vata

My friend Jewel came over to visit today. I apologized for the mess in my apartment. The stuffy humid air. The cats were strewn about like lions in the hot Sahara.

It didn't really matter. We went out onto the porch where there was a slight whisper of a breeze off the lake. We opened a bottle of chilled white wine. It was a lovely Vermont wine Emi & I just discovered at the Farmers' Market—Montcalm Lacresent. A perfect wine for a hot summer afternoon on the porch. The nice gentleman at the market (I think he looks like Don Quixote might've looked) said the Lacrescent grape is similar to muscat, I told her.

"My father loved muscat," Jewel mused. "So this is perfect. White wine balances the vata."

"What's vata? I asked.

"It's ayurvedic. It's an Indian belief that the body is made of three elements called doshas. Vata is the airy, spacey one."

I love Jewel for these colorful bits of conversation. I said, "It kind of sounds like the French word for void or empty, vide." I wondered if there was a connection. If so, I thought, then what she was saying was somewhat true. I'd been in up in my thoughts all weekend. Some of that is good, but too much can be debilitating. You need a balance. The wine, the company, the conversation was all very nourishing–it brought me down to ground level.

We started talking about Jewel's dad. She showed me the eulogy her brother had written for the funeral. She talked about her father's last words and how they made her want to go to start going to Temple again.

I wanted to say, "I'll go with you next time, if you want." But I don't know if that's allowed. I'm not Jewish. And I really don't know how I feel about Temple or vata or death.

I started thinking about Mama Sonia, my grandmother. I wish she wasn't so far away... I hope when we go to visit in a month... I hope, I hope...

Jewel helped me deadhead my petunias and thin out some potted herbs that were suffocating each other (her green thumb balances out my brown, albeit well-intentioned one). She complimented my window boxes—and I was proud. That means a lot coming from her!

We made plans to get together soon. And then it was time for her to go. It was bittersweet. I was sad for Jewel. I was sad, because then I thought of Mama Sonia and how much I miss her and how I wish I was a better granddaughter and called her every week like my sisters and cousins do.

But despite it all, at that moment, I felt serene. I felt glad for friendship and silly conversations. I felt glad for my petunias and basil. I felt glad about Vermont wine (if you can believe it!). I felt glad that there is so much to feel.

So much to feel, right now.

goodbye lenin, hello to a new idealism

Growing up in the American school system in the wake of the Cold War, I learned one version of socialism and it went hand-in-hand with the one version of communism: that "evil" political system governed by tyrant dictators and characterized in distopian novels as societies blinded by propaganda and idealism.

Communism and socialism were bad words, evoking images of mass communes, loss of individual rights, and lack of personal drive or responsibility. They still do, I believe, to an extent. In fact, it wasn't until I traveled to France and lived there for a while that I realized that socialism is a veritable and genuine way to govern a people, with the people in mind. I think with awe and reverence to the country's health care and educational systems, to their social welfare and work standards, and to their simple, old-world style of pace and priority. Americans like to call this "work-life balance."

Once I was given a first-hand view of the inner workings, my opinion of socialism shifted from that of stark government control to one in which human welfare--rather than personal success--was given utmost precedence. Granted, the system has its flaws and disadvantages. But what government isn't tainted when humans play a part? Just look at the current state of the American political system to be reminded that no government is immune from tyranny and imperfection. And that line between imperfection and corruption is blurry.

I'm reminded of all this, because I watched Goodbye Lenin again last night and realized that it has got to be one of my favorite movies of all time. The movie takes place in East Berlin during the deterioration the Soviet occupation and, with it, the Berlin Wall. In it, a boy named Alex must protect his fragile mother from learning that her beloved East Germany is no longer as it was. As a result, the boy is given the rare opportunity to recreate events not as they actually were, but how his ideals would have them be. The movie gives viewers a real perspective into the socialist political system of that time--what went wrong, but also, what went right and how things could have ended up if all of the pieces were in place.

Isn't that the point of an ideal? To be unattainable, but also attractive so that we are driven to them, even if in vain.

I feel, lately, that human ideals have run amok. We're no longer focused on what might be, because we're dragged down by what can't be or by what isn't. Maybe it's because we've all decide--oh, educated, collective We--that ideals are no longer important. Sure there are general political ideals and religious ideals, but what about the ideals of the people? We're realists now. And we're running the country.

But what about romance? What about compassion and storytelling? These elements should hold a place in all of our hearts, be we capitalists or communists, Muslim or Christian, American or French.

And remember, there's room enough in this world for everyone to have their own little version. Heck, if the American history books can do it, why can't we? So if you haven't yet, watch this movie. And in particular, pay special attention to the ending. There's a lesson there for all of us--to be believers.

the tower of babel

I've been thinking a lot about community these days. And in that context, differences as they translate into beauty or into conflict. Long ago, or so it says in the bible, humankind spoke one language. They were a unified people who, through the strength of many, worked together to build a tower into the heavens. God, seeing what his people had built, set about to prevent it by confounding the people's language and scattering them all over the world.

Nowadays, ethnic and religious cultures stand out in stark contrast against one another. When you meet someone who speaks another language the human differences are quite tangible. How can you connect with someone when you can't understand what they're saying? How can you build a community with someone, when community relies so much on communication?

The fact is, good communication and positive community building are a challenge even for two people who speak the same language--if those two people choose to focus only on the differences.

Here's where I can really learn something from my cat. Au Lait and I speak different languages. But we've both gotten to the point, I think, where we're beginning to understand each other, even if we can't speak the words. She'll meow a certain way. Then meow again. Before I would say, "Au Lait, I don't know what you want." I would say that till I was blue in the face. Truth is though, I might not know what she's saying, but I do know what she needs or wants.

Likewise, sometimes she'll choose to push her luck, and pretend she doesn't know that what she's doing hurts my feelings. But when I look into her eyes, I see a certain hesitation there. I'll just say her name and she'll pull back. It's a little game we have of sorts: you give a little, I'll give a little. In the end, the we's have it, so long as everyone involved puts in a little effort (e.g. I give some food and playtime, she sits on my feet in bed).

That's right. I'm saying communication has absolutely nothing to do with language. It's about dialog and understanding. It's about sharing a moment despite our differences. And that's where the beauty lies.

speaking of faith

Every once it a while I'll be pulled into a news story, movie, or radio without really wanting to. Against all my better prejudices. I love NPR, but there is one show that I avoid: Speaking of Faith. I avoid it, I think, because it hits so close to home. I've had religion up to my ears as the daughter of a Pentacostal preacher. More religion than I could handle. And to boot, these days, I feel like religion has become a dirty word. It has come to represent extremism. It divides communities. It wages wars. It scares me.

Still, as I said, today I was drawn into an episode on my drive home from work. It was a different kind of episode, because this time instead of telling a story of someone else's religious journey, the host Krista Tippett was telling her own story as the granddaughter of an evangelical minister. And it did hit very close to home. It reminded me of my relationship with my father. But it wasn't scary. Instead, I found it very hopeful. Perhaps because it reminded me of how important spirituality has become in my outlook on life and my own role in this world. This is a good thing.

I spent much of my childhood in church. ...Faith helped me live with the tension between the smallness of the world around me and my intense inner sense of a larger beyond. It helped keep that tension alive. In this way it grounded me in reality, not just mystery. But my grandfather's rules and beliefs did not add up as I grew older. I came to find the disjunction between the thoroughness of my mind and the limitations of church teachings intolerable...

But I hold to my memories of his complexity — his fear and fallenness along with the humanity and virtues of that faith of my childhood — against stereotyped images of evangelical Christianity that are at large in our culture now. The rock-solid, certain aspects of my grandfather's faith bequeathed me a spiritual inheritance. They are the foundation upon which my questions and ideas now are planted. I learned to trust in an overriding sense behind the universe. I learned to look for grace and for truths that revealed themselves at times baldly but just as often between the cracks in my ability to see and hear what is important. Above all, I understood belovedness to be woven into the very fabric of life.

Everyone, she says, has a certain level of spirituality. In that sense we're on the same level. Religion just serves as a container for that spirituality.