Thirsting for Knowledge

I have recently discovered that I have an insatiable thirst for knowledge.  I’ve known this, yes, and in fact two of my “strengths” according to Strengthsfinder are “input” and “learning”. 

Learn something new every day has always been a motto of mine.

          Pumba: What’s a motto?

          Timon: Nothin’ – whats a motto with you?

          Dundun ching!  Thank you, Lion King. And my apologies for the bad joke.  Couldn't resist.

And believe me – every day, living in India, I’m pretty sure that I learn something.  However, the "something" I learn daily isn't necessarily something of intellectual value.  And I hadn’t realized how much I need that in my life!

On Sunday I had a dinner with a delegation from Rollins College.  I happened to sit opposite of an archaeology professor, to whom I confessed that when I was first thinking about college I wanted to study archaeology (still do!).  For the rest of the evening, I sat mesmerized by the stories he told, the research he’s working on.

Did you know that a tribe in northeastern Karnataka (the state in which I live) celebrates its oral tradition and festive culture in a language that is only spoken by 30,000 people in the world?  And where do those 30,000 people live?   Eastern Africa.  Yeah.

I’m hooked.  I’ve always been a world civ girl, but focused more on European history.  So here I go towards the Indus Valley civilizations.  I’m SO intrigued.  How did these people get here?  From what son of Noah did they come?  Why did they travel from the Mediterranean?  Did you know that during the 600s BC there was HUGE trade between the Mediterranean and the Indian Ocean?  Why didn’t I ever learn about that during world civ?  And that, according to one source, the first Jewish people came to India during the reign of King Darius…the second group coming during the Jewish diaspora after the destruction of the temple in AD 70?

And that, supposedly, Thomas the Apostle (commonly known as Doubting Thomas) was the first “missionary” to come to India with the intent of sharing the Good News with the Jews who had settled here.  I’ve studied the crossroads of civilization.  I’ve studied the Babylon and Assyrian empires.  I’ve studied early Christianity.  I’ve studied the Roman empire and the Jewish diasporas.  Why has India never been included? 

OH.  And did you know that Sanskrit is related to the romance languages.  Yeah.  The most obvious example of this is when we look at the word King (English), Raja (Sanskrit), Rey (Spanish), Roi (French), Re (Italian).  I’m also a lover of linguistics, so I am absolute and completely fascinated.  (Unfortunately Kannada, the Indian language I am learning, is far from Sanskrit – I believe it is a Dravidic language - and absolutely nothing like the Romance languages I have studied in my past.)

A word to the wise: all of my reading and findings have thus far been courtesy of the internet.  So they may not be completely accurate.  But I always try to find opposing viepoints and differing accounts…one of the excitements of being a “Learner”!

So.  Needless to say, increasing my knowledge has brought a lot of joy to my life.  Life to my life, in fact.  And I realize how much learning is really a core piece to who I am. 

A Special Visitor

Today I had the pleasure of spending the afternoon with Mary Pawlenty, former America state court judge and wife of Tim Pawlenty, former governor of Minnesota and presidential candidate (2012).

She is connected with my boss and is traveling in India, so she put our Center in her agenda.  Today was a holiday, but I had no complaints when it came to coming to work to welcome her ;)

I’ve met Mrs. Pawlenty several times before, in passing, and we have some common ground (Minnesota, Bethel, etc.).  But I’ve never had the opportunity to sit and chat with her.

What a lovely lady.

We had a beautiful chat, and when she realized it was time for her to head to the airport, she closed her eyes, gathered her thoughts, and said, “Thank you.”  She continued, giving me a list.  Each sentence started with “Thank you for...” Some were professional.  Some were personal.  Every one was meaningful.  After “Thank you for being a woman of strength”, she gave me a big hug.

It was exactly the encouragement that I needed today, this week, this month.  A conversation with a woman who barely knows me, but genuinely cares and is intentional to know the person with whom she interacts, regardless of how short or long the time.

On days like today, I blink rapidly, shake my head, and wonder with amazement why I am where I am.  I am a Minnesotan in Bangalore.  I am only 25. I am privileged to be doing exactly what my dream has been, exactly what I went to school for.  Every day presents its own challenges, but every day I learn and grow.  The people with whom I have been privileged to interact, the places I have been, is sometimes mind-boggling, and I am not unaware that with great opportunity comes great responsibility.  Sometimes I wonder why me, and sometimes I wonder how it will all fit together, what future these experiences are preparing me for.

But regardless of where the journey leads, I am thankful for today.  And for today’s tomorrow.

Being.

Today I found myself at Costa Coffee.

I had been planning to go during my lunch break, as my colleague was out and a day in the office alone tends to get lonely…and boring to the point that I cant even be productive, regardless of how much work there is.  Sometimes you just need a change of scenery, you know?

But I had some students drop by right at lunchtime, and by the time they left it was almost time for our office chai guy, Ajay, to come.  I didn’t want to miss that :)

 

I ended up arranging to meet a friend there after work.  She texted at 6 (when we were going to meet) and said she’d be late…which was fine, because it’s been long since I sat alone in a coffee shop.

I ordered my decaf iced vanilla latte with skim milk.  To describe the rush of comfort I felt when I found out I could order my drink decaffeinated and with skim milk would be silly…but the familiarity of it made me really happy.  “Outside the box” options aren’t common in India.  Taking my seat by the window, I took out my notepad.  My mind was reeling with program planning from my office hours, but I had thought to use this time to journal a bit.  As my work battled my soul as to how best use this time, I removed myself, leaned back, and gazed out the window.

This is how I remained for the next hour.  I’m sure the staff thought I was a bit loco, sitting back in the comfy chair, ice melting in my drink, doing…nothing.  It was reminiscent of a moment I had living in New York City; the solace that easily found simply by stepping behind the glass windows, removing myself from the hustle and bustle only to watch the world go on around you (you can read about that day in NYC here).  No orientations were devised, and my life was not resolved.  I’m not sure if I thought.  I’m not sure if I prayed.  But I know that I was. 

And being – just being – was something that I think I need to do more often.  Especially if it includes a decaf iced vanilla latte with skim ;)

Sunitha

Sunitha was my very first friend in India.
(In fact, I think there is a blog post about her from fall 2010... yup, you can read it here.)

When I first met her, she had crooked teeth, uneven bangs, and short short short hair that was often forced into two small ponytails.  She was taken care of by the older girls.  Today, her teeth have grown in, her bangs have grown out, and, instead of being taken care of, I watch her caring for the new little ones on campus.

As I said, she was my very first friend.  For some reason, she saw something in me that led her to interact with me differently than she did the other interns, and this very quickly led to trust.  She trusted me...and I also trusted her.  Sunitha has a rough and tough exterior - she didn't need help from anyone, didn't show her emotions, and often her social interactions were harsh rather than friendly.  But with me, she was gentle.  She was genuine.  For some reason, she chose to shed her shell with me.  And this encouraged me to do the same.

Sunitha was my first friend.  I've watched her grow, I've watched her transform.  And, although she may not know it, she has transformed me.

Today, the girls left to go to their villages for school holiday.  But when holiday is over, they aren't coming back to Bangalore.  Instead, they're going to a different campus in rural Northern Karnataka.

All of us.  One last time.

Following sad goodbyes and final words, the group of girls walked up the road to the bus stop, carrying all of their belongings in one or two bags.  We crowded onto the bus, and I stood in the aisle next to Kengemma and Sunitha.  Sunitha instinctively reached up to catch my hand, and after a while scooted in so that the 3 of us could share the bench.

She held my hand the entire way to the railway station.

As we drove through Bangalore, she said things like, "Goodbye, school.  Goodbye, Kothanur".  It is sad for me to say goodbye to these girls - for a second time - but an even deeper empathy settled in my heart as I watched her watch her world go by.  I remember how it was to drive through town, realizing that I was most likely seeing it for the last time.  At age 23, that was heartbreaking.  I can't imagine how it feels at age 10.

When the train rolled in, the girls loaded up.  I walked from car to car, holding hands through the windows, blowing kisses, wiping tears, giving last-minute encouraging words.  Sunitha was in the first car, and it took a lot for me to let go of her hand and move on to the next car, because I really didn't want to say goodbye.  As I walked alongside the train, I realized that I know each and every one of these girls.  I know more than their name - I know who they are.  I know how they've grown.  I know their dreams.  (Sidenote: I just realized, if knowing that makes me love them, I can't imagine the greatness of God's love for them.  I can barely speak their language...but God knit them together in their mothers' wombs.  (Sigh)  They're going to be ok.)

I made it to the last car and was talking to Subbhi when the train started to roll away.  AH! I wanted to see each of them again.  I didn't want them to go.  I just wanted to be with them a little longer.  Did I tell each of them that I loved them?  We waved through windows as the train picked up speed.  Waves.  Hand holds.  Blown kisses.  The last car with small hands waving out passed, and a piece of my heart broke off when I realized they were gone.  One last look, and I saw through the window.  Sunitha was sitting in a seat facing away from me, but she looked back at the exact same instant.  I smiled.  She leaped to her feet.  Turned around.  Gave me a big smile, a big wave, and blew me a huge kiss.  My heart took a picture.

And then she was gone.

Sunitha, my first friend, is the last image that I have as the train sped out of the station late Tuesday night.

Judging by the tears rolling down my cheeks as I write, I think it's time to cry now.

Starved for Beauty

I hadn't realized I was starved for beauty.

I have been cognizant of my need for beauty for the past one week; I started reading Ann Voskamp's "one thousand gifts" again, and in the last chapter I read she recognizes her need for manna each day or she starves.  For her, this manna is beauty, and I know that this rings true for me, as well.  I realized long back that one of the reasons I love about India is the vibrancy of life and the beauty that this creates.  For me, this vibrancy along with the colors of houses, clothing, flowers, skintones is a life that keeps me alive.  I know that the first words that come to mind when many think of India are "dirty, crowded, impoverished, unpleasant" but I believe that "nothing here below is profane for those who know how to see" (Pierre Teihard de Chardin) and that even "le laid peut etre beau" ("the ugly can be beautiful"- Paul Gauguin).

That being said, when you get stuck in your routine, the things you once found beautiful can cease to bring you joy.  Not because they aren't beautiful, but because you aren't looking.  Or, as is sometimes the case in India, you are so blinded by everything else - blocking out the noise, dodging bikes, watching your step in the construction-ridden roads - that you forget to look.  In my case, reading about Ann's need for manna reminded me of mine, and reminded me that I had stopped looking.  So the past 7 days I've been looking, but coming up empty.  Why?  I'm not sure yet.  Perhaps that will be another blogpost one day.

Needless to say, although I knew I had a need for beauty in my life, I hadn't realized that I was starving.

Until I arrived in Dehradun (Uttarakhand, India) for a work trip and pulled into a house that had an entrance like this:

 Which had a wrap-around verandah and a corner porch that looked like this:

Was nestled into the Himalayan foothills with a view like this:

Had about a million flowers, including this charming English rose bush:

 And from where I watched the sun set like this:

There were dragonflies and birds galore, and I even saw a peacock strutting across the yard.  Yeah - a peacock.  Sans tailfeathers, though.  We took a walk in the twilight time, and it was when I started to cry upon seeing the white, pink, and fuchsia bougainvillea cascading over a tall picket fence that I realized that I have been starving.  "Thank you, God."  The beauty I had been seeking once again in Bangalore wasn't what I needed.  This was it.  As it grew dark, I sat by myself on the verandah listening to nothing but the sounds of the evening birds and the breeze through the trees, watching the stars come out in the heavens above and the twinkling lights in the city beneath me.  Not only did I need beauty, but I needed peace.  And I am very thankful that I found it in the most unexpected of places.

Waxing

For those of you who may think this post may be about waxing as used in the phrase “waxing and waning” or that I am going to "wax poetic", I am sorry to disappoint you.  For this post is about the removal of unwanted body hair.

There are 3 things that I really loathe: shaving my legs, washing my hair, and making my bed with new sheets.  But I love being smooth-legged, I know that washing my hair is a social norm I must adhere to for hygienic purposes, and there is nothing better than climbing into a freshly-made bed.  So I carry on.

However, in India, it turns out that most ladies wax their arms and legs.   My trainer has been making fun of me for not since I got here.  I tried to explain to her that it’s something we don’t do in the U.S. (except, perhaps, for very, very special occasions) – probably for the pain factor as well as the fact that it costs an arm and a leg (no pun intended), but her nagging didn’t stop.  Why did she nag?  Because I’m lazy and I despise shaving my legs, so I always showed up to the gym with some stubble. 

Why didn't I wax?  Because, to be honest, going to a salon in a "third world" country is still somewhat sketchy to me.  I’m sorry, but it is; I'm just being honest.  I’ve also been hesitant because I know that waxing hurts.  In addition, contrary to popular belief, I also have some standards of hygiene and, to me, the thought of growing my leg hair to a length where it could be waxed was disgusting.  Not to mention hot, especially because it was becoming summer in Bangalore and if I had hairy legs I knew I would restrict myself to wearing pants.  But my hatred of shaving won out, I was recommended a parlour, and it was time to grow.  My apologies to my poor colleague, because about once a week I would lift my pant leg and ask, “Is it long enough yet?”

But in the month and a half that it took (ewwww), I realized something.  My showers were so much quicker without having to shave.  And I didn’t abhor washing my hair as much as usual, because I hadn’t spent the time and energy shaving (I know, my life is so rough).  I could only look forward to the happiness this would bring when I didn’t have hairy legs.

Finally, it was time.  Privacy at this beauty parlour is something that isn’t really considered; but, then again, in my experience privacy isn’t generally considered in India as a whole**, and I’ve become used to it.  They ask me to disrobe, hand me a gunnysack-type-garment to wrap around myself, and leave with the door open, going in and out as I do so.  Not that the garment did much, because they shift it about at will as they wax my legs and underarms (Yes, I do the underarms too.  It’s so freeing.).

My first visit, they chided me for shaving.  I tried to explain that it’s what we do in the U.S., but the tongue-clucking told me that that is not a good excuse.  And yes, it hurt.  Like the dickens.  Sometimes I found myself gripping the table for dear life.  I have two ladies working on me, which makes me feel kind of pampered.  It is also the basis for the lie I tell myself – and try to believe - that having the pain spread out decreases the suffering.  It’s still torturous; perhaps moreso, because I never know if the ripping is going to come from the right or left leg.  But when I went to pay the bill and found out that I was paying $6/leg and 50 cents per pit, I knew this was something I wasn’t going to stop.  No pain, no gain, right?  If/when I move back to the U.S., I am going to have to devote a large percentage of my salary to upkeep of this new habit. 

Plus, my trainer was proud, so it’s totally worth it.

I went back for the second time today.  I think my aesthetician wants to rid me of every hair on my body…She strokes my arms, begging me to let her wax them.  I say no, and she counters with “Just up to the elbow?”  I laugh, and refuse, telling her that I really like my arm hair.  She thinks I have an unhealthy attachment.

They congratulated me on how little of my leg hair had grown back after only one time waxing.  Clearly I don’t have much to do with this…but, of course, I accept their praise anyway :)  It’s good to know my hair is behaving…and I’m also clinging to their statement that “Maybe it will eventually stop growing.”  How glorious would that be?

** A reader has mentioned to me that this comment regarding privacy in India portrays that I have the perception that Indians possess an inability to value privacy.  Please note that this is not the intention; rather, when I wrote this comment I was considering the open door and people walking in and out of the room during this and other visits to the parlour, doctors appointments with doors ajar and random visitors while I was being examined, full-body massages that massage parts of me never before touched after which I have shared the shower with complete strangers while other complete strangers have washed me up and down, in and out.  Perhaps it would have been more apt to say that in India I have experienced a different standard of privacy as it relates to the human body, and I apologize if it has seems that I have made a generalization of the way that Indians as a whole value privacy, or that I have judged Indians as possessing an inability to value privacy.  The purpose of this post was not to complain, but to share my experience of waxing.

Easter Eve

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. 

And I think I have just decided that I am not going to church.

The church I go to doesn’t celebrate Christmas or Easter.  I’ve been planning on going tomorrow, but I’ve been planning to go more or less to hear why they don’t celebrate Easter.  To see if they judge the rest of Christian culture for celebrating.

But if I’m really honest with myself, I don’t want to spend my Easter Sunday like that.  I don’t want to spend my Easter Sunday with a critical spirit, and I don’t want to spend Easter Sunday without celebrating Jesus’ resurrection, His new life, and the new life that He offers to me and you, the redemption of creation and relationships. 

Yes, Easter may be the Christian conversion of a pagan holiday.  And yes, the name Easter is likely derived from the name of the ancient goddess of spring.  And no, nowhere in Scripture are we instructed to celebrate Christ’s resurrection one day out of the year; if anything, we are instructed not to base our faith on religious holidays (Galatians 4:8-10) as so many other religions do.

But my faith isn’t based upon the holiday; rather, the holiday provides the space to intentionally reflect upon my faith.  And while, yes, perhaps every day should be lived in thankfulness of Christ’s work on the cross and in celebration of God’s power that raised Him from the dead, it physically hurts to think of spending Easter Sunday in church without consciously celebrating what that means for us and for our world.  My heart pains imagining greeting my fellow churchgoers without being reciprocated a “He is risen indeed!”

So, while most Christians flock to church tomorrow, I think I will stay home and embrace the space that Easter offers.  Because Christ is Risen – He is Risen Indeed!