"I peed my pants", Cashmere men, "I am Super", and Powder Covered Joy

   To begin, I would like to apologize to my friends and family at home who have been wondering about my journey since my last blog post which seems like so long ago. I have found it extremely difficult to rearrange the sights, sounds and feelings that I experience everyday into coherent sentences. How do I express the beautiful grace of Indian women while they are sifting sand to make bricks? How do I tell of the food that makes my tongue go numb from its spice? How do I explain the frustration I feel when men are whistling at me from the moment I step out the front door? How do I portray the immense joy that seems to embrace my whole being when I spend time with my students?

    As some of you may know, I have been sharing this journey of mine with a Beyond Borders' student named Erika. Throughout this journey, Erika has become more than merely a travel partner; she has become my friend, my sister and at times my more responsible conscience. That being said, yesterday morning, as I was struggling to find some way to frame this trip which has become my life, Erika showed me an email explaining the task of a potter creating a work of art. The potter will bake the pot until it is ready, then he/she must check the solidity of the pot. So he/she will pull the pot out of the oven and “thump” it. If the pot is ready it will “sing”; however, if it “thuds”, the potter will place the pot back into the oven until is ready. I wish to describe some of those challenging moments with you. Here are some of my “thump” moments:

• In India, you must be prepared for anything - On the morning of June 16, Erika and I made our way to the YWCA School. We were told that we would be teaching two grades every day for a few weeks, and then we would move on to another two grades. We had been preparing for this for a long time and we had all of our lesson plans ready, our alphabets laminated, and our Canadian flags set to go for the first day of school. However, when we arrived at the school, everything changed...like it often does in India. We soon found out that we would actually be teaching five grades of Spoken English every day. We were surprised, to say the least. My first class was grade 3 and they decided to put both the grade 3 classes together for my first day of teaching. So, I had nearly 70 grade 3 students crammed into a room that was only meant for 20 in 40 degree weather. The moment that I will never forget is when one of the grade 3 students quietly raised his hand and explained in broken English that he was so sorry, and that he didn't mean to, but he was just so surprised so he had...peed his pants.
  
  
• (Some) Cashmere men are like sugar covered onions - seem nice on the outside, but just wait til you get to the core –  The first encounter I had with a man from Cashmere was when I was escorted into a rather expensive store near one of the major temples in Madurai. As I attempted to quickly walk through the store and then leave, one much-too-friendly employee decided he would befriend me. As I was beginning to leave, he said “Oh don't go, the sun - too hot”. As I quickened my pace, I stated, “but I like the hot weather”; to which he responded “You like hot? I am hot”. I gave a quick glance, unsure if he actually had said those words and then shuffled quickly out the door making sure to take note of the store name so that I did not return. That is only one of the many encounters with Cashmerian shop keepers. For the sake of time, I will refrain telling the others.
  
  
• “Eye am Soup-air” (aka “I am super”) - Parvahti is the cook in the house where I am staying. She is a short woman who is tough as steel. She would be an amazing rugby player. Parvahti has become my absolute best friend here in India. She is in her mid-fifties (but is unsure of her age because she has never celebrated her birthday; for her, age is simply a suggestion not a solid rule). Parvahti has absolutely no English so she often speaks to me in full Tamil, believing in her heart that I understand while I reassure her with head nods and the odd kiss on the cheek. At the beginning of this trip, Parvahti's lack of English scared me to death. However, as our relationship grew, I began to learn that friendship does not have to based upon long hours of talk; rather they can be built upon simple gestures of love. Recently I taught Parvahti the appropriate response to “How are you?” which in my books is “I am super”. We exchange these words many times a day; so, to the outside observer, it may appear as if our friendship is quite superficial. But I beg to differ!
  
  
• Powder Covered Joy – Last Friday was the day before my big brother's wedding. I was quite sad because I would have to miss that joyous occasion. I had to push through every class that day and the moments seemed to be just dragging along. As I finally reached my last class of the day, I was surprised to see my Grade 7 class seated quietly. To explain, my Grade 7 class is a group of about 45 BOYS; needless to say, they are wild! So, I am sure you can understand my bewilderment when I walked into a silent class. One of my students, Richard Anthony, tapped on my shoulder as I was getting my things set up for class and showed me a box full of powder covered treats that he had made with his mother. He explained that they wanted to celebrate my brothers' wedding with me because I was unable to be with my family in Canada. This little boy's heart gave me so much joy. As we ate the sugary puffs of unknown ingredients and sang “Happy Wedding Day” (to the tune of “Happy Birthday”), I finally felt that little piece of home that I had been missing for so long.

   Throughout our lives, we are faced with incredible challenges. Some are catalysts to great change while others simply place a weight on our shoulders. Throughout my time in India, I have been “thumped” many times, I have been tested, I have been pushed beyond my limits. However, every time I feel that I am about to give up, I am reminded with love. I am not yet sure if there is a moment where we are fully ready, where we have spent enough time in the oven, that we are ready to “sing” forever; however, I do know that when life gives me a day that is packed full of “thumps”, it is much easier to “thud” than to “sing”. I sincerely hope that after this adventure, I will sing. I am not yet sure what the song will sound like or if its rhythm will become the tune of my life...but I look forward to finding out.

Living Barefoot may be Impossible...

   As I am sitting here, I am desperately trying to choose the perfect words to paint an accurate portrait of my time in India so far.  I so deeply desire to share with you the stories that have become my life over the past month.  I want you to smell the aroma that fills the air as I walk through the streets, I want you to see the beautiful sari's that only enhance the beauty of Indian women; but most importantly, I want you to share the joy and pain that my heart feels as I walk along this path.  However, I truly am at a loss.  When I first decided to continue posting throughout my time abroad, I expected to simply share stories of my time here so that friends and family from home and elsewhere could share this journey with me. But as I was attempting to choose a story or two to fill the lines on this post, I discovered that this particular blog is not meant to put a smile on the face of its audience or bring a tear to my mother's eye; rather, this post is written at a time of deep vulnerability.  Over the past few weeks, I have discovered that I will never fully be able to see India.  From the moment that I stepped off of Canadian soil, I became a foreigner.

   I soon learned that my experience in India will forever be tainted due to the undeniable fact that I am a foreigner.  As my time in India has progressed, I have felt more frustrated and confused.  However, this frustration comes from a place of ignorance and naiivety.  The heartbreaking truth is that I will never fully be able to understand the lives of the people I meet, I will never be able to feel the pain that they feel or revel in the joy that they find in life.  I am simply looking through Western glasses that are permanently glued to my face.  The moment that I learned this was just after lunch when the maid, whose name is Gracie had just arrived to begin her daily duties.  I said my token "Hello Gracie" in a sing-song fashion, and she replied in an equally chipper tone.  As we attempted to communicate through many gestures and finger-pointing, she said in full English "I black, you white.  I blood is red, you blood is red".  This sentance struck me with incredible weight and power.  I so wanted and still want to believe this statement.  I want to believe that my skin does not matter, it is what is beneath it that counts; but I simply can't.  I cannot believe that my white skin does not change the way people treat me or how they act in my presence.  And this brings the inevitable question of what it means to "do good" and if it is possible to "do good" while living in a foreign country for 3.5 months.  I am an individual who attempts to help those around me and who finds joy in filling a need; however, I am human.  To be honest, I do often have selfish motives.  After much preparation for my adventure in India, I knew that some of my motivation was selfish.  I wanted and still want to grow as an individual, to learn more about the world and discover new truths about living; however, there was a small part of myself who somehow thought that I might be able to "do good" along the way.  However, as I sit here in my white body, with my blonde hair, and comfortable luxuries waiting for me in Canada; I am coming to the realization that my journey in India is purely selfish. 


   I know this post may seem depressing to some degree, and for that I am sorry; however, I think that it is an important question to ask and to struggle with.  As I was reading some of the older posts that I had written, I stopped on my very first blog posting.  This post was about living barefoot, stripping myself of the comforts that allow me to hide my fears and live life nakedly.  As I read over this blog, I discovered that it is impossible for me to truly step into the shoes of the man who has no shoes at all.  I will never be able to strip myself of my skin or my western ideals; but maybe, the impossible is not important...maybe there is another way. 

   This evening Erika and I went with two of the home nurses that we live with to "The Exhibition", which is essentially a fair with hundreds of little kiosks that sell essentially the same thing.  While we were there, I had a brief moment of peace with one of the home nurses who has become a very good friend of mine.  As we were watching the crowds push and shove their way to the best deal, I leaned over and quietly apologized for bringing so much unnecessary attention to her due to my white skin.  She looked at me with a blank stare and said, "You're not white.  You are my dori" (which is the Tamil word for friend).  This short moment seemed to have showed me a new possibility.  Yes, it may be impossible to truly walk in the shoes of an Indian, but maybe I am able to walk beside them and be their friend. 

   I am still struggling through this question of "doing good" and what that tangibly looks like, so your thoughts are more than welcome.  I truly am writing this with complete vulnerability and with a desperate desire to find some sort of answer.  I invite you to sruggle with me!

p.s. I promise that the next post I write will tell of my little adventures as I am living them.  I just needed to share this moment of despreation with you.

The Sweet (and sometimes Chaotic) Melody of India

   I have finally arrived in the city of Madurai, India.Since my trip began, last Sunday, music has played an important role in my journey thus far.  Music has this amazing ability to allow communication that goes beyond cultures, religions, and even language. I have just begun to understand the eternal limits of music.  Here are some musical stories from my travels:

Being Alive is Jumping - As I waved farewell to my sister and mother at the Toronto, Airport, I did not feel an immediate flood of emotion.  I was excited for my journey and I felt ready.  However, as I sat in the airport awaiting the boarding of my flight, I was caught off-guard by a little boy who asked me "Why are you travelling alone? Doesn't anyone love you?".  This statement was not meant to be harmful; however, his words seemed to remind me of the challenges ahead.  After we had boarded the plain, I continued to think about the truth that was found in this little boy's question.  I was travelling alone, to a country that I had never been to before, with a family I had never met, with food I had never eaten, with a culture I was not used to...and the list goes on and on.  I decided to put in my ipod and attempt to drown out these fears through the comfort of music.  The first song that randomly began was a song sung by one of my best friends.  When I heard her voice, tears immediately began to stream down my face.  The song that she was singing is called "Alive" and it talks about the beautiful joy and heartbreak that met her in Ecuador.  The words not only helped me to feel a piece of home, but they also provided me with great excitement for the coming days.  (check out her website: http://www.myspace.com/katelynerin).  This song reminded me that being alive does not mean being comfortable; rather it means the opposite.  It means jumping into the unknown, it means not being afraid to make mistakes.  Being alive means  to jump, with fear and excitement, into uncomfortable waters.


Being Alive is Dancing - I arrived in Chennai, India at around 1:00 am on Monday morning. On my flight to Chennai I had met three people who were travelling Asia together, two were from America and one was from France.  My professor had suggested I find a hotel to get a couple hours of sleep and a shower when I arrived in Chennai because my next flight was not until 7:00 am; however, I often choose to make my own way so I decided against her advice.  One of the girls I had met on my flight played the guitar and another had a banjo, so I pulled out my harmonica and we began playing in the streets of Chennai at 1:00 in the morning.  Before I knew it, there were Indian children and women circling us and dancing the night away.  (People also started giving us money; however, we attempted to explain it was just for fun).  At one point, a little boy grabbed my hand and began twirling beneath it.  At that moment, I truly felt the universal power of music.  I could not communicate with this child through words, our worlds were completely different; but we were brought together in beautiful unity by the sweet melody of music. 

Being Alive is Feeling - I am living in a house with Roopa, who is a professor at a nearby college, her husband Ravi, and Ravi's mother, Fennella (but we call her "Achee" which means grandmother).  In addition, a home nurse lives in the house, her name is Sugunthi and a cook named Parvathi who have become my very good friends.  Achee, Ravi's mother, is quite old and is unable to communicate through words; however, when the piano is brought out and she hears a song she recognizes, her memory seems to be reignited.  It is near impossible to talk with Fenella or to understand what she is attempting to convey.  But when she hears the words of "Amazing Grace", she lifts her head, closes her eyes and seems to feel the music within her soul.  Music not only has the ability to cross through cultural divides, but also it can surpass the limits that come with age.

   Those are just a few stories from my adventures here in India so far.  It is an amazing experience.  It is challenging and easy, chaotic and peaceful,  diffferent and the same .  It is nothing that I expected but also, it is everything that I expected.  I know that those things might seem like opposities, but that is life..its beauty can be found in the fact that it is complex within its simplicity.  My advice for those of you who are reading this while facing your own challenges is to be alive.  You must jump, you must dance, and you must feel.

What is your mask?

            My mask is one that is painted with jovial energy.  My mask is one that covers every inch of my body.  My mask is one that makes everyone around me feel happy and at ease.  However, I have recently been journeying through some rather difficult moments that have forced me to take off that mask. 

            In this blog post, I wish to talk about depression.  Mental illness is something that is hidden within society.  People have chosen to disregard this disease as something that is ugly.  Many people assume that depression can simply be healed through “being happy”; however, that is simply not the case.  Mental illness is truly a disease that not only affects your mood, but it can debilitate an individual.

            I am a person who enjoys life.  I find such incredible joy and happiness from being with and around people.  My energy comes from interaction with others.  However, over the past couple of years, I have been struggling with depression.  This illness actually made me unable to get out of bed at times.  It made me isolate myself from my friends and family.  It made me feel ugly and it stripped me of the joy that I found in life. 

            Many people do not know this but in October of 2010, I hit rock bottom.  It was late at night and I simply felt like I had no reason to live.  I know those words might sound harsh and even selfish, but I ask that you not judge the truth behind those words, rather hear them as they are meant to be heard.  Depression is an illness that cannot simply be healed; rather, it is a challenge that must be taken on every day.  I decided to be vulnerable in this space because I believe that depression needs to be something that is overcome in community; depression is simply something that cannot be worked through in isolation.  I have chosen to share my story with you because I believe that it is a story that many can relate to.  I believe that through openness and honesty, this illness can be truly transformed into something that can be dealt with through love and vulnerability. 

            According to the World Health Organization, someone around the globe commits suicide every 40 seconds.  For people between the ages of 15 and 44, suicide is actually the fourth leading cause of death.  These statistics are growing every year, and yet still, this illness is seen as something that an individual must hide.  I wish this post to be a declaration that depression does not need to hold such a negative stigma within society. 

            In December of this year, I decided to become more open about my struggle with depression.  I had been on medication for about four months and through the encouragement of others, I decided to share my story with some of my close friends in an attempt to help them understand my journey as well as to reduce the negative stigma that is associated with depression.  I began explaining my experience on that dark night in October as the lowest point I have ever been in my life.  The friend that I was talking with simply said that he did not believe that depression was an illness, rather that I must simply “be happy”.  The words that he used made me feel like I had lost all of the progress I had made.  However, after that day, I learned that that was my purpose in sharing my story with others.  Depression remains something that is buried beneath broad smiles and fancy clothes; it is my duty as someone who has and still is experiencing this debilitating disease to experience those interactions and remain vulnerable.  It is only through communication and dialogue that this stigma can be reduced.  As I continue to be open about my struggle with depression, I have found many people who have hidden the same skeleton for a long time.  I hope that you will journey with us in this fight against the negative stigma that surrounds mental illness. In addition, I ask you to take off the makeup that hides your scars or the bandages that seems to be holding your wounds together.  It is okay to feel pain, it is okay to bleed. 

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