Monday, February 5, 2018
Last Tuesday, in the wee hours of the morning, I woke up and heard my 25 year old son Cristiano having a heated conversation on the phone with his ex-girlfriend, Elyssa. It sounded torturous, at times angry, at times sad, emotions in conflict. The next day, Cris and I talked about his relationship with Elyssa. I told him he needed to move on and keep learning to take care of himself. I used the example of two drowning people. One tries to save the other and both end up drowning. I told him that while I understood how much he cared about Elyssa, he must cut the cord and move on. Doing so would be best for him and for her. He agreed, though I could feel his pain.
The next day, Wednesday around 6pm, I was driving home in the dark just a couple of blocks from my house when I was overcome with a sense of dread and the persistent feeling that a deer was going to run out in front of my car at any moment. You might even call it a panic attack. The dread wasn’t something unfounded. Once, not too long ago, I was driving home on a night very similar to this one, on this same stretch of road, when a stag galloped out from the woods, just a few yards in front of my car. It was quite surreal. If the stag had stopped I would have hit him.
But that night, on the road that I travel twice a day, I was hit hard with fear for all I could see in my mind’s eye, like a film loop, over and over, was that powerful stag running into the road, right in front of me. So I slowed to a crawl. I should add that I was returning home a little later than usual because I had stopped at a crafts store to look at wooden bird houses. I wanted to paint them in vibrant colors and hang them on the rare and prolific hydrangea tree in my garden, visible from my favorite cozy chair in the living room. In the darkness of winter, I delighted in the idea of colorful little houses inhabited by happy little birds outside my window and I was intent on beginning to make that a reality.
But now, my anxiety was at a pitch, and I was relieved to turn the corner and reach my house. Once inside, I had some dinner and looked forward to putting my feet up and shifting my thoughts to lighter fare. I was checking facebook, scrolling aimlessly past a video of a policeman preparing to shoot a deer. The caption was something like, “Look at this a—hole shooting an innocent deer for no reason…” One of the comments beneath defended the video, pointing out that the policeman was actually doing the right thing by putting the creature out of its misery. I read all this while scrolling past as quickly as possible as I did not want to see that video of the policeman shooting the deer!
I had just scrolled past the video when my cell phone rang. It was Cris. He sounded strange. “Hi, Mom. I think I’m in shock. I’ve already called the police. I’m in my car on the side of the road, right around the corner from our house. I’m in a snow bank. My car came to a stop in some trees. I was just coming home after dropping Elyssa’s stuff off to her. I think I hit a deer. I think it might be under my car. I didn’t mean to hit it. Two of them ran out into the road. I tried to avoid them.” Then sobs, choking panic.
I drove over to the spot, right around the corner, on the main road, along the short strip flanked by woods in dense suburbia, a place where deer have no place to run to or from. A police car was already there with the lights flashing and I pulled up behind it. Cris’s car was further ahead, off to the right side of the road, in the snow bank, near the trees. I strained to see if there was a deer under his car but couldn’t see much except snow. I came out of my car and as the policeman came towards me I told him that was my son in the car and that he was pretty shook up. The policeman was quick to respond, "Ma'am, I have to ask you to get back into your car right now. I have to take the animal out, and most people don’t like that.” In the moment, I didn’t quite understand what he was saying. It was only when I got back into my car that I realized the deer was not further ahead or under Cris’s car but just a few yards to my right. And that’s when I got a good look at the back of the little deer, curled up in the snow, looking away into the darkness. You would have thought it was simply choosing to rest in the snow, its sweet form quite still. It happened very quickly that the policeman took his gun out, aimed, and shot. I tried to be quick too, putting my hands up to my ears, screaming to drown out the sound of the gun. But it was all too fast and my eyes were not as quick to look away. I saw the deer’s struggle, put to a swift and violent end. I brought my hands down from my ears and pressed my palms together tightly, closed my eyes, prayed for the deer, and for us all, as its beautiful spirit floated away into the big tree that stood over us. I then checked on Cris who hadn’t moved from his car. He was okay and the car turned out to be okay. We were grateful for that.
On my way to work the next morning, I looked over to the spot under the big tree. The snow was red. By now the rain will have washed away any evidence of that little life lost just a few nights ago. I will return there soon with my silent prayer for the deer, my dear one, for the tree, and for all that we endure, survive, and wash away.
Saturday, March 18, 2017
In the Atyah Lane days, I vaguely remember going into bustling downtown Rangoon to have family photo portraits done. Or was it during the time that we lived in the village house? The village house, for lack of a better term, was another sunny house in that it was in the open, at the end of a friendly road, and part of an extended family village. The house was on stilts, as are most Burmese houses, and the walls were of woven bamboo. This type of building is well suited to the hot tropical climate. The woven walls allow for air to circulate and maintain a cool interior. The floors were smooth wooden planks. The bathroom was a refined outhouse and the shower water was taken directly from barrel drums containing rain water. One poured the water from a ladle and the water would drain away from the cracks in the wooden floor planks. Laundry was done by the women relatives – aunts and servants, mothers and grandmothers – who would soap and rinse the clothes, wringing them out and then beat them on rocks. It was all such a fascinating play in water and I received a deep blessing in the ways of water from these early experiences.
Public bathing was quite acceptable in places where a drum would hold rain water, on a cement or stone platform. I sometimes felt squeamish around those places because they would be slippery with slimy mold. I would recoil from touching those surfaces. Women would deftly hold a corner of their longyis, or sarongs, unbound, in their teeth and douse themselves with water, wringing their long black hair, which would later be conditioned with coconut oil. To deflect the heat of the day, women and girls smear a paste called thanaka, made from the bark of a tree believed to have medicinal cooling properties, onto their cheeks.
The village house was surrounded by other houses on one side. A road lined with coconut palm trees led to the house. There was also a Buddhist altar about 6 feet high on a pole in front of the house, but near the road, where my aunts and grandmother made offerings. It would often be lit at dusk, like many other altars throughout the village and throughout Burma. There was a Lilliputian stream on the side where the other houses were. I loved to play by the stream and watch the glittering water as it made little eddies and burbling sounds. Most delightful of all were the water chestnut plants that grew along its banks. I would squat and eat the crispy, delicious, fresh, raw water chestnuts, picking away their brown skins, all the while enjoying the green canopy overhead and the benevolent sun lighting up this magical green and watery world. It was my own private Eden.
Behind the house there was a chalk factory, which seemed abandoned, yet mysteriously workable. And behind the chalk factory was the jungle which dipped away, wild and green. My mother often warned us not to play in the chalk factory and especially not in the jungle. Still, being kids, those areas called to us to come and play. My brother and I stood at the edge of the jungle one day and saw a bright green and poisonous snake, perhaps eight feet long, coiled, around the branch of a tree. My brother couldn’t resist approaching and throwing stones at the snake, which became perturbed but not overly eager to leave its perch. I watched the snake’s reaction and became increasingly frightened that it might slither off the branch and chase us, so I ran back towards the house.
We had a gardener in the village house, as we did in the Atyah Lane house, who tended to all the plants around the house. My favorite of all the plants was a small tangerine tree in the front of the house. It couldn’t have been more than 7 feet tall but it was large enough to house a little girl, me, within its branches. I would roost in that tree and eat the fruit and survey the world, protected by branches of citrus leaves and bright orange fruit.
My mother tells me that I used to swear “like a fishmonger” in those days. I was usually quite placid, but when angry, became “mad as a bull” (quite like my Mars in Taurus square Uranus in Leo). My mother had tried to get me to stop swearing but nothing worked. I enjoyed nothing better than to let out a stream of expletives at the top of my lungs for all to hear and if it offended anyone, too bad, it was fun! One day, after yet another round of my public display of expletives, my mother, in desperation, took me out to the chalk factory, pushed my head down over a drain, and with the cold water running where the chalk mixture would have flowed, shoved a white bar of soap into my mouth. With brusque movements, she washed my mouth vigorously with the awful tasting soap. I allowed her to continue until she was satisfied with the duration and severity of the punishment. Her anger spent, she finally stopped. Unruffled by the cleansing, I looked up at her fixedly and exclaimed, “oh, that was good!” I continued to enjoy swearing and swore every chance I got.
I remember Christmas in this house, and a Buddhist festival, and a New Year celebration. The Christmas tree had big colored lights and we sang “Oh Christmas Tree”. My maternal grandmother, Louisa Ling, once set up a cauldron filled with hot fat over an open fire and made doughnuts, the most delicious doughnuts I’ve ever had, and I think it was my birthday! My mother made a traditional festive Burmese sweet drink that contains, among other things, tiny blocks of cold gelatinous inky sea weed. There were strings of colorful lanterns in the front of the house for the celebration. The night air was gentle and sensuous in a way that one can only feel in the tropics, I'm sure of it. The celebration may also have been New Year’s or Buddhist October festival.
It was in the village house that my nanny created meticulous styles with my hair. One that I liked in particular featured a pony tail on the very top of my head. The hair was allowed to fall open, fountain like and folded under, into a mushroom shaped bun (in physics, a torus). The bun was then decorated with tiny white paper flowers resembling mimosa. My nanny would do anything that I asked. She once made me a fried egg for a snack when I complained of being hungry. After eating the egg, I told her I was still hungry, so she made me another egg. And so it continued till I had consumed 5 or 6 eggs. My mother was very upset when she heard about this later from the nanny and she encouraged her to not give in to my demands. I think she was upset not only by the number of eggs I had eaten but also my apparent joy in bossing the nanny.
I would spend my days playing under the house which, being on stilts, had a 3 or 4 foot crawl space. It was dry beneath the house, useful for play during monsoon downpours, a perfect home beneath a home in which to play house. I would pretend to cook in an old tin can filled with water and spend hours preparing the pretend soup. My favorite activity was cutting with a little bamboo knife that my father made for me – it was nothing more than a large sliver of bamboo sharpened along one side, but harmless. For my slicing pleasure I would collect banana peels and leaves of all kinds. I loved the way the “ingredients” felt in my hands and under the blade of the knife. Thick juicy leaves were a real treat to cut. I would inspect the surface of leaves and look within, seeing structures and imagine unseen green mysteries. The banana peels were versatile in that they could be sliced and also scraped for their fibrous interior right down to the yellow portion of the peel and then sliced. I would drop the leaves and banana peels into the tin can pot which I pretended was boiling and I would stir, stir, stir the soup until it was ready to serve. I never did get to the serving part of the meal. Cooking it was enough. My love of cooking started then as an innate urge to play with raw ingredients. Fire was an important element that I missed but resigned myself to doing without. I knew I was a child and could not be allowed to play with fire. But oh how I missed it! I consoled myself with quiet moments by my little secret stream, away from the prying eyes of elders, where I could squat and sample the tasty water chestnuts. I also picked and ate little red flowers which grew in the sunny front yard – I see them in the U.S. – in the begonia family, I think – and I never got sick. They had a delightful tartness that I found hard to resist so I would pick and eat as I wished. Somehow I knew they were safe to eat. No one ever stopped me or even noticed that I was eating the ornamental flowers. After a while the other children in the village compound began to join me for this floral banquet. None of us got sick.
The women servants and some of my aunts and cousins would begin the day by bathing and meditating and making offerings to Buddha and the nats, animistic spirits who lived in the trees and throughout the natural world. Then they would walk to market in Rangoon center along a dusty road, already hot in the early morning in most seasons. In the cool season, October through February, it was always so pleasant to greet the gentle colors of the quiet day and walk hand in hand with one of the servants, usually my nanny, or with an aunt or my grandmother. My mother did not do these chores on a regular basis. She had servants and the help of women on my father’s side of the family. In the green peace of the morning my paternal grandmother, Daw Shwe (which translates to “Golden Lady”), who was one hundred percent Burmese, would take me gently by the hand to a dewy field. There we would walk through the frangrant grass and pick the tenderest little button mushrooms. How delicious they tasted, magical mushrooms, served later that day at lunch, simply stirfried. I can still taste the mystery of their flavor, part nocturnal nectar, part sun and dew! I can still feel Daw Shwe's presence as I write, alive and vibrant, so loving and wise, my hand in hers.
Like all markets, Rangoon’s was bustling. Whoever I tagged along with would inevitably end up haggling over a purchase, maybe a chicken or household item. The market sold meats, fruits and vegetables, housewares and crafts brought from the hill villages around Rangoon. The crowd was diverse as well – farmers, craftsmen, artisans from various hill tribes dressed in their traditional tribal garb, each distinct in the types of fabrics and designs. There were Burmans too from the Irrawaddy delta, of which Rangoon is the epicenter.
As the morning wore on, the market’s stench increased due to the lack of refrigeration. Big fat flies would buzz around the meats being chopped on huge wooden slabs. The purveyors of pork would sit crossed legged right on their raised chopping blocks and hack off pieces of meat with giant chinese cleavers. Burmese laypeople are not usually strict vegetarians but due to the scarcity of meat, especially beef, they tend not to each much meat but to stretch it in curries. They cook with meat as much for the flavor it lends to the curry gravy as for the protein in the meat itself.
The women would return from market by 9 AM and begin cooking for the entire day. Light soups were often a favorite served with richer curries, as sides, for the main dish of rice. The soups were flavored with dried shrimp and garlic and usually some type of gourd. Sometimes, I would gather leaves from a certain tree or pick water spinach by the stream to add to the soup. These plants were esteemed not just for their flavor but for what was considered their cleansing, tonic properties.
One of my aunts had a friend who owned a shop. It was probably not much more than a makeshift shelter. There were numerous colorful clothes hanging, serving as doors. The friend asked me if I was hungry, took me into the back of the shop and made me a plate of rice and dahl with fried whole chilis on the side. The chilis were hot and smoky and burned my lips but I was undaunted, finishing off the whole thing. Simple as it was, it remains one of the most memorable meals of my life, probably certainly the first one that I remember clearly.
I don’t remember exactly which house I grew up in, of the few that I remember. Most of my memories though go back to Atyah Lane, though some of my memories go back further, rooted in the old colonial house that we lived in, huge, a bit moldy and old, a grand staircase, and tales of ghosts due to the rumor (or fact?) that WWII soldiers were buried beneath or near the house. Still others, perhaps the most recent, go back to the village house shared with family in a village. One very distinct memory I have of the colonial house is of a scorpion scuttling across the cold marble floor. The house was English in every way, except that it was built on Burmese soil, surrounded by Buddhist culture and a tropical climate. In fact, the tropical climate seemed to have overtaken the old home. It bore signs of mold on the outside and had a certain dark caste to it. I always see the house in shadows or on a dark, rainy day, the white marble staircase and exterior contrasted with green tropical foliage, growth and mold.
But Atyah Lane was not in any way dark, unless you consider living on the edge of a cemetery dark. Atyah Lane was a sunny place, in any case. It was wide open to its environs, the countryside, or suburb if you will, around Rangoon. You came upon it along a dusty, flat road full of scrubby plants and active life – dogs and people going into town and back – and turned into a circular driveway where you would see my father’s jeep, the army green landrover, and a black dog, Chabo, running to greet you, barking. Behind the house there was a Buddhist cemetery. I remember seeing burning pires, and smelling the rituals of Buddhist funerals. I would peer over the fence, wondering. My brother played soccer on the other side of that fence, I think. The earth there looked dry and reddish gold. There was a sense of peace and beauty about the place.
I don’t remember the inside of the Atyah Lane house at all. There was a gardener and a dog and many flowers, along the circular drive, that I now know as a variety called “glass flowers” in a shade of delicate lavender with feathery leaves. I was fascinated by those flowers and I still associate them with the sun, and reddish gold earth and – monsoons!
I don’t remember my sister’s presence, so would guess that she hadn’t yet been born when we lived there. So I must have been about 4 years old. My brother and I played near the cemetery and on swings. He loved to tease me mercilessly and I remember the few times he got carried away. He pushed me on the swings, higher and higher until I was terrified. At one point I fell from the swing and cut something, maybe my arm or back? It hurt and I was scared. I think Richard felt bad about it. I know that soon after the injury my mother was looking me over. I survived.
Richard and I loved to go out and play in the rain. We would run out onto the muddy golden driveway, the mud claylike and crawling with tropical worms the size of large stick pretzels. Richard would pick up the fat brown worms and drape them from his mouth to disgust me or chase me, teasing, then fling the worms in my face. I remember the warm rain, like a bath, a shower coming down hard, without any wind, and the sun peeking through. It was a rainbow rain, perfect for wet play. The feel of mud beneath, squishy golden clean mud and the glistening rain warmed by the sun, eternal and blissful. I shall never forget the joy of playing in it all. However, I did develop a terrible fear, a phobia really, of earthworms. I am so grateful that my parents, my mother especially, never prevented us from playing in all kinds of weather and conditions. I’m convinced that it contributed to our creativity, to this day, and our sense of playfulness and humor. Richard, Janet and I share those qualities. If you want to understand someone better, ask them how they played as children.
Atyah Lane had the jeep in front of the house, ready for adventures. How my father loved driving that jeep and how much we loved tagging along. One day, my father took us three kids (or maybe just the two of us, me and Richard?) to a lake, maybe Inye Lake. It was not a shoreline within Rangoon, but more remote and there was no one else there that I can recall. It almost seemed like an ocean shoreline, but it was most definitely a lake. My father drove the jeep slightly into the water, with a sense of adventure and daring and it gave me the oddest feeling of driving on water, into water – the incongruity of it, the contrast – it felt scary and weird, freaky, but thrilling too. We parked on the shore of the lake and my father built a fire and suspended a pot over it and boiled split peas in water. I think he was intending to make dahl but it tasted like slightly raw split pea soup with no salt or seasonings. It actually tasted good within that spirit of adventure, roughing it on the shore of a Burmese lake, in the company of just my father and brother and possibly my little sister as well.
When I was about 5 years old, I wandered out to the dusty road to play. Coming towards me along the dusty road was a black dog. As he got closer, I could see that he was not normal in the sense that dogs are friendly creatures. And when he got close and tried to “kiss” me, it was with a frothy mouth and glazed eyes. He tottered away, unsteady on his legs. Later, at dinner, my maternal grandmother insisted to my parents that I had been licked by a mad, rabid dog and that I would need immediate treatment for rabies. So my parents took me to the hospital where I had been born, the Rangoon Seventh Day Adventist Hospital. Over the course of the next few weeks, I had daily injections directly into my abdomen. The needle was the size of a knitting needle. After the first couple of times, the mere sight of the hospital sent me into a panic. I was filled with terror of the white coats that stood waiting on the inside of the hospital to inject me as I lay helpless, my abdomen exposed. The needle looked scary but the shot was more painful than the fear. By the third or fourth time we pulled up in front of the hospital I knew very well what awaited me inside and I would screech, kick and try to get away. My parents decided half way through the shots that I would have no more of them. They would risk rabies to save my young mind, consumed with dread. I still fear doctors, hospitals, the smell of disinfectant, and those white coated saints waiting to heal by inflicting pain.
The Burmese Mermaid was born in the Seventh Day Adventist Hospital in Rangoon, Burma on August 17, 1958, a Sunday, at 3:02 AM. It was August 16th on the East Coast of the United States, so sometimes I like to say that I have the same birth day and year as Madonna, August 16, 1958, making us astrological twins of sorts. That is stretching it a bit, but not too much, just kidding around with my mermaid friends, since they know my proclivity for astrology. Actually, I have a Cancer Ascendant or Rising Sign and I believe Madonna has Scorpio Rising. Water signs. We dive deep. We both have the Moon in Virgo (The Virgin, no less! – recall Madonna’s hit “Like a Virgin”), but really there is a lot more to that symbology that we can get into later. And of course we have that big old lolling Sun, King of the Heavens, at 23 degrees of Leo the Lion. Twenty three: my magical (let’s not say lucky) number, as you shall see as my story unfolds. For now, it is time for me to return to the undersea world of deep blue and green dreams. See you again soon, my friends.
Friday, May 27, 2016
Friday, May 6, 2016
"Often the hands will solve a mystery that the intellect has struggled with in vain." ~C.G. Jung
"And in that moment, he was finally able to accept it all. In the deepest recesses of his soul, Tsukuru Tazaki understood. One heart is not connected to another through harmony alone. They are, instead, linked deeply through their wounds. Pain linked to pain, fragility to fragility. There is no silence without a cry of grief, no forgiveness without bloodshed, no acceptance without a passage through acute loss. That is what lies at the root of true harmony."
From Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki, by Haruki Murakami