The week after I complete a meditation workshop is always full of rich, sensory experiences. Today I was mesmerized by my friend Brenda's pink shirt and sandals and the sound of the boisterous cicadas in northwest Baltimore. I suppose it is a reward of sorts for the work that is involved in sitting with one's thoughts for two ten hour days. While this is not much time in the grand scheme of things, the five weekend workshops in which I have participated over the past year have had a profound impact on me. Most significantly, they have helped me to reveal Emily without the packaging.
Very little about these meditation weekends is easy. After a day of sitting, I am always ready to bolt from the center on Saturday night. Returning on Sunday to face more of the same is always difficult. Usually, I can come up with a list of things I would rather be doing. Nevertheless, it is only through sitting that I am able to move beyond my stuck places. Last weekend was no exception. One of the issues I faced head-on was my fantasy of finding a female partner.
For the past six of the seven years that I have been based in Baltimore I have identified and latched on to the idea of dating one woman after another. My efforts were fruitless; however, none of the women would have been good for me. With them I never would have been able to grow in the same way that I have managed to do on my own. I suppose there has been a part of me that has tried to fill the void that was left when my relationship with Ben ended in 1997. Although there was very little about the ending that was personal (Ben will spend the rest of his life working through his relationship with his mother) and I eventually would have figured out I am gay had the relationship continued, my self-esteem plummeted as a result of what happened. Only recently have I begun to recognize the role meditation has played in helping me to befriend and value myself. I have done my best trying to control the uncontrollable. Maybe in these few weeks that remain in Baltimore before I move to Ithaca I can let go of the last of these fantasies. It is time that I yield into my single status and embrace all that it has to offer. Ithaca is a new place. Maybe there I will have an opportunity to date. Maybe I will not. In any case, the challenge remains for me to sit with the space, with the unknown, with the emotion I feel about the subject until I am able to merely observe its presence.
The weekend before last, a year after I returned from Nepal, Luke, Britta and I toasted with champagne the completion of our data collection. These two students just returned to the US after finishing their projects in Nepal. Although we all spent different periods of time in the 'Mountain Kingdom' and engaged in different projects while we were there, we share common experiences, including our individual when-I-was-close-to-a-bomb stories. At different points, we each questioned whether we would actually be able to complete our data collection. The challenges were numerous: strikes, riots, bombs, illness, isolation, mechanical failures, heavy monsoons, landslides, extreme heat and cold, curfews, military checks, chaos in the wake of the royal family's assignation, damage to the infrastructure, etc. Our reality was so unbelievable that we would be hard-pressed to exaggerate our experiences. Despite everything, we beat the odds by completing our research. It felt so good to mark our reunion on American soil with champagne.
Shortly before Luke left Nepal, he photographed my cook Kanchi's house for me. Seeing the pictures early last week almost moved me to tears. They marked the first piece of evidence I had received that the house-building project is complete. Maybe I will post a picture once I figure out how to do this. For a detailed description of Kanchi and the circumstances that led to her needing a house, I refer the reader to the May 17th entry of my Making Sense of Nepal (www.maomshanti.blogspot.com) blog where I have posted a letter that I sent my close friend Sara in September 2002 before I traveled home and spoke to 'her' 6th grade, the other teachers and students who helped raise money for my project.
When I first moved to Sarlahi District, I resisted the idea of hiring a cook. It did not seem to make sense when our two supervisors were traveling for their morning and evening meals to a food stall that was managed by our night watchman and his daughter. Initially, sitting with them provided me with an opportunity to talk about the day and connect outside of work. As time passed, I began to listen more and talk less as they slowly became drunk night after night. It is customary in Nepal to eat protein and consume alcohol before dal bhat (the traditional lentil, rice, and vegetable meal) is served, so I waited while they drank their cocktails and ate their meat. After four months, I reached a point where I couldn't stand it any longer. Fortunately, the timing coincided with my move from Hariaun to Ishwarpur, to the Pink Palace.
Food preparation in Nepal can take hours. Although there is less work involved in preparing a vegetarian diet, time is still needed to buy perishables at the local bi-weekly market, sort the rice and lentils, remove the small rocks that were harvested with the grain and legumes, mix and roll out the dough for the rotis (flat bread) we ate for dinner, and wash and dice the vegetables. In the area in which I was living everything came directly from the fields. We bought our rice from one of our worker's neighbors and our milk from a Muslim neighbor who owned a water buffalo. For a while we grew our own spinach, pumpkin, eggplant, and tomatoes. It was Kanchi's job to manage the food. Sometimes I accompanied her to the local market or cooked when I wanted something other than dal bhat; however, she did the majority of the work. She prepared our (hers and mine) morning tea and two meals a day. I had heard about Kanchi from two other graduate students who hired her for the two years they were collecting data in the field, but I did not know how to contact her.
A couple of weeks before my move, after I had already arranged for someone else to help me cook in my new residence, Kanchi appeared in Hariaun in our office residence on the grounds of the sugar mill one morning before work. She and her smile waltzed into my living space. The click was immediate and I hired her on the spot. For almost two years, she worked for me in both Ishwarpur and Hariaun. Although my primary residence was in the 'Pink Palace' in Ishwarpur, the unstable political situation forced me to spend many evenings in Hariaun. The latter was safer. It was also where visitors from Kathmandu and the US stayed when they came. The distance between the two residences was about 12 miles. It took me almost two hours to run, an hour to bike, 45 minutes to drive our office motorcycle, and 35 minutes to ride in our project vehicle between the two residences. Flexibility was the key to survival in Nepal. Kanchi was flexible. We had a good time.
Together we laughed a lot until life became more serious. I used to entertain her (and the neighbors) with my goat and water buffalo sounds. After work I engaged our landlord's goats and young water buffalo in conversation. Everyone laughed when the animals responded. After dark before we went to sleep we would walk to the roof and look at the stars. "Tin tara" (the three stars on Orion's belt) was the object of our gaze night after night. It is what connects us today when there is so much distance between us. I feel confident that Kanchi thinks of me when she sees those three stars shining over the sugar mill. Here in the US her image floods my mind when I see the stars shining over the row houses in my neighborhood. When I think about it, I can hear the snorting of the old bull with cataract in Ishwarpur who used to wander up and down the street after dark sniffing for cows to impregnate. The wonderful thing about the mind is that it makes time travel possible.
I love Kanchi. While I was in Nepal, I feared for her well-being after I left. With the political situation as bad as it is, it is not likely that another student will travel to Nepal for some time. Kanchi's husband has a solid job working as a peon (official title for tea bearer/handy man), but the $25 he makes each month is not enough to feed Kanchi, their daughter Goma, his mother, and his son's family when his son is not able to find work. The extended family is malnourished. I wanted to do something before I left that would help to sustain them in the years ahead. Raising money to build the family a house seemed to be the answer. There is absolutely no way that they would have been able to do this on their own. In only a few years, Kanchi's husband will face mandatory retirement from the sugar mill. Without a house of their own, the family would be homeless. Initially, I thought I only needed to raise $1000. My intention was to build a traditional two-story wooden house; however, after talking to the family I realized a nicer concrete one would be more practical. Wooden houses require a considerable amount of upkeep. Each year fresh cow dung must be applied to the outside walls to keep the house insulated. Without a cow Kanchi foresaw this as being a problem. Besides she and her husband are only getting older. We settled on building three concrete rooms, two of which would be separated by a narrow hallway that could be used for storage. We also installed a water pump and a detached bathing area and toilet. Later the family will try to build a nicer kitchen area than the make-shift wooden shelter they have at present. I raised a total of $2700 from friends and family for the project.
Building this house was not easy. We had to keep it a secret for fear that the Maoists would destroy it if they found out it was paid for with American and British funds. Only Kanchi's family, Luke and Britta, our Nepali director, and my Nepali co-worker and friend Shishir were aware of the funding source. With a local rate of illiteracy over 85%, the majority of the people involved with the project could not read or write. Fortunately, they could add. Every few weeks I withdrew money from the ATM in Kathmandu and brought it with me to the field. We in our project vehicle passed through the numerous military check posts on the road to and from the Terai, of which Sarlahi District is a part, without incident. One evening we were forced to stop for the night in a small town on the other side of a forested area from our field site when the road was closed after bandits had attacked vehicles two previous nights on this particular stretch of road. There weren't enough beds at the 'lodge' in which we stayed, so I spread out on the floor (where I think it was cleaner) between the two beds occupied by two of our Nepali senior staff with the money tucked inside my clothes.
I gave Kanchi's husband the money as he needed it. Neither one of us wanted it to be stolen from his two room residence in the crowded sugar mill quarters. He used it to purchase sand, gravel, bricks, cement, steel rods, windows, and other supplies for the house. He and his son spent their mornings and evening hours talking with people in the local market and bargained with them to get the cheapest price for the house materials and labor. The workmen could not work during political strikes, when the concrete was drying, or we were waiting for supplies. Months passed and I began to wonder if we would ever finish the house. More and more money was needed to complete it, so I spent evenings writing friends and family asking for donations. I feel so fortunate to have connected with so many generous people who believed in the project.
On my last day in the field I gave Kanchi's husband all the remaining money I had. He was not sure whether it would be enough to finish the project. Kanchi wrote me in December and told me the family had contributed some of their own money, but there was still work to be done. Until last Monday when I saw the pictures Luke took before he left, I envisioned an unfinished house. I worried that the extreme weather in Sarlahi would destroy what we had started. I worried that I had asked for all this money from the close friends and family members had ultimately let them down by trying to create something grander than I had money to purchase. I worried in vain. The house is complete. It is a beautiful, white concrete structure with red trim and a red metal gate to keep the family's goat and future chickens inside the compound. Big WAHOO!!!
It has taken me a year to be able to talk about Kanchi. I suppose knowing that she has some future security in the form of the house helps me to breathe deeper. Someday I will return for a visit. Although it will not be the same as it was when we lived together, seeing Kanchi and her family will be meaningful nonetheless. There are some remarkable women in this world, some true survivors. Kanchi is one of them.
There are moments in life where connecting with an old friend means more than just about anything. On Wednesday night I returned to my apartment to await news about Dad's surgery and found a message from "Bear.' It took me, 'Turtle' a second to recognize the Nepali speaker's voice, but as soon as I did a huge smile broke out across my face. We connected this evening and I am still feeling warmed by the encounter. Already I am looking forward to seeing her this summer. The last time we spoke was in September the day before she started working in Labor and Delivery. Even though I have been back from Nepal a year, using a phone after having had limited access to one for the previous 2.5 years still feels awkward. As a result, I have not been good about calling anyone. Using it tonight gave me an opportunity to travel across the country to a studio in San Francisco where the two of us were able to acknowledge the similarities in our lives. After hearing over and over from one person after another how different I am, it felt wonderful to be able to sink into familiarity. To think that this happened on the one year anniversary of my return from Nepal... I feel happy.
Friends make me happy. There are many individuals with whom I have shared significant experiences through the years. Although I have always been good about keeping in touch, I am finding it more difficult as I grow older. It takes longer to provide the background necessary to let people know where I am both physically and emotionally, especially in light of all the changes that have occurred in the past few years. Sometimes I focus too much on these changes and forget that inside the essence of Emily is still present. It always surprises me to hear old friends repeat things I said in the past. While I think of my thoughts as being new, it appears that I am merely recycling and developing ideas that I had years ago. Friends provide us with mirrors that allow us to get to know ourselves better.
As I begin to close another chapter in my life and say goodbye to some dear friends I will miss after I depart Baltimore for Ithaca, I feel thankful for the presence of my blog and the opportunity it continues to provide me in forming bridges between the chapters of my life and the people that characterize each.
It feels quiet. Is this the eye of the storm or has it passed? For the past few weeks I have entertained the presence of an unwelcome, but familiar visitor. He reentered my life when Dad was admitted to the hospital and sat himself in the middle of my living area where he obstructs my view. Whenever I manage to turn my head in such a way that his image is not incorporated into my line of vision, he makes sure to stand up and wave his arms to remind me of his presence.
His is a presence I know well. It is the emotion his presence invokes that affects me so profoundly. The uncertainty about the immediate future combined with the residual pain that lingers from his past visits elicits feelings of vulnerability and exposure.
Despite everything, these visits have added color to my life. They have shaped my character and personality. From them, I have learned the value of living.
When I think about the future, I am reminded of a vivid memory from my past. It occurred in 2002 on the first Sunday in October when my previous girlfriend and I attended "Ladies Tea" at a local gay club in Baltimore. It is an event that is scheduled on the first Sunday of every month for lesbians to assemble, mingle, and dance. The evening was something I had eagerly anticipated since it marked the first time I had seen more than about ten lesbians in a single place. However, my introverted side was overwhelmed after entering. The woman I was dating did not understand why I immediately wanted to plaster myself against one of the back walls. She felt a lot more comfortable taking me into the center of the dance floor where she could draw attention to herself and the two of us as a couple as she rubbed her body against mine. I love to dance, but that particular night I was more interested in observing than acting. I wanted to watch and learn. I felt like an anthropologist trying to make sense of the foreign culture in which I was both a member and a participant observer.
What do lesbians look like? How do they behave? Despite the fact that I am a lesbian, I have had trouble identifying the members of my community. It took me 28 years to realize not all lesbians are butch. Once I realized this I was able to accept the fact that I am gay. Coming out for me had more to do with the process of yielding into my femininity than anything else. I cannot imagine that I am the only person who has had such false preconceptions about lesbians. The media has been more successful in identifying gay men than women. If few people are actually able to identify members of the lesbian community, how are we going to break down the prejudice and misunderstanding that surrounds the issue of homosexuality?
Lesbians are numerous. We are daughters, sisters, mothers, grandmothers, lovers, professionals, and laborers. We are beautiful women who live in every country in the world. We set examples for others by just being ourselves. Often we are not aware of the impact of our presence, especially when we are just hanging on trying to live our lives. It is this presence, this strength that I wish to explore. For every lesbian who has found the courage to embrace her true identity, there are thousands who have not. Having been born on American soil places me in a position of privilege. My goal is to put a face to the term lesbian.
On this first day of May that symbolizes renewal in some cultures, I am struck by the change occurring around me. Jenn delivered baby Milo after midnight. Mira married Brett this afternoon. Recently, Steph delivered Edouard in France. Becky located an adoption agency in Guatemala. Sherrill found a name for her wellness center. Mom moved into her new house. Dad put his house on the market. Becky, Pat, and Melisse, eight year doctoral students, defended their theses and earned their PhDs. Julie and Anne initiated healing through their cleaning and organizing projects. I have entered my own transitional world, caught between Baltimore and Ithaca where I am neither here nor there. I have always thought of change as being the only constant in life. Change is renewal, rebirth, regeneration, healing, forward-moving energy. Life is living, loving, growing, learning, reaching, releasing. Life is change. Change is life.
