1)  You have promised a friend something, help and advice of a certain sort.

2)  You keep your eyes and ears open for opportunities that would be useful for this friend, try to get ideas and advice on the issue in question, and rack your brain trying to figure out ways to help directly.

3)  A different friend takes a long-time dream of your husband’s and pushes it, acting as a catalyst for a huge potential change.

4)  In the process of making this dream into a working venture the second friend will essentially be achieving the goal of the first friend.

5)  The venture in question is not something within the known skillset of the first friend.  Well, there would be some set-up and a small bit of maintenance involved in the business that would suit his knowledge–but not much.  Most of the necessary work force is going to be hands-on and dirty stuff.  (But oh so much fun, I think.)

6)  Despite #5 above, it is remotely possible that friend 1 would be interested in joining the project just as a stepping stone to reaching his goals.

Ay Bhagwan!

Friend 1 is a hard guy to pin down and I am very rarely inclined to go chasing people for any reason–well, except my husband, but that is a different matter.  LOL  As I have stated previously, I am available to my friends if I am needed and I do not worry inordinately about most of them if I do not talk to them for long periods.  (O-kay, let me amend that: I do not worry about the vast majority of my loved ones IF I KNOW they are o-kay; that usually means that they are following their regular patterns and are, therefore, obviously still on the planet.  I HAVE been know to send friends a brief ‘hey are you alive?’ message if I see no sign of them in several weeks and no one else in our circle has news of them.)

O-kay, so no hovering, no chasing, and if a couple of attempts to contact someone go unanswered, they have to make the next move because I absolutely do not have time or energy to waste beating a dead horse.  I have been known to go off the reservation from time to time and friends in the know have not always passed on the info that I am out of reach for a while.  HOWEVER, when friends DO pop in and out, I sure as heck do not want to feel like I am useful only to help solve their problems or provide a shoulder to cry on while being otherwise ignorable.  I don’t know if that is ego or common sense talking or if it is callous…but putting that down in words in being true to myself and my perspective on friendship.  I am not a user and I can’t stand people who are.  I refuse to deliberately surround myself with them or to encourage that kind of attitude.  Uff!  Chup raho, mera dimag…  Back on track.

Other things I have been considering related to my dilemma…

I do not know how personalities are going to mesh.  Both friends are very dear to me and I love them to bits.  Both of them seem to feel the same way, but that does not mean that there will not be clashes.  The more people involved, the harder it could potentially be on the interpersonal relationships involved.  Do I want to risk my relationship to friend 1 on this crazy idea of ours?

Plus, there is always the chance of failure; even if we get the venture to fly, it could crash.  Friend 2 is emotionally invested in this to an amazing degree.  We have discussed the chances of success–and the potential for defeat.  He is older than friend 1 and has taken risks before.  He loves risk.  He also believes wholeheartedly that we will overcome anything by working hard and working together and does not even accept that failure is an option.  He told me, ‘Whatever comes, we will face it.  We will fight together, because we have to fight.’  Of course, he said it in Hindi.  LOL  Do I want to risk the chance of involving my other friend in something as risky as this start-up?  Is it up to me?  Am I being too protective of this particular friend?  Maybe.  I am protective of all of my friends, but there are two of them that I am particularly apt to worry about.

So…  What to do?  What to do?  My heart and my head are both confused.  Maybe I should talk this over with friend 2…  I don’t know how he will feel about bringing someone else into the scheme.  Maybe I should let Karma decide–just think of a sign that will let me know one way or the other…

In the meantime, I have such a great deal of research to do to even figure out if this project is going to get off the ground!  I have been at it for a week and my head is already spinning.  It is almost as bad as trying to navigate all of the rigamarole involved with immigrant visas–maybe worse.  Research, planning, capital…then an offer lettre to prepare for friend 2 if this pans out at all.  There is also alternate planning to do in case we have to switch gears and adjust the project, because I am not going to be satisfied with the status quo any longer.  Something needs to change.  I need sleep but have hundreds of pages to read through.

(sigh)  I am trying not to get friend 2′s hopes up; do I really need to add one more person’s interests into the mix?  I could ask my husband’s advice, but I can anticipate his response.  He is very protective of me and has a bad reaction to people who hurt my feelings or make me sad; the fact that friend 1 once made me cry does so NOT work in his favour as far as Jason is concerned.  Of course, even if he had not apologised long ago, I would never tell my friend that he hurt me, especially not that much.

It is just too much to think anymore about right now.  I am exhausted and my mind needs a break.  Not only do I need to go to bed, but friend 2 is hovering around his office somewhere in Pune because I forgot to eat–again.    That’s o-kay.  It’s funny…  My Indian friends and I all  have this nurturing thing about each other’s eating habits–watching over each other, I guess, across the distances.  (Aap apne khana khaye?  Hanji.  Aur aap?  Kab?  Kya?  Bahut accha.)  It’s kind of sweet.    One friend absolutely does not like to cook.  As a joke, I have started e-mailing him pictures of different foods during our voice chats–a sky-high stack of pancakes or a golden, flaky croissant.  In return he keeps threatening to send kg’s of ladoo to me and my husband (his bara bhai).  I should make ladoo and mail him a kg or two as a surprise.  I may do that.  One box for him and one for his roommate.  I wonder how quickly I can get a package to Delhi…  Arrey!  Off-topic again! 

On that note, I am signing off.  I may or may not be able to get my brain to stop running in ragged circles about this.  Whatever.  I am going to try, at least.  Things have a way of working out as they are intended to do.  Good night and sweet dreams to my friends whom I adore.  And to those of you in India to whom I cannot give these in person–mera ‘raaz’, mera ‘beta’, and those who don’t have nicknames of their own…yet:  Mai ek jadu ki japhi aur bahut pyar bhi bhej rahi hu, aaj aur hamesha.  Namaste.

It is a very nice feeling to know that someone just cannot imagine starting their days without at least a quick check-in to say, ‘Hi.  I am thinking of you.  I love you.  Your laugh makes my day.’  While my husband is the one person I have to have, some of my friends certainly make my days brighter.  I look forward to those chats now: text chats, voice chats, video chats, cam plus text, whatever.  I am also building a collection of photographs (unsolicited but so welcome) that link me to the lives of my friends, their loved ones, their jobs.  By the time I visit India, I will be able to recognise nieces and nephews and girlfriends…

I must say, that there are people I am finding myself thankful for in profound ways.  There are certain days of the week that I know I will get to spend hours with one of the dearest, sweetest people I know.  There are days when I know I will get to wish another friend ‘sweet dreams’ and then wish him well as he begins his day anew.  There are days when I am scheduled to meet my guru and know that my brain will be aching at the end from information overload–but my stomach will also be aching from laughter then, too.  These days are ones I look forward to from the moment one call is ended until the next is begun.  Meetings in between are bonuses.    These are friends who know that a ‘busy’ status in G-Mail is not meant for them–and vice versa.  I am going to have to strike a deal with one friend when he wakes up today, though.   If I stay on-line with him for hours, he is going to have to help me study instead of side-tracking me with whatever new thing he comes up with.

I had the nicest surprise recently.  One of my friends shocked me by initiating our first voice chat–after something like 5 months of e-mailing, text chatting, and cam.  When the video chat request came through, I expected that we would have cams only.  When I heard my friend’s voice, I was too thrilled and happy to even begin to express it.  I am sure the expression on my face was priceless, and I probably lit up like a lamp.  We do not get to chat very often anymore, but this is one of those friends who very quickly nested deeply in my heart.  Being able to finally match a voice to him was a precious gift.  I had to laugh afterward, however.  He asked me to speak Hindi to him and I got embarrassed.  All I could say at first was, ‘I am shy!  I can’t; I don’t know what to say.’  Of course, being in the grips of some of the worst performance anxiety EVER, I was also a mumbling mess.  I did not realise it until later, but he thought my ‘I am shy’ was a mangled attempt at ‘Namaste’.  O-kay, now I am not only incredibly shy but now I feel unbelievably stupid.  Who in the world cannot pronounce ‘Namaste’?  OMG…  Now I will never EVER be able to talk to him in Hindi, much less Gujarati!  LOL

My degree of comfort in speaking Hindi varies from friend to friend.  I do not know why.  They are all so supportive of my occasionally hilarious attempts to communicate.  They often laugh at me when I talk to them in Hindi, not in a bad way, but simply from delight.  I say, ‘Accha laga!’ to some outrageous statement or another and then just wait for the rolling laughter before the response, ‘Mujhe bhi accha laga.’  Of course, I am the same when they pick up slang from me and repeat it days later; I cannot help but laugh then, too.  One friend calls me his koyal because of how he makes me laugh.  Then I tease him because a koyal is a cuckoo–which can be synonymous with ‘crazy’ in the U.S.  That’s alright.  I am crazy.

I am certainly crazy about my friends.  I am surprised and happy that my oh-so-shy husband is even making friends with one or two of them.  He has been claimed as bara bhai by one, so I guess that makes me bhabhi-ji.  LOL  Jason felt so honoured by this that he celebrated by trying his chota bhai’s favourite dish the next time we had Indian food.  I have the best husband ever!  To be able to add all of my friends to my blessings makes me the luckiest person on the face of the earth.  (!!!!) 

Waise, it strikes me as odd sometimes–because I am so painfully shy and am so fabulously and gratefully content to be alone and left in peace–but I love meeting new people.  (My precious friend Pushpak is the same way.)  I like getting to know people, even if it turns out that an individual is someone I don’t care to add into my life beyond that fleeting experience.  Phir bhi mai ek push-over hu dosti ke liye.  When it comes to romance, mai ek mountain hu, virtually unmoveable.  I do not trust easily, and it took a long time for me to fall in love; but once my heart was lost, that was it.  Some people have trouble understanding how I can look at some random gorgeous guy and not drool; the only thing I might drool over is the thought of having a camera in hand and some time to shoot this or that person’s unique visage (and it is usually the flaws that draw me, rather than the perfection).  I might as well have blinders on, though, because the only person I can ‘see’ in any sort of romantic/sexual way is my husband.  When it comes to loving my friends, though, I have to admit that I am completely different.  (Did I say ‘completely’?  I meant ‘COMPLETELY’!)  There have been certain people who, when I met them, clicked so completely with me that I was utterly unable to prevent myself from falling in love (so to speak) with them within weeks or even days.  As I paused to consider some of the new friends I made in 2011, I contemplated how a couple of them fell into this category.  That started me thinking about how other people measure the strength of their friendships and about how there simply are these individuals that you click so immediately and strongly with that you feel like your lives have always been intertwined.

I know someone (‘Tweedle’) whose best friends are people Tweedle has known since grammar school.  The relationship dynamics are a complete puzzle to me.  One friend (‘Dee’)  is always in a crisis (sometimes real) and routinely needs a shoulder to cry on.  Thik hai.  I can understand that, sort of.  It may be a little bit lopsided, but their relationship is relatively reciprocal; Tweedle does a lot of moaning in return–plus gets a feeling of satisfaction in being the grown-up, rational partner in the friendship with Dee.  Dee is seriously invested in the friendship, feels like a part of Tweedle’s family, and calls or stops by to chat even when things are…well, as copacetic as they get in Dee’s life.  Then there is ‘Dum’…  Dum keeps secrets from a spouse and drags Tweedle  into every possible permutation of this deception–except infidelity…Mujhe vishvaas hai.  In the vast majority of instances, Tweedle only finds out about the deception when it is too late.  Dum calls Tweedle almost exclusively when Dum wants something from Tweedle.  Often these things are framed so that Tweedle thinks (at first) that Dum is just wanting to do something good for Tweedle; you would think Tweedle would have learned by now.  When Tweedle has some reason not to participate in one whim or another of Dum’s, Dum gets very nasty and decides not to talk to Tweedle–until Dum needs an accomplice again.  In the end, Tweedle is always left feeling used and betrayed by Dum, but Dum is Tweedle’s ‘best friend’ and ‘Dum has always been like that.’  …hmmm…

The next situation on my mind is that of ‘Frank’.  Frank is one of those people with a heart the size of the sun.  Frank will give everything for a friend, and they come to know it very quickly.  Frank is super intelligent, super handy, super fun.  Frank is also quiet and introspective; Frank does not drink, club, or party in any way acceptable to those who cannot live without getting plastered on a regular basis.  As Frank’s childhood friends slowly got their lives together and needed Frank’s help and advice less and less often, they all faded away.  Being a loyal friend, it took a long time for Frank to finally give up on these individuals.  Ab tak, Frank has stopped taking calls from certain recognisable numbers; and Frank has moved, so most of these people have no idea where to find Frank when they ‘need’ to.  Aajakal, Frank is more reserved and warms slowly to new people; Frank thinks carefully before considering someone a ‘friend’ rather than an ‘acquaintance’.  Ha, Frank kabhi kabhi thora lonely lagata hai, magar abhi tak vo bhi kam frustrated lagata hai.  I am glad to have the privilege of claiming Frank as a central part of my life, and I am even more glad that Frank feels the same way.

Everywhere I turn, it seems like there are people in situations similar to Tweedle and Frank’s.  That is not to say that I don’t see evidence of non-dysfunctional friendships, lekin they seem to get harder to find as the days go by.  I have even experienced one or two strange relationships that needed to be ended as soon as possible.  There is nothing quite like watching helplessly as a friend deliberately nurtures his/her emotionally damaging habits and slowly unravels until, following a mini-psychotic break, that friend just disappears from your life like a wisp of fog.  Discovering that someone is a sociopath instead of real friend is also an adventure. (Boy, howdy!)  Overall, though, I count myself exceedingly lucky in friendship.

I do ponder the ways other people measure their friendships with people, though; and I am baffled as to why length of acquaintance should have such pride of place when calculating how much someone means to you.   I am not into astrology, but I have had miscellaneous people tell me for years that the way I make friends and the way I feel about them is distinctively Sagittarian.  Mai us bare me nahi jaanati hu.  I just know that I occasionally meet people that I like and they find a place in my heart; it is just as if I was made with special rooms in my soul that certain people happen to fit into perfectly.  Some of my friendships burn hot and bright and pass quickly like comets, but my affection for those people does not fade–just thinking about certain people from my past fills me with warmth and happiness.  I know from experience that if I met these people today, my heart would take over like no time had passed.  For me, good friends are my family members.  God picks the people you are related to by blood; it is up to you to love them and accept them as they are, but you may not always like them or feel any intimate personal connexion to them.  Friends, though, are the family you get to pick for yourself, the people who are in your life because Kismet brought them into it–and you kept them there, sometimes without effort and sometimes with.

I have friends that I have known since childhood and friends that I have made in adulthood.  Many of these are nice and sweet and fun and great to know and hang out with, yadda-yadda blah-blah-blah…  That is amazing and fundamental and I by no means take that for granted; but the individuals that are kept deep within my heart are not necessarily the ones who have known me the longest or who I talk to the most.  The friends that I consider family include individuals I have met only recently, within the past few months.  It staggers me at times.  How can time measure how positively someone impacts your life or how intensely you appreciate the fact that they exist?  I just don’t think it can–not definitely, not accurately, not in any emotionally valid way.

Dosti itani ajib hai, halanki…  Some friendships are hard to nurture, no matter how much you treasure the other person in the relationship.  Just as in all relationships, in friendships not only do you have to manage your own emotional baggage, but you also have to maintain an awareness of what your friends are hauling around, as well.  For example, some of my friends come from families where affection was never displayed in any outward manner, verbally or physically.  (Arrey!  That makes me so sad!)  My natural tendency is to touch and hug and to use endearments.  This instinct is hard to curb, but I can manage it (barely–and I am slowly acclimating some of them to my ways  lol).  Navigating cultural differences can be challenging, too, and language is only the smallest part of this.  Every single friendship has its exclusive stumbling points.  The trouble and care is absolutely worth it, though, when the friendship in question runs deep and true.

That’s the thing…’deep and true’.  It is not always easy, but I have learned that it is vitally important to make sure that I am aware of how every distinct friendship operates, how healthy it is for me and for everyone involved.  Ye sabse sach dosti hain those that uplift both partners, change them somehow in the subtlest and/or most obvious ways, make them better people, and leave their mark forever.  Yah meri raaya hai jo bhi ho; par aap apani khuda ki raay ke liye svaagat hain. 

There have been times when I have wondered about the intentions of my friends, of course.  I have been blessed, though, in that the people who have drawn closest to me are usually not the same ones who cause me to question their integrity.  Looking back, I can see that in most of those WT#! cases, I ignored a lot of early warning signs and did a lot of unnecessary patch-up jobs on relationships that should have died a natural death quite early on.  Shaayad I should start separating friends into ‘friends’ and ‘Friends’ categories…  Na.  Why cubbyhole a relationship that might suddenly (or slowly) metamorphose into something fabulous down the road?!?  Hai na?

I guess–in the end–my personal perceptions about friendship are intimately linked to my philosophy about the nature of existence itself.  I hold with the belief that everything in creation is inexorably related.  Everyone and everything is part and parcel of everyone and everything else.  We all hail from the same source, the same energy, and are transmuted into the corporeal creatures we perceive as real and solid.  It just may be that the energy in me more strongly recognises the energy in this person or this tree because our respective energies once were swirling together more closely than the energy that currently makes up that person or that tree.  Perhaps people are drawn to others because their energies can distinguish other energies, can perceive that these energies are familiar and more compatible with their own than other energies, even if they do not consciously realise it.  Who knows, though, really.

Accha.  To mai rambling gayi.  LOL  I love my friends!  That is the long and short of it.  When it comes right down to it, the way the rest of the world decides which of their friends they love best doesn’t matter.  I just know that I have some of the best friends in the world, and do I love them deeply.  Maybe my ideas about friendship are naive, but they work for me; and I get the feeling they work for my friends, too.    Sometimes I am a sister, sometimes a sparring partner, sometimes a confessor or advisor or sounding board.  Sometimes we fight, and sometimes we hurt each other’s feelings a bit.  But we make up and we dry each other’s tears.  They know I am never far away from them, in heart at least.  Most of them will never read this post of mine (which is a relief), but I am sending them my best thoughts and my tightest hugs right now (as always), and I like to think that they will know that.    I think that is quite enough out of me now!  LOL  Good night, all…  XOXOXOXO

SOME writers have so confounded society with government, as to leave little or no distinction between them; whereas they are not only different, but have different origins. Society is produced by our wants, and government by our wickedness; the former promotes our happiness POSITIVELY by uniting our affections, the latter NEGATIVELY by restraining our vices. The one encourages intercourse, the other creates distinctions. The first is a patron, the last a punisher.

Society in every state is a blessing, but Government, even in its best state, is but a necessary evil; in its worst state an intolerable one: for when we suffer, or are exposed to the same miseries BY A GOVERNMENT, which we might expect in a country WITHOUT GOVERNMENT, our calamity is heightened by reflecting that we furnish the means by which we suffer. Government, like dress, is the badge of lost innocence; the palaces of kings are built upon the ruins of the bowers of paradise. For were the impulses of conscience clear, uniform and irresistibly obeyed, man would need no other lawgiver; but that not being the case, he finds it necessary to surrender up a part of his property to furnish means for the protection of the rest; and this he is induced to do by the same prudence which in every other case advises him, out of two evils to choose the least. Wherefore, security being the true design and end of government, it unanswerably follows that whatever form thereof appears most likely to ensure it to us, with the least expense and greatest benefit, is preferable to all others.

It goes on, of course, and there is much said against the rule of monarchs and the privileges of the nobility.  While not all of this is pertinent to contemporary U.S. citizens, the entire text of this pamphlet resonates deeply with passion and insight.  It is easy to draw parallels with the current state of U.S. government:

Here then is the origin and rise of government; namely, a mode rendered necessary by the inability of moral virtue to govern the world; here too is the design and end of government, viz. Freedom and security. And however our eyes may be dazzled with show, or our ears deceived by sound; however prejudice may warp our wills, or interest darken our understanding, the simple voice of nature and reason will say, ’tis right.

I draw my idea of the form of government from a principle in nature which no art can overturn, viz. that the more simple any thing is, the less liable it is to be disordered, and the easier repaired when disordered; and with this maxim in view I offer a few remarks on the so much boasted constitution of England. That it was noble for the dark and slavish times in which it was erected, is granted. When the world was overrun with tyranny the least remove therefrom was a glorious rescue. But that it is imperfect, subject to convulsions, and incapable of producing what it seems to promise is easily demonstrated.

Absolute governments, (tho’ the disgrace of human nature) have this advantage with them, they are simple; if the people suffer, they know the head from which their suffering springs; know likewise the remedy; and are not bewildered by a variety of causes and cures. But the constitution of England is so exceedingly complex, that the nation may suffer for years together without being able to discover in which part the fault lies; some will say in one and some in another, and every political physician will advise a different medicine.

SIDE NOTE:  As I re-read parts of this treatise tonight, I was once again amazed at how little things actually change.  I was also reminded of another quote, one that–when I first read it–immediately brought Paine’s words to my mind. It comes from a character (Freeman ibn Solomon) in Nick Harkaway’s novel THE GONE AWAY WORLD (p102)…

Law is error, you see.  It’s an attempt to write down a lot of things everyone ought to know anyway.  We don’t have that.  Every one of us is expected to act within the constraints of those actions.  That is not as comfortable a position as you might think.

Paine goes from speaking of the failures of the British government to talking about the escalation of the enmity between Great Britain and the American colonies into armed conflict.  In one paragraph, it is painfully easy to see how ‘Great Britain’ could be replaced by a new amalgamated entity–a ravening beast created by the conjoining of our Governmental figures with the Military and Corporate special interests, and these have become inseparably intertwined–and the effects of long ravishment at the hands of this beast are undeniable and cannot be ignored by those who suffer from the abuse…  (WARNING–long quote follows)

Alas! we have been long led away by ancient prejudices and made large sacrifices to superstition. We have boasted the protection of Great Britain, without considering, that her motive was INTEREST not ATTACHMENT; and that she did not protect us from OUR ENEMIES on OUR ACCOUNT; but from HER ENEMIES on HER OWN ACCOUNT, from those who had no quarrel with us on any OTHER ACCOUNT, and who will always be our enemies on the SAME ACCOUNT. Let Britain waive her pretensions to the Continent, or the Continent throw off the dependence, and we should be at peace with France and Spain, were they at war with Britain. The miseries of Hanover last war ought to warn us against connections.

[....]

The authority of Great Britain over this continent, is a form of government, which sooner or later must have an end: And a serious mind can draw no true pleasure by looking forward, under the painful and positive conviction that what he calls “the present constitution” is merely temporary. As parents, we can have no joy, knowing that this government is not sufficiently lasting to ensure any thing which we may bequeath to posterity: And by a plain method of argument, as we are running the next generation into debt, we ought to do the work of it, otherwise we use them meanly and pitifully. In order to discover the line of our duty rightly, we should take our children in our hand, and fix our station a few years farther into life; that eminence will present a prospect which a few present fears and prejudices conceal from our sight.

Though I would carefully avoid giving unnecessary offence, yet I am inclined to believe, that all those who espouse the doctrine of reconciliation, may be included within the following descriptions. Interested men, who are not to be trusted, weak men who CANNOT see, prejudiced men who will not see, and a certain set of moderate men who think better of the European world than it deserves; and this last class, by an ill-judged deliberation, will be the cause of more calamities to this Continent than all the other three.

It is the good fortune of many to live distant from the scene of present sorrow; the evil is not sufficiently brought to their doors to make them feel the precariousness with which all American property is possessed. But let our imaginations transport us a few moments to Boston; that seat of wretchedness will teach us wisdom, and instruct us for ever to renounce a power in whom we can have no trust. The inhabitants of that unfortunate city who but a few months ago were in ease and affluence, have now no other alternative than to stay and starve, or turn out to beg. Endangered by the fire of their friends if they continue within the city and plundered by the soldiery if they leave it, in their present situation they are prisoners without the hope of redemption, and in a general attack for their relief they would be exposed to the fury of both armies.

Men of passive tempers look somewhat lightly over the offences of Great Britain, and, still hoping for the best, are apt to call out, “Come, come, we shall be friends again for all this.” But examine the passions and feelings of mankind: bring the doctrine of reconciliation to the touchstone of nature, and then tell me whether you can hereafter love, honour, and faithfully serve the power that hath carried fire and sword into your land? If you cannot do all these, then are you only deceiving yourselves, and by your delay bringing ruin upon posterity. Your future connection with Britain, whom you can neither love nor honour, will be forced and unnatural, and being formed only on the plan of present convenience, will in a little time fall into a relapse more wretched than the first. But if you say, you can still pass the violations over, then I ask, hath your house been burnt? Hath your property been destroyed before your face? Are your wife and children destitute of a bed to lie on, or bread to live on? Have you lost a parent or a child by their hands, and yourself the ruined and wretched survivor? If you have not, then are you not a judge of those who have. But if you have, and can still shake hands with the murderers, then are you unworthy the name of husband, father, friend or lover, and whatever may be your rank or title in life, you have the heart of a coward, and the spirit of a sycophant.

This is not inflaming or exaggerating matters, but trying them by those feelings and affections which nature justifies, and without which, we should be incapable of discharging the social duties of life, or enjoying the felicities of it. I mean not to exhibit horror for the purpose of provoking revenge, but to awaken us from fatal and unmanly slumbers, that we may pursue determinately some fixed object. It is not in the power of Britain or of Europe to conquer America, if she do not conquer herself by delay and timidity. The present winter is worth an age if rightly employed, but if lost or neglected, the whole continent will partake of the misfortune; and there is no punishment which that man will not deserve, be he who, or what, or where he will, that may be the means of sacrificing a season so precious and useful.

The authority of Great Britain over this continent, is a form of government, which sooner or later must have an end: And a serious mind can draw no true pleasure by looking forward, under the painful and positive conviction that what he calls “the present constitution” is merely temporary. As parents, we can have no joy, knowing that this government is not sufficiently lasting to ensure any thing which we may bequeath to posterity: And by a plain method of argument, as we are running the next generation into debt, we ought to do the work of it, otherwise we use them meanly and pitifully. In order to discover the line of our duty rightly, we should take our children in our hand, and fix our station a few years farther into life; that eminence will present a prospect which a few present fears and prejudices conceal from our sight.

Though I would carefully avoid giving unnecessary offence, yet I am inclined to believe, that all those who espouse the doctrine of reconciliation, may be included within the following descriptions. Interested men, who are not to be trusted, weak men who CANNOT see, prejudiced men who will not see, and a certain set of moderate men who think better of the European world than it deserves; and this last class, by an ill-judged deliberation, will be the cause of more calamities to this Continent than all the other three.

It is the good fortune of many to live distant from the scene of present sorrow; the evil is not sufficiently brought to their doors to make them feel the precariousness with which all American property is possessed. But let our imaginations transport us a few moments to Boston; that seat of wretchedness will teach us wisdom, and instruct us for ever to renounce a power in whom we can have no trust. The inhabitants of that unfortunate city who but a few months ago were in ease and affluence, have now no other alternative than to stay and starve, or turn out to beg. Endangered by the fire of their friends if they continue within the city and plundered by the soldiery if they leave it, in their present situation they are prisoners without the hope of redemption, and in a general attack for their relief they would be exposed to the fury of both armies.

Men of passive tempers look somewhat lightly over the offences of Great Britain, and, still hoping for the best, are apt to call out, “Come, come, we shall be friends again for all this.” But examine the passions and feelings of mankind: bring the doctrine of reconciliation to the touchstone of nature, and then tell me whether you can hereafter love, honour, and faithfully serve the power that hath carried fire and sword into your land? If you cannot do all these, then are you only deceiving yourselves, and by your delay bringing ruin upon posterity. Your future connection with Britain, whom you can neither love nor honour, will be forced and unnatural, and being formed only on the plan of present convenience, will in a little time fall into a relapse more wretched than the first. But if you say, you can still pass the violations over, then I ask, hath your house been burnt? Hath your property been destroyed before your face? Are your wife and children destitute of a bed to lie on, or bread to live on? Have you lost a parent or a child by their hands, and yourself the ruined and wretched survivor? If you have not, then are you not a judge of those who have. But if you have, and can still shake hands with the murderers, then are you unworthy the name of husband, father, friend or lover, and whatever may be your rank or title in life, you have the heart of a coward, and the spirit of a sycophant.

This is not inflaming or exaggerating matters, but trying them by those feelings and affections which nature justifies, and without which, we should be incapable of discharging the social duties of life, or enjoying the felicities of it. I mean not to exhibit horror for the purpose of provoking revenge, but to awaken us from fatal and unmanly slumbers, that we may pursue determinately some fixed object. It is not in the power of Britain or of Europe to conquer America, if she do not conquer herself by delay and timidity. The present winter is worth an age if rightly employed, but if lost or neglected, the whole continent will partake of the misfortune; and there is no punishment which that man will not deserve, be he who, or what, or where he will, that may be the means of sacrificing a season so precious and useful.

[....]

I am not induced by motives of pride, party, or resentment to espouse the doctrine of separation and independence; I am clearly, positively, and conscientiously persuaded that it is the true interest of this continent to be so; that every thing short of that is mere patchwork, that it can afford no lasting felicity, — that it is leaving the sword to our children, and shrinking back at a time, when, a little more, a little farther, would have rendered this continent the glory of the earth.

As Britain hath not manifested the least inclination towards a compromise, we may be assured that no terms can be obtained worthy the acceptance of the continent, or any ways equal to the expense of blood and treasure we have been already put to.

[....]

America is only a secondary object in the system of British politics, England consults the good of this country, no farther than it answers her own purpose. Wherefore, her own interest leads her to suppress the growth of ours in every case which doth not promote her advantage, or in the least interferes with it. A pretty state we should soon be in under such a second-hand government, considering what has happened! Men do not change from enemies to friends by the alteration of a name: And in order to shew that reconciliation now is a dangerous doctrine, I affirm, that it would be policy in the king at this time, to repeal the acts for the sake of reinstating himself in the government of the provinces; in order that HE MAY ACCOMPLISH BY CRAFT AND SUBTILITY, IN THE LONG RUN, WHAT HE CANNOT DO BY FORCE AND VIOLENCE IN THE SHORT ONE. Reconciliation and ruin are nearly related.

[....]

But the most powerful of all arguments, is, that nothing but independence, i. e. a continental form of government, can keep the peace of the continent and preserve it inviolate from civil wars. I dread the event of a reconciliation with Britain now, as it is more than probable, that it will followed by a revolt somewhere or other, the consequences of which may be far more fatal than all the malice of Britain.

Thousands are already ruined by British barbarity; (thousands more will probably suffer the same fate.) Those men have other feelings than us who have nothing suffered. All they now possess is liberty, what they before enjoyed is sacrificed to its service, and having nothing more to lose, they disdain submission. Besides, the general temper of the colonies, towards a British government, will be like that of a youth, who is nearly out of his time; they will care very little about her. And a government which cannot preserve the peace, is no government at all, and in that case we pay our money for nothing; and pray what is it that Britain can do, whose power will be wholly on paper, should a civil tumult break out the very day after reconciliation? I have heard some men say, many of whom I believe spoke without thinking, that they dreaded an independence, fearing that it would produce civil wars. It is but seldom that our first thoughts are truly correct, and that is the case here; for there are ten times more to dread from a patched up connexion than from independence. I make the sufferers case my own, and I protest, that were I driven from house and home, my property destroyed, and my circumstances ruined, that as a man, sensible of injuries, I could never relish the doctrine of reconciliation, or consider myself bound thereby.

The colonies have manifested such a spirit of good order and obedience to continental government, as is sufficient to make every reasonable person easy and happy on that head. No man can assign the least pretence for his fears, on any other grounds, that such as are truly childish and ridiculous, viz. that one colony will be striving for superiority over another.

Where there are no distinctions there can be no superiority, perfect equality affords no temptation. [....]

If there is any true cause of fear respecting independence, it is because no plan is yet laid down. Men do not see their way out — Wherefore, as an opening into that business, I offer the following hints; at the same time modestly affirming, that I have no other opinion of them myself, than that they may be the means of giving rise to something better. Could the straggling thoughts of individuals be collected, they would frequently form materials for wise and able men to improve into useful matter.

[....]

To talk of friendship with those in whom our reason forbids us to have faith, and our affections wounded through a thousand pores instruct us to detest, is madness and folly. Every day wears out the little remains of kindred between us and them, and can there be any reason to hope, that as the relationship expires, the affection will increase, or that we shall agree better, when we have ten times more and greater concerns to quarrel over than ever?

Ye that tell us of harmony and reconciliation, can ye restore to us the time that is past? Can ye give to prostitution its former innocence? Neither can ye reconcile Britain and America. The last cord now is broken, the people of England are presenting addresses against us. There are injuries which nature cannot forgive; she would cease to be nature if she did. As well can the lover forgive the ravisher of his mistress, as the continent forgive the murders of Britain. The Almighty hath implanted in us these unextinguishable feelings for good and wise purposes. They are the guardians of his image in our hearts. They distinguish us from the herd of common animals. The social compact would dissolve, and justice be extirpated from the earth, or have only a casual existence were we callous to the touches of affection. The robber, and the murderer, would often escape unpunished, did not the injuries which our tempers sustain, provoke us into justice.

O ye that love mankind! Ye that dare oppose, not only the tyranny, but the tyrant, stand forth! Every spot of the old world is overrun with oppression. Freedom hath been hunted round the globe. Asia, and Africa, have long expelled her. — Europe regards her like a stranger, and England hath given her warning to depart. O! receive the fugitive, and prepare in time an asylum for mankind.

If Thomas Paine were alive today, I don’t know if he would be more angry or more heartbroken to find his great hopes for this country crushed into dust by the few–whether you call them the 1% or the 2% (The Other 98% movement came first).  Even I don’t know which emotion is uppermost in my own mind and heart.  I think this just about says it all for now.

[Another nod to the crazy people who share my life:  Love and encouragement to those who know the true meaning and value of friendship and the value of the family we choose to build for ourselves.  To the rest of you--bite me.  Work out your issues and stop acting like you were raised by wolves; then call me.  You'll get your hugs then, kids.]

When my mum called to tell me that my father was gravely ill and in the hospital, it was late at night.  I scrambled to get a ticket on the first morning flight out.  When I deplaned at the Little Rock airport, I was met by two of Da’s sisters.  I remember who one aunt was (Eva) but not the other–no matter how many times I am reminded of which aunt this was.  I do remember that it was this mystery aunt who blithely dropped the word ‘funeral’ into her chatter.  I do remember that it was Aunt Eva who said, ‘She didn’t know!’ and reached for me as I fell to the ground.  I do remember Eva’s face turning very white with shock.  I remember my sister standing by a hotel room bed; she had arrived a few hours than I did, and my aunts did not want her to have to sit at the airport until my plane landed.   I remember my uncle’s face at the graveside portion of the funeral service; it was Don, my da’s ‘Irish twin’ (I do not remember if Dan was able to be there).  Lastly, I also remember one snapshot moment as I helped my mum and my two aunts clean out the bedroom closet in my da’s apartment.

I don’t remember asking for them, but I am the current owner of my da’s favourite hat–a beat-up denim trilby–his plaid flannel shirt-style jacket, and two ornate cut-glass liquor bottles filled with coloured water, painstakingly mixed a few years before by me just to match the exact colour-theme in which we re-decorated his apartment.  My siblings all departed shortly after the funeral, back to their own lives, but I stayed with my mum for two weeks to help her–and myself–through the initial grieving period.  Other than the few things above, I sincerely cannot remember any other moment of the two weeks between exiting the door of my house as I headed for the airport and my first day back at work after I returned to Ohio.  In fact, that first memorable moment at work came late at night, very near the end of my shift, when the stock crew came on duty and one of them–a good friend–asked how my dad was.

I understand Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.  I understand what happened to me and why my mind would protect itself from such extreme grief as I was experiencing.  This black-out has, thankfully, not happened to me after any other loss, however; I am prepared for the possibility that it could happen when I lose my mother or if my husband passes before I do.  It is the sum of experiences from other losses, as well as the aftermath of my da’s loss, though, that has taught me enough about healthy grieving to help my husband when he needed it.

Last year, my husband’s family lost their patriarch.  Grandpa collapsed on 07 October.  We and the doctors were all certain he had had another stroke.  Instead, he was diagnosed with Stage Four Lung Cancer…small cell carcinoma…  It was already widely spread by the time Gramps was diagnosed, including to his brain; the scans were staggering.  The surface of the brain was covered by a spiderweb of interconnected masses, and then there were additional masses deeper within the brain tissue.  The only good news that the doctors could provide was the fact that the mass that had caused a large blood vessel to burst, thereby prompting Grandpa’s sudden collapse, was pressing on the surrounding tissue in such a way that Gramps was, for the first time in at least seven years, free from the pain that doctors had not been able to effectively diagnose or treat.  I am not exaggerating when I write the following:  Every single time the doctors came to the hospital room in ICU to talk to the family their prognosis for Jason’s grandfather was worse.  With every single image, the masses grew and multiplied; the doctors were shocked and amazed, hardly able to believe what they were seeing.  Based on scans and examinations, Grandpa’s life expectancy decreased with every report.  The first estimate was six weeks.  Within days, the doctors agreed that the actual time frame was days.  From collapse to death, we had 18 days to come to terms with the situation and say our good-byes to Gramps…but ‘Gramps’ was, for all intents and purposes, gone many days before then.  He died on 25 October, the birthday of his eldest son.

Gramps was stubborn (to put it mildly) about his health.  He had gone through several highly critical surgeries for his heart and for multiple aneurisms.  He hurt–a lot–all the time…  But he refused to have more than the barest minimum of medical care and testing during the last two or three years of his life.  He was tired.  He was frustrating.  He was giving up.

My husband’s father travelled for work during a large part of Jason’s childhood; he was not much a role model when he was at home.  Grandpa was Jason’s primary (and best) father figure for 31 years.  They were close, sometimes one-consciousness close like me and my da sometimes were…  Grandpa, not Jason’s mother, was the centre of Jason’s world; and Jason was the centre of Grandpa’s.  It was Jason, not his uncles who performed the emotional and actual obligations of a son to a father, always there when there was any need, any request.  Even before we began dating, I knew how devastating Grandpa’s eventual death would be for Jason.  For the last few years of his life, Jason and I watched Gramps closely.  Jason, especially, spent countless additional hours hanging out, helping with chores, talking seriously and casually with his grandfather about anything and everything–just being in Grandpa’s presence as much as possible and trying to learn all of the lessons Gramps still had to impart to him.

While the rest of the family tried to pretend that there was nothing at all wrong with Gramps (no personality changes, no erratic behaviour, no emotional discrepancies, and absolutely no suicidal talk), Jason and I could not wear the same blinders.  Without belaboring the point, I took care to talk to Jason periodically about his grandfather’s health and about their relationship and about Grandpa’s eventual passing.  As Grandpa’s physical, cognitive, and emotional condition deteriorated, Jason tried to push the subject of medical attention; at the same time, he also quietly entered into the process of grieving for the ‘dad’ he was slowly losing, even while the physical body was still functioning.  After Grandpa collapsed, Jason was the emotional mainstay of his family.  He was the calm voice, the rational voice, the strong shoulder, the rock.  Because none of them had ever allowed themselves to even admit, consciously, what had been happening for so long, each and every one of his relatives perceived the situation as coming from out of nowhere.  They were not only utterly unprepared for the idea that Gramps was dying, they also maintained for two weeks a sense of complete denial that he was going to die from this cancer without ever going home.  Even after he was moved to hospice a few days before his death, Gram simply could not understand this.

I am still in awe of the emotional strength Jason showed, both before and after Grandpa’s passing.  It was only when we arrived in the privacy of our own home each night that my husband would allow himself permission to visibly express his own deep grief.  Only then would he shed even a single tear; and I our two cats could only surround him as bleak comfort while he did so.  Jason’s final comfort, upon his grandfather’s death, was that–after not responding to any stimuli in four days–Gramps turned his head toward Jason’s voice as Jason kissed him a bid him good-night on that last visit, barely one hour before Grandpa died.  Only after everyone else had left did Grandpa make any other movement, and that was to open his eyes (again for the first time in four days) and look at his wife before drawing a final breath.

I well knew how much and how long Jason and I had worked to prepare, but I did not realise how far ahead of the curve he was until we had to deal with the mourning process of the rest of his family.  Although viewed through the numbing haze of our own grief, Jason and I both found it interesting to observe the reactions of his grandmother, mother, and two uncles–the degrees to which sorrow was mixed with anger, regret, guilt, confusion, and self-deception–the inward turnings and the outward leanings–the legitimate and illegitimate rationalisations…

The past year has been one of first-occasions-without-Grandpa, each of which, of course, were both significant and excruciating.  Jason has periodically spent hours looking at and tweaking photo slideshows of Gramps.  There is one photo of Gramps and his mother that amazes me, because the shape of Grandpa’s face and eyes and the solemn expression is so eerily and beautifully like his only grandson.  As the anniversary of Grandpa’s death approaches, Jason is becoming quieter and more solemn.  He misses his grandfather every day, but that particular date is of vital importance; it marks some ephemeral mile-stone that is supposed to be important in the grieving process.  Does it really, though?  I have had to tell him, honestly, that it both is and is not going to make a difference in the quantity and quality of the sorrow and suffering.  There is no hard-and-fast, absolute truth to how grief will work on an individual.  Honesty.  Honest anger.  Honest questioning.  Honest realisation.  Honest pain.  Honest acceptance.  Honest release.  Honesty.  We all have to find our way to each step in our own way and our own time.  I have the feeling that at least one person affected by Grandpa’s loss will never pass all the way through to any real peace, but that is his own fault.  You have to be a good person to your loved ones while you have them here.  The regrets you are left with should not be ones caused by your own bad behaviour.  Once that person is dead, only you are left to witness your repentance.

I have wondered, from time to time, if I at any point (well-meaning, of course) hindered Jason in his grief, instead of helped him.  He assures me this is not the case.  I hope that is true.  We usually do understand each other in uncanny ways.  I know that we have gone through all kinds of Hell together in the past 15 years, and we have always come through the vasty darkness ever stronger and ever more connected.  I will, most likely, have to suffer through my mother’s death; that is a happier thought for me than the thought of her having to suffer through my death.  I am assured, however, by the fact that my husband has my back; my heart and mind, my protection–these are his top priority, just as the reverse is true.  Jason, at least, will never suffer any loss as crippling as the loss of his grandfather (aside from my own, if I go before he does); his relationships with his parents and his grandmother are too conflicted, although not for lack of trying on his part.  Every now and then, I almost wish the same could be said for me…almost.  I would not give up my relationship with my mum or Jason or anyone else for any promise of spending the rest of my life free from the grief of losing that individual.  In the end, isn’t it the strength of our joys that carries us through the anguish of surviving a loved one?

To those of mine who have gone before:  My every day is secured in the memory of your love.  I miss you.  Save me a place, but don’t hold your breath.

मैं बारिश से प्यार है |  बारिश मुझे खुश बनाता है |  (I love the rain.  Rain makes me happy.)  Many people think यह एक बहुत असामान्य बात है (this is a very unusual thing).  हर कोई नहीं (not everyone), though; as एक नए दोस्त (a new friend) [मैं आशा करता हूँ | (I hope.)] pointed out to me last night, बारिश बहुत romantic होना सकता है (can be very romantic).  Even stranger [दूसरा लोग के लिए (to other people)]  is my love of storms.  As a child growing up in Tampa, Florida, I would sit on the patio for hours watching electrical storms in the distance.  They were fascinating, especially when they occurred at sunset.  It was storming tonight–alternating with drizzles.  I had hopes that it would still be raining when my shift was complete; sadly, however, यह नहीं था (it was not).  That’s alright; at least the earlier rain helped me get through my eight hours.

This has been quite a week–एक बहुत बहुत मुश्किल समय हफ़्ता (a very difficult week)–and the past two days were the toppers.  [हे भगवान, उस बहुत सच है (Oh, Lord, is that true).]  People chewed my brains–a lot!  Plus, something happened that made me a bit sad and worried…  At any rate, with everything that has gone on, I am exceedingly grateful to have tomorrow off from work.  This was one of those really(!) long weeks, because I got off at 0600 on Tuesday morning, after my usual all-night shift, then I was back on shift at 1630 for another round (that’s an hour later than usual, so I appreciated the extra sleep).  (–And here is a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to my manager for finally keeping an agent on queue for an extra hour each night!)  I generally prefer to work that Tuesday evening shift, though.  It means that I actually have a full calendar day away from the queue when the schedule shows me ‘off.’

Contributing to the busyness of my week was an extraordinarily large amount of personal communication.  I have made new friends in my journey to learn Hindi.  I began my Hindi course on LiveMocha.com last year, but I have not done much with it until very recently; I have been using other resources and going बहुत धीरे-धीरे (very slowly).  [Here is a tip for you:  If you try to use songs to learn Hindi, you can create some very bad habits in terms of ensuring appropriate levels of respect for your relationships to others.  यह एक अच्छी बात है कि मैं cautious हूँ--और शर्मीली भी (it is a good thing that I am cautious--and shy).]  Due to the time difference between my home and India (or Nepal, too) I have had to fit (i.e. ‘cram will-he, nill he’) tutoring sessions in as I am able.  I had my first live voice session this past Saturday–it was not my finest hour, since I had been up for two days.  I was a little bit more ready for the next round with tutor number two.  I am fortunate, though, that my tutors are patient gentlemen.  That is not to say that they are not taskmasters–दोनों अपने अपने ways में (both in their own ways).    I will need to pay attention and stop using Urdu words instead of Hindi words, though.  I am hoping to hear from another LiveMocha user whom I requested as a friend; it would be nice to get the input of a Hindustani lady on points of language, although that may prove to be a non-issue.  I also want to solicit a woman’s perspective on Hindustani culture, though.

I find myself deeply appreciative of the respectfulness of most of the भारतीय (Bharatiya; हिन्दूस्तानी = Hindustani; Indian) individuals I have come into contact with, even on-line; लेकिन मैं दुखी हूँ कि यह सब के लिए सच नहीं है (but I am sad that this is not true of everyone).  Cultural differences do not even come into the discussion; it is NOT appropriate, acceptable, or respectful to use pornographic photographs as your profile images, people–most assuredly not on a general-use Website like LiveMocha.  To be confronted with some random guy’s naked…ehm…member while trying to improve my language skills is soooooooo not cool.  I only hope that blocking this individual will prevent his image from being shown in my list of Recommended Partners in the future.  I feel nauseous just thinking about it.  यह सिर्फ मुझे है?  (Is it just me?)   Call me a prude, but the only man’s genitalia that interests me is my husband’s.  Frankly, the only लिंग [liṅga, or योनि (yōni), for that matter] I care to have linked to my Hindustani cultural studies are those related to पूजा (worship).  और हाँ (and yes), I also did not appreciate breast shots populating my search list when I was hunting for a good female tutor match, either.  I really have to wonder about people’s lack of self-respect, as well as their lack of respect for others.  If you would not show a photograph अपनी दादी को (to your grandmother), then you should not be showing it to anyone else, especially if they did not ask to see it.  है ना?  (Isn’t it?  or Ain’t it so?  lol)  अब मुझे दुःखी लग रही है |  (Now I feel depressed.)

O-kay, new subject…  Let’s see…  Troy Davis has been on my mind a lot lately, but that is too depressing and angry a topic to talk about after that last paragraph.  Actually, now I cannot think of anything to talk about that is not angst-y.  That being the case, I am signing off.  (To my friends who sneak peeks at my ranting and raving and later tease me:  I love you!  Don’t you have anything better to do, though?  No–Really.  I worry about you guys.  XOXO)

Due to my schedule, I spend the better part of the daylight hours sleeping, and it can be difficult to short myself on sleep and wake up early on my days off (especially since I am a night-owl by nature).  If we have a full day free of obligations (oh, so rare a day is this), we get up at the break of dawn to drive 2 hours to our favourite lake for a day of swimming, hiking, horseback riding, picnicking, and a lot of reading and napping lazily under the trees.  Sadly, my regular exercise regimen is mostly done inside, though: cycling, weights, stability ball work, and a variety of Tai Chi forms and Yoga routines.  I also expend quite a lot of excess energy dancing and singing to Bollywood filmi music while doing my chores (‘garaj baras saawan ghir aayo…’), although this is not officially part of my fitness programme.  (Oh, yes—‘Sorry,’ to my neighbor downstairs, for those rare times he is home when I am bebopping around.).  My husband and I love to walk and hike, however, and we are lucky to have several wonderful parks in our area that have paths and trails that offer a range of difficulty levels.  Yesterday afternoon was perfect weather, sunny and breezy without the gross stickiness that has been ubiquitous this summer.  We opted to leave the laundry for later in the week in favour of a taking long, moderately-paced stroll along a tree-shaded bike path that meanders along a river.  This was exactly what we needed; all of our recent walks have been around our apartment complex in the middle of the night.  As we strode along the river, we were so wrapped up in each other and in the sights, sounds, and smells of our surroundings that we were surprised when we hit the 4-mile mark.  We hated to turn around and go back to the parking lot, but we had a dinner date with the in-laws, so we had to pick up the pace on our return to ‘civilisation.’

What is it about nature that is so restorative for the human soul?  (While I have known people who could not bear anything even vaguely resembling nature, I have long held the secret certainty that these individuals are all alien pod people.)  I would rather be outdoors doing just about anything than to be doing just about anything indoors.  Read a book—go outdoors.  Shell peas—go outdoors.  Do homework—go outdoors.  Take a nap—go outdoors.  Actually, it is odd; I must have nearly pitch black conditions in order to be able to sleep inside, but I can nap in the dappled shade of a tree at mid-day with no problems.  Nature just naturally relaxes me in a way nothing else can (except church).  I can be having an awful day, but if I sit outside on the swing for my ‘lunch’ (at 2030, so it is nice and cool) and watch the hummingbirds and the swaying of the trees, then I am refreshed and ready to tackle the rest of my shift.  Swimming in an ocean, lake, or river is so much more fun and so much more exhilarating than slogging back and forth in a pool.  Heck, even paddling my feet in a shallow creek is a fabulous way to spend a day.  But why?  Why does the outdoors make me feel like I am in a chapel, make me feel relieved and unburdened, make me feel like I am where I am supposed to be?  I recently skimmed an article about the wavelengths that natural things resonate at.  Perhaps that has something to do with it.  Prolonged, close range exposure to electronic devices makes me feel ill, so why can’t lounging against a tree or walking barefoot through the grass make me feel better?  Whatever the reason, I am glad I feel that way.

I would love the chance to travel across more of the U.S. and explore wilderness areas.  Let’s see: Florida, Arkansas, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, Tennessee, and Hawai’i…  I only have 42 more states to go!  Even more so, I wish I had the time and money to travel the world.  [Of course, the cost of my obsessive travel photography alone would be staggering (I don’t even want to think about the logistics involved with travelling with what I would consider ‘enough’ film)!  Digital just is NOT the same, although I probably should go that route with colour shots since I do not develop or print from colour film in my darkroom.  Anyway—back on track…]  I would like to explore natural places everywhere to see if the exact sense of the sacred differs in any way from place to place.  (Getting to meet the people and experience all of the cultures along the way would be a nice perk, too.)  Now I just need to come up with the perfect mickey to slip to my husband so I can get him on a plane!

 O-kay, this calls for some poetry!  LOL

. . . .

WOODLAND WHISPERS

Whispers slither through my flesh—

insinuation, innuendo, that subtlety

that only nature can possess.

I lie awake—but only just—

in dappled light, and watch absorbed

as small creatures creep and skitter

and a doe steps gingerly in the treeline

with her watchful liquid gaze.

We look across the undulating lawn—

eyes meeting, measuring—

and by her side the speckled fawn moves,

restless with such curiosity

as slew more than one felid.

But mother is somewhat wiser,

and she stands with twitching tail,

unblinking, wary and on edge…

While still the rustling of each

blade of grass whispers

to my skin of beauty and life

and tells secrets to my primal mind

that I never can recall.

. . . .

So long for now.

I don’t mind a little bit of ditz around me, really I don’t; in fact, a small amount can make my day go faster.  Trying to figure out what exactly just happened or how in the world any of it could make even marginal sense in any alternate dimension may leave me temporarily bemused, smiling vaguely, and blinking in bewilderment for a moment or two.  It gets old fast, though, especially when the same people are delivering the pain–and deep, not just superficial pain.  Silliness is one thing, and legitimate ignorance is understandable (and usually resolvable); periodic episodes of  ‘duh’ and ‘doh’ are to be expected from anyone (myself included), either due to exhaustion or overload or distraction.  How do people make it to adulthood without the slightest verifiable amount of common sense, though?

I wonder if there is any subtle, tactful way to tell people they need significant help with this particular impediment to civilised social interaction…  Whoever figured out how to implant or augment an individual’s native common sense could make a killing, I’ll bet.  I wish I could be hopeful that a new week would bring a new world order, but I will settle for hoping for a mere reduction in the number of feather-heads that wind up in my lap.  Ay de mi!

Many years ago I came into possession of a book of poems written by José Ángel Buesa y Regato.  In fact, I found this book so long ago that I cannot even remember how or when I bought it.  In this book, I found a newspaper article written in honor of the author after his death (in 1982).  The poems in this book were very beautiful, perfect vehicles for transporting the fantasies of a young dreamer.  In addition, the article caught my curiosity about the poet.  Each time that I read this book of poetry, my imagination takes flight again; and when I see the article, my curiosity catches fire once more.

Among other things, I am a poet and a photographer.  The two are very important in my life; I cannot separate them from who I am.  As a good photographer must always see everything with respect to a photograph, being a poet means that you cannot live without thinking about every image, every idea, and every emotion with respect to the imagery of a poem.  Buesa lived to write his poems.

José Ángel Buesa is described as ‘the most famous, the most artistic, and the most influential of the contemporary Cuban poets.’  Readers can appreciate that this poet worked hard and with attention on his poems.  He did not allow slips and he had a clear concept of his style and his preferred form.  He knew the importance of always studying seriously.

Buesa began writing at a very young age.  He wrote many poems, and he also wrote other types of literature.  His popular radio serials were sold in many American countries.  He published nearly two dozen poetry collections and also published books of prose.  Buesa was only twenty-two years old when he published his first book of poems, ‘The Flight of the Hours’.  His most famous collection of poetry, ‘Oasis,’ has now been published in twenty-six editions.

Buesa spent the last two decades of his life outside his native Cuba.  During his exile, his poems lived only in the hearts of his people.  Today, this poet has much respect in his country of origin.  His legacy influences many of the Hispanic poets writing today.

Buesa wrote of life and romance.  In truth, the poems of Buesa still help many men to seduce women.  His poems have been musicalized by the composer and pianist Adolfo Guzman.  You can listen to them on radio and in nightclubs and in other places.

Now, you can read four short poems…  Just bear with my translations, please; poetic language can be a bit trickier than average speech, and my Spanish is extremely rusty.

. . . .

The Old Tree

Good tree that suddenly lost the gifts

of the flower and of the fruit, beneath the cold gust,

your austere sorrow seems like mine,

and so, like your leaves will fly my songs.

.

But, sooner or later, will come the spring,

and, to rejuvenate your aged trunk,

you will have the flower and the fruit, and the foliage, and the nest…

and I, instead, have not even your hope.

.

One hundred times you offered me your shade in the summer;

one hundred times your perfume came to visit my home,

good tree that blossoms while life passes,

perhaps because you are unaware that it never goes in vain.

.

My childhood you remember almost like a friend,

although already has cracked your old age of grandfather.

And today, to see how you still grow toward the sky,

not even the comfort of growing old with you remains to me.

.

Well, even though identical falls oppress us,

over your dry leaves grow lush leaves,

and so, some day, the wind will dishevel my grey hairs,

will carry to me the perfume of your new shoots…

. . . .

The Son of the Dream

A son… Do you know, do you feel what this is?

To see born the life of the depth of a kiss,

by an ineffable miracle of love;

a kiss that fills up the emptied cradle,

and that naively we looked at and smiled:

a kiss made flower…

.

A son… A fragrant, strong and sweet bond!

I seem to see it above your lap already palpitating;

and I look to move it with childish pledge

the small hands of our little one

as if they wanted to hold onto a dream

that comes and goes…

.

In the fresh water of our tenderness

you will moisten the wings of your mischief,

like a dove that learns to fly,

and you will be violent, crazy and odd,

and you will love equally the woman and the wine,

and the sky and the sea…

.

With the bitter thirst of adolescence,

You will drink in the murky spring of science

and, tender singing,

you will leave for the world, with your lyre to the shoulder

leaving a trail of roses of amazement

and a golden splendor…

.

You will cross at a gallop the arid plain,

pallid from daydreaming, crazy from adventure

and drunk on ideals;

and, in your delirium from remote journeys,

you will return one day with the broken oars,

bringing in your lips the taste of salt.

.

Ridiculous wayfarer of lifeless paths,

you will pass your shadow above the deserts,

in an infinite pilgrimage

and your hallucinated nonconforming pupil

you will see in your destiny an enormous

question.

.

But your tenacious adventures will be useless,

pursuing a dream that you can never reach…

and it must be so,

because you will find nothing, like me, the goal

of all your uneasiness of man and of poet;

because in the women of your anxious life

you will find no one like yourself…

.

You are the rose of a lonely life,

the rose that no one will see repeated,

because plucking it will shrivel the rosebush

and, as in the world later you will not have that rose,

he will go on his long fruitless search,

in search of an equal!

. . . .

The Insatiable Thirst

To say good-bye…  That is life.

And I tell you good-bye, and I go…

To return to love is the prison

of those who love with excess.

.

To love and love all of life,

and to burn and to burn in this flame.

And not to know why we love…

and not to know why we forget…

.

To seize the roses one by one,

to drink one wine and another wine,

and to walk and walk by a road

that does not lead anywhere.

.

To feel more thirst at each fountain

and to see more shadow in each chasm,

in this love that is always the same

but that is always different.

.

Because in the muted disagreement

of the dreamed and the lived,

always, from the bottom of forgetfulness,

is born the death of a memory.

.

And in this unceasing anguish,

that touches the soul and does not touch it,

to kiss the shadow of another mouth

in each mouth that you kiss…

. . . .

Final Poem

Once again your roads carry me toward the dawn,

when now in my smile died the last child.

Once again that arrow is sticking itself in the night,

and the autumn rain to dream with you.

.

Once again these hands are rising up toward the dream,

and these deaf roots thirsty for dew.

And the profound disaster of growing in the shadow,

with closed eyes and vacant arms.

.

Once again that torch that exhausted my blood,

and that dark silence that extends your heartbeat.

—Oh, heart of excitement in the black glade,

dying eternally and eternally alive.

.

Oh, yes, once again and always to die in each star,

and to light that lamp that went out from the cold.

Oh, yes, once again and always, until life dies;

once again toward the dawn, and all the roads!

Hace muchos años que entró en posesión de un libro de poesía escrito por José Ángel Buesa y Regato.  De hecho, me encontré con este libro hace tanto tiempo que ni siquiera puedo recordar cómo o cuando lo compré.  Dentro de este libro descubrí un artículo de periódico escrito en honor del autor después de su muerte (en 1982).  Los poemas en este libro fueron muy hermosos, vehículos perfectos para transportar las fantasías de una joven soñadora.  Además el artículo capturó mi curiosidad por el poeta.  Cada vez que yo leo este poemaria, mi imaginación echa a volar de nuevo; y cada vez que veo al artículo, mi curiosidad se prende fuego una vez más.

Entre otras cosas, soy una poeta y una fotógrafa.  Los dos son muy importantes en mi vida; no puedo separarlos de quien soy.  Como un buen fotógrafo debe ver siempre a todo el mundo con respeto a una foto, ser un poeta significa que no puede vivir sin pensar en cada imagen, cada idea, y cada emoción con respeto a la imaginería de una poema.  Buesa vivió para escribir sus poemas.

José Ángel Buesa está describido como «el más famoso, el más artista y el más influyente de los poetas cubanos contemporáneos.»  Los lectores pueden apreciar que este poeta trabajado duro y con cuidado por sus poemas.  No permitió deslices y tenía un claro concepto de su estilo y su forma preferida.  Él sabía la importancia de estudiando siempre en serio.

Buesa comenzó a escribir a una edad muy temprana.  Él escribe muchos poemas, y escribe también por otros tipos de literatura.  Sus populares novelas radiales se han vendido en muchos paises de America.  Publicó casi dos docenas de poemarias y publicó tambien libros de prosa.  Buesa tenía solo veintidós años cuando publicó su primero libro de poemas, «La fuga de las horas.»  Su poemaria más famosa, «Oasis», ahora se ha publicado en veintiséis ediciones.

Buesa pasó las últimas dos décadas de su vida fuera de su Cuba natal.  Mientras su exilio, sus poemas vivido solo en los corazones de la gente.  Hoy este poeta tiene mucho respeto en su país de origen.  Su legado influye a muchos de los poetas hispánicos que escribe hoy.

Buesa escribió de la vida y del romance. De veras, los poemas de Buesa aún ayudan a muchos hombres a seducir a las mujeres.  Tambien, sus poemas habían sido musicalizados por el compositor y pianista Adolfo Guzman.  Puede oírlos en la radio y en los clubes nocturnos y en varios lugares.

Ahora, puede leer cuatros poemas cortos…

. . . .

El árbol viejo

Buen árbol que perdiste bruscamente los dones

de la flor y del fruto, bajo la racha fría:

tu pesadumbre austera se parece a la mía,

y así, como tus hojas, volarán mis canciones.

.

Pero, tarde o temprano, vendrá la primavera,

y, al rejuvenecerse tu tronco envejecido,

tendrás la flor y el fruto, y el follaje, y el nido…

Y yo, en cambio, no tengo tu esperanza siquiera.

.

Cien veces me ofreciste tu sombra en el verano;

cien veces tu perfume fue a visitar mi casa,

buen árbol que floreces mientras la vida pasa,

acaso porque ignoras que nunca pasa en vano.

.

Mi niñez te recuerda casi como un amigo,

aunque ya se agrietaba tu ancianidad de abuelo.

Y hoy, al ver cómo creces todavía hacia el cielo,

ni aun me queda el consuelo de envejecer contigo.

.

Pues, aunque nos agobian idénticos otoños,

sobre tus hojas secas crecen hojas lozanas,

y así, algún día, el viento despeinará mis canas,

trayéndome el perfume de tus nuevos retoños…

. . . .

El hijo del sueño

Un hijo…  ¿Tú sabes, tú sientes qué es eso?

Ver nacer la vida del fondo de un beso,

por un inefable milagro de amor;

un beso que llene la cuna vacía,

y que ingenuamente nos mire y sonría:

un beso hecho flor…

.

Un hijo… ¡Un fragante, fuerte y dulce lazo!

Me parece verlo sobre tu regazo palpitando ya;

y miro moverse con pueril empeño

las pequeñas manos de nuestro pequeño,

como si quisieran sujetar un sueño

que llega y se va…

.

En el agua fresca de nuestras ternuras

mojará las alas de sus travesuras,

como una paloma que aprende a volar;

y será violento, loco y peregrino,

y amará igualmente la mujer y el vino,

y el cielo y el mar…

.

Con la sed amarga de la adolescencia,

beberá en la fuente turia de la ciencia;

y, tierno cantor,

irá por el mundo, con su lira al hombro,

dejando un reguero de rosas de asombro

y un áureo fulgor…

.

Cruzará al galope la árida llanura,

pálido de ensueño, loco de aventura

y ebrio de ideal;

y, en su desvario de viajes remotos,

volverá algún día con los remos rotos,

trayendo en los labios un sabor de sal.

.

Caminante absurdo de caminos muertos,

pasará su sombro sobre los desiertos,

en una infinita peregrinación;

y su alcinada pupila inconforme

verá en su destino grabada una enorme

interrogación.

.

Pero será inútil su tenaz andanza,

persiguiendo un sueño que jamás se alcanza…

Y ha de ser así,

pues no hallará nunca, como yo, la meta

de todas sus ansias de hombre y de poeta;

porque en las mujeres de su vida inquieta

no hallará ninguna parecida a ti…

.

Que tú eres la rosa de una sola vida,

la rosa que nadie verá repetida,

porque al deshojarse secará el rosal;

y, como en el mundo ya no habrá esa rosa,

¡él irá en su larga búsqueda infructuosa,

en pos de una igual!

. . . .

La sed insaciable

Decir adiós…  La vida es eso.

Y yo te digo adiós, y sigo…

Volver a amar es el castigo

de los que amaron con exceso.

.

Amar y amar toda la vida,

y arder y arder en esa llama.

Y no saber por qué se ama…

Y no saber por qué se olvida…

.

Coger las rosas una a una,

beber un vino y otro vino,

y andar y andar por un camino

que no conduce a parte alguna.

.

Sentir más sed en cada fuente

y ver más sombra en cada abismo,

en este amor que es siempre el mismo

pero que siempre es diferente.

.

Porque en el sordo desacuerdo

de lo soñado y lo vivido,

siempre, del fondo del olvido,

nace la muerte de un recuerdo.

.

Y en esta angustia que no cesa,

que toca el alma y no la toca,

besar la sombra de otra boca

en cada boca que se besa…

. . . .

Último poema

Otra vez tus caminos me llevan hacia el alba,

cuando ya en mi sonrisa murió el último niño.

Otra vez esa flecha clavándose en la noche,

y esa lluvia de otoño para soñar contigo.

.

Otra vez estas manos alzándose hacia el sueño,

y estas sordas raíces sedientas de rocío,

y el profundo desastre de crecer en la sombra,

con los ojos cerrados y los brazos vacíos.

.

Otra vez esa antorcha que extenúa mi sangre,

y ese silencio oscuro que alarga su latido.

—Oh, corazón de fiebre en la floresta negra,

muriendo eternamente y eternamente vivo.

.

Oh, sí, otra vez y siempre morir en cada estrella,

y encender esa lámpara que se apagó de frío.

Oh, sí, otra vez y siempre, hasta morir la vida;

otra vez hacia el alba, por todos los caminos!