually, I can work on making TLA my life's mission.

Thank you, Caryn, for opening up this space. And please convey my deepest thanks and warmest regards to everyone I met at the conference and to everyone who contributed to this book.

With love,

Aditi

Yet again

While facilitating a workshop this morning, I suddenly had a shooting pain through my left eye. The pain subsided soon, then became a kind of dull, annoying ache that lasted through the day. Not terrible, just annoying. Not the kind of thing that would usually have carried me to the doctor, but this time instinct said "GO!", and so i did.

Good thing too, because this time i have not 1, not 2, but 3 broken stitches inside the eye! Fun times.

I'm amazed at instinct, though... at how the body just knows how to tell me when something is severely wrong as opposed to my random everyday pain. All three times that this has happened, the pain/ grittiness/ discomfort hasn't been much out of the ordinary, or much more than a regular day. But each time, i have just known that I need to see the doctor immediately. I still don't know how i have known, but i have. Instinct. It's amazing.

I'm a little exhausted from all this. It hasn't even been 3 months since the last surgery (tomorrow is three months to the day), and here I am going back into the OT. The memories of the last one are still too fresh, the pain too real... over time, the memory fades, and forgetfulness helps one be brave. But right now, the memroy is fresh, and I really don't want to go through that again!

Oh well, at least this time i can prepare for it. Download lots of auidobooks. Buy lots of snacks and cold foods (have i mentioned how, when i am sick, i can only eat cold food or i want to throw up?). Stock up on pain meds. Hand over the most urgent things at work. Finish important-to-finish-now writing. And then I'll go back into that sterilized room. Ugh, I've spent way too much time in OTs, the memories make me shudder.

So yeah, I'm ranting. But right now, at moments like these, I also have a vauge sense of pride. Just pride that I have made it this far. Sometimes I forget all the struggles to get through school, to get through college, to balance (not always successfully) a working life and taking care of all these chronic illnesses. Sometimes, I get caught up in little stresses, start doubting my life's capacity for limitless growth, limitless expansion. Then, something like this comes along and forces me to reflect, just for a moment, on everything I have fought and won over. Not immediately, perhaps, but eventually. And that brings me pride and comfort anf faith in the future, faith in my life's capacity to defeat obstacles and open up further.

In the newspaper this morning, there was a short essay by Sensei (don't ask me how it got there-- i have no clue-- but it was perfect for today). He wrote about a 19th centruy mountain climber who was trying to conquer a particular mountain (i'll dig up the details another time). He wrote about each expedition, about all the ones that failed, about the ones where the mountaineer was seriously injured, and then about the 8th one, when he finally conquered the mountain. He wrote about how, even if you fall down seven times, the important question is whether you get up the eighth. I guess that's my question to myself right now as well. Even if I fall down seven times, will I get up the eighth?

And the answer is yes, I will, I always have so far. Moments like this remind me of this simple fact. And although that cannot alter the fact that I have a very not-fun few weeks coming up, although it cannot prevent me from wishing i didn't have to deal with all that pain yet again, although it cannot really change anyting, it does remind me that this, too, has meaning.

And maybe that reminder sums up all the change I need right now.

It's been a long time since i wrote anything. Not just on the blog I mean... I mean wrote, in general. For reasons that some of you know well, I am spending too much time writing about writing these days... too little time actually writing!

It isn't for want of things to write about. It is partially because some of the things i would write about might invade the privacy of others; a lot that's on my mind right now has so much to do with other people in my life that it cannot go up here. And partially because I don't want all of you to know about some of the other things going on in my life. Argh, sometimes, I wish i had kept the blog anonymous, but then again, if i did that, how would I stay in touch with all the people who do know me?

I've typed two LONG emails today. Why do i write so much when i sit down to write? It's exhausting for me, and I am sure it's exhausting for others too. Old habits die hard.

Certain things that have happened in the last... say, 2 weeks... have really made me think about the ways in which my life has changed and grown over these last 4-5 years. Sometimes, I am blown away by my own journey through so many lands, so many cultures... my interactions with so many people. I am amazed at everthing and everyone I carry in my heart. I had an interesting conversation with someone at work a few days ago, where she felt strongly that the more people you try to stay in touch with and be connected to, the harder it is to make space for new people... she felt that we each have a limited amount of love and energy to offer, and it gets distributed depending on how many people we choose to give it to. I've thought about that, but i am pretty sure i disagree. My life tells me a different story. With each new place I have travelled to, with each new person I have loved, I feel my cpacity for love growing rather than diminishing. Sure, I don't have te energy to keep up with everyone-- I am out of touch with too many people from Argentina, from Mexico, from SUA, even from right here in Delhi. But I don't feel out of touch. I know I could pick up the phone tomorrow, and it would be like we had just talked. We would have a lot to tell in terms of filling each other in on news, but i don't think we'd feel for a moment that we havent talked in months. I'm not sure how that has happened, but I am glad it has. It keeps me from getting lonely. I feel lucky to have so many SUCH beautiful people in my life.

I could ramble forever once you get me started on this topic, but I think I'll goeat dinner now. I have an especially challenging workshop session early tomorrow morning, so I want my full night's rest! Hope to find time for some more meaningful writing/ blogging this weekend.

Life Lessons Learned at the Pottery Wheel

1. Patience. Rush, and the clay is sure to collapse.
2. Trust the process, even when you can't see immediate results. It's quite incredible how you keep thinking the clay isn't rising at all, and how you suddenly find that it did rise. You're never quite sure when or how. and if you are me, you often think that this one is just not happening, until it does.
3. Starting right is crucial: If you haven't got the clay properly centered when you begin, forget about completing the pot. As a beginner, I thought of centering as just an annoying little ritual before the real work of pottery began. Over time, I realized that proper centering is at least half the real work of pottery
   
4. Small mistakes have huge repercussions. Leave in one air bubble while kneading the clay, and your perfectly shaped pot will collapse, either while you are making it or (worse) in the kiln.
   
5. A second's carelessness can undo hours of work: So you have the perfect pot, 12 inches high, beautifully straight sides. And then you pull too fast just once. The top spins off center, your pot collapses. You have to focus throughout, or there's no way you'll complete it.
6. With practice, almost any mistake can be remedied: I don't know what to do when my pot has spun completely off center, but my teacher can pull it back together almost effortlessly. And today, I was able to do that a couple of times too (of course, the "almost" is key-- for instance, an air bubble is an air bubble is an air bubble).
7. You know more than you think you know. After more than a year away from the wheel, I was convinced I had forgotten how to use it. But the moment I sat down at it, my hands just knew what to do. The body has an amazing memory.
8. No matter what, you can always start over. So, make your mistakes and have your fun. When one pot is beyond repair, you can recycle that clay and begin another new one, with new hopes for how high it'll go, new confidence if how beautiful it'll be. You may be right, or you may be wrong, but what counts is that the process is fun.
   

Nanu's illness

My Grandpa (Nanu) had a stroke yesterday. Fortunately we caught it really early and rushed him to hospital immediately (despite his objections that he was really ok and didn't need help! Nanu!), and so the damage seems to have been minimal. As of now, it's mostly that he cannot raise his right hand, and the docs are still hopeful that this, too, could heal. Although given his age and other medical complications, it will probably be a very long time.

I stayed with him in the ER for most of the day, having sent my grandma home to rest because she was exhausted, physically and emotionally, from the last few years' battles against illness. And at some point there, i had a weird realization: this is the first time I have stayed alone with a relative in hospital. In fact, it is the first time in my (somewhat) adult life that i have been to hospital because someone in the family was ill: roles have usually been reversed, or like last year, I have usually been out of town.

Now, have I mentioned that I hate hospitals? That smell... youknow how they say that smell is the sense most closely connected to memory? Well, I have a LOT of not so great memories that I associate with the smells of hospitals... even the ones that try to look all sparkly clean, they only nauseate me further because, really, what are they trying to hide? And who are they kidding? As we were wheeling nanu from the ER towards the ICU, I had a faint sense of deja vu, remembering a time 3 1/2 years ago, in another hospital in another country, where I was the patient. That hospital corridor had been dimly lit. Someone was pushing the wheelchair, and I was dizzy from all the drugs. I remember the distinct feeling of being alone in an enormous maze, with just one person pushing me along, but I wasn’t scared. Just curious, in a dazed sort of way. Just wondering at how large the place was and whether the corridors ever ended.

They did end. The strong smell of antiseptic made me gag, woke me up a little. And then, for the first time that day, the fear set in. Not for long, though, in only a moment, I was in the operation theater. I had a moment to wonder at how tiny the place looked. I felt that operation theaters—places where, every day, people walk that thin line between life and death—ought to be grander. Shouldn’t there be a little more ceremony to the place from which many people walk out with entirely changed lives and some people walk out of life itself? The drab white and blue walls didn’t do it.

I thought the same yesterday as I stood by Nanu's bed in the ICU. The room was a mess, gowns scattered here and there. Noises, all kinds of noises, noises i don't often hear and didn't want to know more about. His sheets were clean white, but other than that, nothing in the room made it seem like the kind of place where so many people's lives are saved, so many lives are altered, and some lives are lost, probably every day. Is it only in movies and books that the scene is supposed to match, somewhat, with everything going on in it? 'Cos these rooms sure don't.

It was weird, seeing nanu there. I know it was weird for him too. He coudn't understand being the one taken care of, me being the person taking care. You see, I'm still his little girl (he still never calls me Aditi but prefers "TM," which is short for "Teenie Meenie" or "Toofan Mail," depending on his mood! And, even through my teenage years, even at 23, I've never minded that particular nickname... I think that's a pretty good summary of our relationship!). He kept apologizing for the "trouble" he was causing, but how could I explain that he, of all people, could never be troublesome?

We are talking of the man who gladly woke up at 2 or 3 AM to peel pomegrantes for his troublesome little grandchildren (my brother and me!) when we were a few years old. This is the one man who I always knew was on my side; if my brother bullied me, he was the first to scold him; if my grandmother turned down a treat I wanted, he was the first to grant me it anyway; when my grandmother's desperation to marry me off starts getting on my nerves, he's the first to change the subject.When I was little, he would often sit me on his knee and tell guests that i was his favorite granddaughter, and i would reply, "how many granddaughters do you have?". "Just one," he'd admit, "but you're still my favorite." One day, he said "grandchild" instead of "granddaughter," but I automatically responded "How many do you have?". "Three" he said, looking at me with an earnestness that I haven't forgotten, some 13 or 14 years after the fact. And yesterday, this man was apologizing for the fact that i spent an afternoon reading at his bedside? How could I even respond to that?

And yet, when he said those words, I knew suddenly that yes, I am his granddaughter. Those would be, often are, my exact thoughts (and, sometimes, words) when the situation is reversed, when I am the one lying helpless in bed. Not to him in particular, but to my caregivers in general. I don't think it's a good or even a healthy frame of mind at that time, but it is mine, and his too apparently. I don't know why, but that sameness was comforting... that sense that despite everything, in some ways we are exactly the same.

The talk of caregivers brings me back again to the operation theater i started writing about earlier. When I awoke from the anesthesia a few hours later, I was shivering and I kept asking for more blankets. I asked the nurse why I felt so cold, and she replied, “Well its not like you have several layers of clothing on in the operation theater, you know.” Not a very comforting answer, but oh well, it would have to do. I slipped back into sleep.

The nurse came back: “Who is accompanying you?”

“A friend.”

“Is she a good friend?”

I thought for a while but was still too fuzzy to analyse the merits of this friend. But she did drive me to the hospital, so I figured she must be good. I said, “Yes, I think so.”

“You think so? Is she or is she not a really close friend?”

This was getting exhausting. I mumbled that she was, although I wasn’t sure yet.

“Okay!” the nurse sounded relieved. Next thing I knew, she asked my friend to come into the room and dress me. Oh, close enough, I supposed.

Interesting the way relationships and definitions change when someone is sick, huh?

November

I just gave someone my blog address claiming that i blog here "fairly regularly" and then that felt like a lie in recent weeks, so I was forced to come here and write something!

No, don't ask me for an update. I have been avoiding blogging and emailing (and even writing my diary, strangely enough) because too much has happened in the last 2 months, and writing about it is like being asked to process it. Don't want to go there, don't want to reflect on CLAP, don't want to process the madness of the few weeks that preceded it, so we'll sum it up as "It went well, much better than I had expected." Unfortunately, I was too stressed out making it happen to actually be able to enjoy it fully... still, i know that the experience was enjoyable and powerful for the participants (I still get SMSes and emails and calls about how much they miss those 4 days together!), so that's satisfying. I think I will write more about the Writing workshop at another time, though... that was one of the most meaningful experiences of my life... so you will hear more soon, jsut not yet.

Today, I went to the Daryaganj book bazaar with Dad. This is a Sunday used-books and used-stationery market that takes place on the pavement outside closed shops in one of the busiest areas of Old Delhi. It's a delight. I picked up lots of books at Rs. 20 or 3o each... but mostly it's jsut a pleasure to watch this place. The variety of stuff you'll see there is simly mindblowing-- I saw everything from Shakespeare and Ovid, to Jane Austen and Dickens, to Da Vinci Code and Sweet Valley. Even more interesting, I saw a book called "How to start a business in Georgia" (exactly what a random Delhi book browser would need, no?), one called "Robotic Science for traders" (still trying to figure out why a trader would need to know robotic science), and another called "How to really love your child" (anyone who buys that one must be beyond help!). It's a relaxed but exciting way to spend you Sunday morning, picking out your favorite books, then just thinking about all the books there and who must buy them...

Still thinking about other things like friendship and trust, although in different ways than what I wrote about a couple of entries ago. my close friends have long accused me of naivete, but i like to think i'm just innocently trustful. They are right, and I am too... I'm just not sure where the line should be drawn.

Another completely random jump: J, a close friend from SUA, visited me for a couple of weeks recently (she just went home on the 6th). It was the first time I introduced a non-Indian friend to my home, my life, the madness that is India. I had fun, and I think she did too. But also, I really got to see India through the eyes of a foreigner. If you read my entries in Feb- April of this year, you know that I was already feeling like I am looking at home from an outsider's perspective, but this time round was different. When I look through the phtographs she took, I am amazed at how I woudl never have taken half the same photos! So much that was new and strange to her was too normal to me for me to even consider photos. But when I look at it now, it's new (on that note, J, if you are reading this, one of the bulls that hung around in the lane behind my house died today, not sure how :(... just saw it as i was leaving for pottery today).

It was cool though, exploring Delhi like this. For the first time in years, I went inside the Lotus temple. For the first time ever, I went inside the Jama Masjid. And to all my Delhi friends who havent been to either, GO! I was amazed by the complete sense of peace inside both those places, especially Jama Masjid, given that it is surrounded by some of the most crowded and noisy streets you can imagine. There's something about buildings that are 5 or 6 centuries old, I tell you... the temperature drops by a few degrees, the noise gets shut out, and suddenly you really feel transported to a different place altogether. Beautiful.

OK, this is perhaps the most incoherent entry I have written in a while. At least I am back to blogging. Hope to write something more meaningful in a few days, now that CLAP is over and I have a life again :)