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.