The End of One Story.. the Beginning of Another

Hello friends who followed my journey to India- I’m posting now to invite you to follow a new adventure, this time, 5 months in Ireland. I will be studying at University College Dublin and exploring all that Ireland has to offer. Please see my new blog to follow this trip from start to finish!

And again, my sincerest thanks for all your support and kind thoughts during my Indian adventure this past summer, it will not be my last!

Thanks again, Kelsey

Irish Adventures found here!

PS. My publication from the fall semester on my trip to India can be found here.

 

Its.. Over?

I told my story today. Well, I told one of my stories today. And it felt powerful and meaningful and beautiful.

It’s strange how hard it has been for me to verbalize what India has been for me. It reminds me of the post I made back when I was leaving the country- knowing how difficult it would be to make sense of the many ways that the experience left an impact.

And wow, it’s been really difficult.

I’m not sure really what made it possible for me to stand up in front of the crowd today and tell a story. Maybe its the fact that it was for a class, maybe its that I secretly really like presentations, and maybe its that the story I told wasn’t the most personal or difficult to speak about.

But when I looked in front of me and behind something magical. Seated in front of me was a large group of people who came to see me talk because they believed that maybe, I had something worth saying. They came out from the middle of their finals stress and fatigue to see the presentation of my fellowships work. There was something really powerful about that. My Dad came. My best friends came. Some of my aide groups from this last year and the year passed came. Mainly, people who really cared came. I’ll never forget who showed up. It truly meant the world to me. Really.

And when I looked behind me when I stood up to speak, I knew that there were six incredible individuals behind me. They’ve been behind me the whole time, really. The other fellows- we’ve been with eachother since the beginning, but even more impactful, during the entire summer of stress and frustrations and challenges. I remember going to the computer crying and sending out an email. I remember coming back to the computer to read words of encouragement and praise, or a story of a similar issue from someone else.

And I remember late nights working together on papers. Rereading and rereading, working hard to create something meaningful- something that was not just an individual effort, but truly a collective piece.

I feel truly in debt to the people who have supported this process. I’d like to thank all who worked on my paper with me, those who tirelessly helped me unpack the whole experience- those who grew with me and learned with me, those specific, special friends who really made this all possible. You know who you are, and I am truly grateful for your support and love.

And to the other fellows, Tess, Kayla, Maddie, Chris and Matt, as well as Marci and Mitra, I have only the deepest of admiration and respect for all that you’ve done and all that you’ve done for me. This process has truly been one of the most challenging experiences of my life, and with the support and love of others, I came out better, changed, empowered.

You know, the story I told, it was far from personal, but I feel very proud to be able to tell it. I realized the other night that although many of the experiences I had in India I would rather not speak about, this does not mean that there are many aspects of my experience that are fully and truly something worth sharing. And somehow or another, I do have the guts to do that.

My paper is now published in a beautiful booklet. It will be online soon. When that happens, I will post it.

I’ll be headed to Dublin in less than a month (isnt that crazy?!) for study abroad. I will have a blog for that, but it will probably be a new link, I will post that when it happens.

It’s strange, so much seems to have ended, yet so many stories are still untold. It makes me wonder how I’ll ever get through it all- if I’ll ever get to a point where I truly understand and know what it all means to me.

And thats when I remember, it’s never going to be over.

This is just a beautiful beginning.

 

Ps. While you’re here, can you click that banner to the left and donate some hours to one laptop per child? I’d super appreciate it.

 

Endings.

As you may know, since the semester began for me at Brandeis in August I have been working on in an internship class to analyze the experience I had while in India this summer. This has been done through a series of five-page long weekly papers. The summation of this experience is (hopefully) a published paper which encapsulates the experience I had. I’ve been writing papers about relationships I had, the environment I lived in, paradoxes I experienced, the poverty I saw, the people who impacted me.

It’s been a frustrating process. Trying to unpack the things I did has been trying, and in an academic setting- even more difficult. I have often felt that I have had to compromise my experience for the betterment of academia’s understanding, questioning the reasoning for writing about this experience at all.

Tonight, I am in the process of concluding my final paper and feel a strange sense of remorse. I have waited for this point in the semester to come since the semester began, dreading each paper as it gnawed upon my brain, pulling out memories and experiences I’d rather forget. But tonight, as I reflect upon the experience I had, its strange how I feel I’ve come to terms with much of it.

Writing this final paper has not been as difficult as I expected. While it is not about anything too personal, not a story of walking on crutches or crying myself to sleep, I feel deeply a part of the story I tell. I am proud of the statements I make and feel as though I can support them with my limited, but profound experience.

I just told my friend in front of me at the library that after this paper, I technically never have to process India again. I won’t be sitting in class analyzing my experience, qualifying and quantifying the information in my journals and the stories told on my blog. This isn’t to say I won’t keep thinking about these experiences. To the contrary, I am reminded of India each day, no less than the last. Yet there is some peace in knowing the pressure to analyze it is leaving soon.

I have spoken at length with my professor about the difficulty I’ve had making sense of all of it. The idea of having to tell a story to the world, to create something to share, to have some sort of purpose in all of it- these concepts have frustrated and challenged me. I learned in India that an experience can be an experience on its own, without having to have meanings or explanations. I feel as though there is little that needs to be said, yet each week there is a paper to be written. Attempting to write about this has been one of the most paradoxical things I have ever done.

But I am proud to know I have tried in some way, to explain what I went through in the academic realm. Mostly because this process has made me realize how little academia really has to do with anything important. I can’t write a paper on how Sister Ruth holding my hand made me feel at home that day when I was lonely. I don’t want to find an academic approach to discuss how the laughing shared between the nurses and I in the hospital made me feel human again.

Some things are just felt in the heart. Some experiences are best told through tears, with paintbrushes or between close friends.

India taught me that some of the most important stories we’ll ever tell, will never make it into our final papers.

And that is perfectly fine with me.

“Illumination”

I am in the process of writing my second paper for my internship class- this one specifically on my own personal context- who I am and how that context shaped the experience I had in my time in India. The chapter in our text that discusses this topic opens with a quote I have since become quite attached to. I have come to see this in my own work both as a writer and an artist- who I am is an intricate and complicated part of my work. It is true that often times the subject is just a mirror. It’s quite beautiful really.

“Every portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not the sitter. The sitter is merely an accident, the occasion. It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter, who, on the coulored canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my soul”

– Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

The New Story

I don’t know where to begin tonight. I have just written my first paper for my internship class about the “enviorment” that I lived in and feel like I left so many things unsaid.

This seems to be the theme of my life now that I am back.

Let me rewind 18 days to the 12th of August when I arrived back in the US. I remember stepping outside the doors feeling like the “CAUTION: HEAVY” sign on my bags was really just a metaphor for me. I felt so full of thoughts, exploding with emotion, conflicted by my love for the smell of the Atlantic and my desire to run back to catch the next flight back. I have never felt my footsteps hit the pavement with so much weight.

Since then it’s been a whirlwind. Literally.  I got home at 10pm on Thursday and Friday went to replace the phone I lost, do some quick shopping and family visiting- Saturday I was at my cousins wedding and Sunday I was back at school for orientation leader training.

So since the 15th I’ve been either training or being a part of the class of 2014’s orientation. It was wonderful. I was blessed to have a fantastic group of new students who were passionate and joyful people- who respected me and appreciated my stories of India. I am so thankful for them and all the other orientation leaders who offered me an ear these past two weeks. It has been invaluable to me.

But it’s still hard. It’s hard to tell stories. It’s hard to know what stories to tell. It’s hard to know there are many stories I never will tell. It’s even harder to know that there are many stories that will never be understood.

I have a class for that now- for dealing with the stories in an academic way. My fellowship course will probably be the best and most difficult course I take at Brandeis. It requires me to keep my memories fresh- to reread my journals, to reread my blogs, to stumble through my emails and find the lessons in all I experienced.

And I am excited about this but equally scared. A lot that happened that hurt. A lot of what I saw that was not pretty. And although things worked out well for me in the end- the process of getting to that point was difficult, filled with mistakes and mishaps, moments of real sadness and moments of indescribable joy.

It is also strange to take such a profound portion of my life and bring it into a classroom. Analyzing my journals, coding the expressions and experiences and sociologically analyzing my own life is difficult. It seems to belittle the process of experience. When we begin to rationalize the complexities of our actions they seem to become less tangible. I lose their sense of trust when I am begin to quantify them. I am afraid of how we in classrooms choose to qualify experiences to fit an academic understanding. In reality, I have found, much of our lives are so far beyond an academic understanding that it is impossible to imagine how to “correctly” look at an experience. Why is their any “correctness” in our experience? Why are we culled to such emotionless thought? The tools of analysis in relation to our experiences are our experiences themselves.

This post is really nothing more than a moment. A moment of recognition for everyone who has followed this path, all who have listened and all who have learned with me the beauty that is found in stepping beyond our comfort zones, of challenging ourselves, of digging deeper, of asking for more.

As I begin the process of unpacking I will continue to write here, be it sparingly or not, about how this experience is shaped in my life and has shaped my life. I am new and constantly awakening the person within me. We are all new, each day- and India has taught me this beautiful and exciting revelation.

I feel changed. I am in the process of figuring out how and why- but there is beautiful truth in the recognition that none of us can have our lives so profoundly moved and not become something new in the process.

This is where my new story begins.

Thank you.

Past and Pending

I am having real trouble beginning this post for reasons I do not fully understand. The truth is- I am afraid of where this entry will go, considering all that is on my mind. I could easily write you beautiful stories about the travel I have been doing- about what it was like to get off my crutches finally- about buying new clothes, about meeting architects and designers from all over India- but what I really want to talk about is my desire every day to enjoy my morning tea.

Because I’ll be gone soon. It’s not the tea or the masala dosa that I crave every day- it’s the being here. I crave existing in this world. I cannot capture it. I cannot take it with me. It won’t ever be once the intercom announces “Welcome to the United States” .. India will not be there, instead it will be me and my suitcases. Welcome ‘back’ everyone will say. Welcome ‘home’ everyone will say.

I’ve been stuck on this for a while. “I can’t wait till you are home!” everyone says… but what does it mean to be home? Is it not where you are cared for, understood, appreciated, loved? In this case, I have been blessed to have many, many homes.  And if this is true, are we ever truly ‘back’? How can one ‘belong’ anywhere with a world so vast with global connections made between people so easily? My whole reality of place and space seems to have transformed in just two months and I am afraid of the harshness in misunderstandings of this.

I feel so strange about the unpacking and repacking that I did yesterday. The Western-style clothes that I intend to leave here, the nick nacks that I brought from home to comfort me now feeling like dead weight on my back. There are pieces of my life I am willingly leaving behind.  It reminds me of a few summers back at a camp I went to that really inspired and moved me- they said that as you pack you choose what you put in the suitcase, but you also decide what you leave behind- physical, spiritual, emotional, personal- all these parts of ourselves we must check before we begin to move on. All these parts of me are changing and rearranging and entering that plane differently.

I am constantly asking questions of myself. Who was I before, who I am I now, who will I be after… my past, present and future selves seem to be complicating one another. Reality sets in and it becomes clear that we are all at once, the conglomerate of each and every part of our lives- in each moment we are our present past and future selves, struggling for who gets the control of the next move. All three are the same, awaiting our recognition of them- awaiting our concept of time to label them. When does something become the past? Do we ever really let go of it? And how do we decide what we are in the present without acknowledging that past and inviting the future to persuade our change? Our bodies tell stories of all our lives. We are all pieces of the past, present and future trying to reconcile the challenges of being.

And so, when you ask, “How was India?” I will not know what to say. Not just because the complexities of this question are beyond my plausible explanation- but because how India ‘was’ and how India ‘is’ and how India ‘will be’ are all the same for me. The idea of past present and future have flowed together leaving me with the actuality that  they are one in the same and my stories of what happened two weeks ago impact me as deeply as the story of this mornings cup of tea.

And I imagine when I get to the US it will be similar. How “India was” will change from day to day. My story of the day will change. My recollections will vary. The stories of the past will lose their luster as the reality of the pending future will outweigh their glory. The past and the future will merge in the present moment.

This is to say that I will be back here. There will be no “was” India- rather, I prefer, how “is” India.. because somehow, as if by magical chance and destiny’s making- this place has become a part of me. The sun has knitted its stories into the freckles of my skin and sang songs in my heart in languages I do not understand but comfort me in ways I could never explain. It cannot be determined in numbers and figures or in small shared stories. It cannot be written. It can only be experienced.

I am nervous about this. About the coming ‘back’ process. When one feels as though they have the fabric of another weaved into their skin the original stitches have shifted and new ones must be placed differently than before. My US home will not be the same as I left it. I am arriving as a different set of past and present and future than I was on June 2nd. There must be care taken with this. Understanding and respect and admiration for the changes that come and go and bring us joy.

And it will be a challenge to accept that there will be misunderstandings, but there will be no settling. There will be no giving in to fruitless anger. It is useless to feed frustrations toward our personal misunderstandings and the misunderstandings of others.  There can only be acceptance that misunderstandings are just another part of our lives. Misunderstanding walks with us wherever we are and we mustn’t be afraid. Real understanding is only found within, and when we have our past present and futures each to console us, understanding ourselves is a difficult task in its own right.

This is something new and beautiful- to see misunderstanding and not try to transform it, rather allow it to live in us. To learn to be around misunderstandings and accept the virtue that none of our lives are understood in black and white. The range of colors that we are make it impossible to simplify us to just our primary sources. There are complexities and layers within us and around us that we may never fully understand.

But this is not misunderstanding. This is change. This is growth. This is living.

It is divinely human to misunderstand our many beings and there is beautiful solitude in this.

Stuff No One Told Me

I found this on a blog titled, Stuff No One Told Me and I fell in love with the artist and his candid sense of humor. I really appreciated this one especially as I find myself questioning what is right and what is wrong to do here, mainly out of fear that others won’t accept or understand. These words are golden for us all.

Dancing on one Foot

Today I got out of bed and did my laundry. I hope my Mother doesn’t quote me on this one, but I really love doing my laundry here, simply because I can do it- all by myself. I can carry the bucket from the sink to the grape vine wires on the terrace. On my right foot, I hang them, each toe elongating itself beyond its accustomed height, long thin bones screaming out for a partner foot to join in on the stretch. I whisper to them them it will be okay, hoping they won’t let me collapse onto the cement below. I am learning trust. I think sometimes they appreciate the challenge as they bridge the gap between my being and the sky above. Sometimes I’m a ballet dancer on the patio- putting on a show with my arms outstretched toward the sky. Sometimes the bucket is heavy, so I force it along in front of me with my good foot and crutch languidly behind it. I slowly place the bucket on top of the stool that I keep near the terrace and proceed to proudly hang my laundry, doing my awkward dance for only the clouds to see.

Women everywhere are doing their laundry with me. I look out to see rooftops alive with the brightly clothed women thrashing colors against the blocks that steal the soap from the delicate fabric.  It is a symphony of magical sounds and light out there. I feel like one of these women, for even just a moment, as I appreciatively hang the clothes out to dry. I feel capable. I dance.

And then I made myself breakfast. Cereal and milk and bananas. The cereal, honey flavored frosted flakes that remind me of Tony the Tiger. The milk comes in a small, sandwich sized bag that I nearly spilled all over the counter trying to open, though I think this is better than the bottle. The bananas I cut gracefully into wheels (this is my favorite way to eat bananas) and arranged them ever so delicately in a twisting circle on the plate.  I cleaned the table slowly with the washcloth, admiring the shine of the glass and the reflection of the skylight above. I placed the vase of pink and white tiger lilies in the center, their orange pollen tickling my nose. I take the dishes of food off the counter and considerately place them on the table. A bowl of cereal and plate of bananas never looked so wonderful. I put on Louis Armstrong’s “Caberet” and paused to celebrate this success.

You see, not being able to walk is frustrating. I can hobble around on one foot quite well and I have been told I walk on crutches like I was made for it. Still,   someone has to carry my purse most days.  I can’t even carry the book I’m reading (Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts, 900 pages oye!) without fearing a fall that will again open my wounds.

Yet I think I’m genuinely happy right now. More than I’ve been in a long time. It’s strange to feel this way. There is tension between the perceived difficulties and the blissful moments it creates opportunity for.

I am learning to appreciate things again, simple things- like banana wheels and dancing on one foot. Life has a funny way of challenging us in ways we don’t expect. Making us rethink ourselves, our plans and our expectations. Making us pause.

I’m learning to live with myself, without a plan and without expectations. Life this way is invigorating, intoxicating, exciting and worthwhile. My question to you, and to myself is how do we translate this spirit in our day to day lives with our planners open and our hearts yearning for freedom? I do not hang my laundry at home. There is no chance to dance on one foot and reach for the sky simultaneously. Or is there?

Letter to Myself

Yesterday when my clothes and paints arrived from the school to my apartment, I also received the letter I had written to myself on March 13th, after our Sorenson Fellow retreat at the Peace Abbey.

The note made me laugh. I remember writing it and wondering what in the world to tell myself now that I was in India. I admit, I thought it was a silly exercise- what kind of encouragement would I need? I wasn’t even sure at that point what I would be doing in India.

I asked stupid questions of myself, what was India like, what am I wearing, how is the food… What was I thinking? I am writing these questions to myself. It was all getting kind of ridiculous.

Then I wrote something about a challenge I was facing at the time. My eyes immediately welled in tears as I recounted how difficult that time in my life had been, learning to forgive, challenging myself to let go of something and someone who really hurt me. I was in a lot of pain and it was hard to understand how I would get out of it- how would my psyche be shaken, how would my reality change- my sense of comfort was challenged. I wondered that day, how I would ever find a place for myself in Massachusetts, never mind in India.

I think sometimes we grow up faster than we expect. Maybe faster than we’re supposed to. Sometimes if we don’t remember how we got somewhere, we forget that we are there at all. I was so down at that time, questioning all sorts of things- parts of my life I had relied upon, parts of myself I thought were points of pride.

The parts of my life I relied upon then to get me through have not been so readily accessible here.  In hindsight I know that the parts of myself I believed to be most special left me with little more than a paintbrush and a questionably open mind upon arrival here.

If there’s anything I’m learning, it is how capable we are of overcoming the things that challenge us. Our fears are just dark corners within us that we must enter quietly with a flashlight in hand. It’s as if the self inside us, the difficulties we face are sometimes only internal withering flowers in seek of light and care. We must give attention to the things we find troubling. If we are willing to face them with gentle understanding, we can overcome their interrogation with ease. We can learn our skills again. We can create new relationships to rely on. We can become better.

I ended my letter to myself stating, “Be brave. Be bold. Love greater.” These six words, these three challenges, are really all that it comes down to. With great bravery and the strength to be bold, we are capable of offering love to the challenges we face, the situations that test us and the people we encounter- and well, not much bad can stand up to the power of love.

“The Manifesto of Encouragement”

Today I opened my email and found the link to Danielle Laporte’s website. She calls herself a firestarter, and she always sends uplifting emails about motivating yourself and your life- I was clicking around and found “The Manifesto of Encouragement” and immediately smiled. I’d like to share it with you.

RIGHT NOW:

There are Tibetan Buddhist monks in a temple in the Himalayas endlessly reciting mantras for the cessation of your suffering and for the flourishing of your happiness.

Someone you haven’t met yet is already dreaming of adoring you.

Someone is writing a book that you will read in the next two years that willchange how you look at life.

Nuns in the Alps are in endless vigil, praying for the Holy Spirit to alight the hearts of all of God’s children.

A farmer is looking at his organic crops and whispering, “nourish them.”

Someone wants to kiss you, to hold you, to make tea for you. Someone is willing to lend you money, wants to know what your favourite food is, and treat you to a movie. Someone in your orbit has something immensely valuable to give you — for free.

Something is being invented this year that will change how your generation lives, communicates, heals and passes on.

The next great song is being rehearsed.

Thousands of people are in yoga classes right now intentionally sending light out from their heart chakras and wrapping it around the earth.

Millions of children are assuming that everything is amazing and will always be that way.

Someone is in profound pain, and a few months from now, they’ll be thriving like never before. They just can’t see it from where they’re at.

Someone who is craving to be partnered, to be acknowledged, to ARRIVE, will get precisely what they want — and even more. And because that gift will be so fantastical in it’s reach and sweetness, it will quite magically alter their memory of angsty longing and render it all “So worth the wait.”

Someone has recently cracked open their joyous, genuine nature because they did the hard work of hauling years of oppression off of their psyche — this luminous juju is floating in the ether, and is accessible to you.

Someone just this second wished for world peace, in earnest.

Someone is fighting the fight so that you don’t have to.

Some civil servant is making sure that you get your mail, and your garbage is picked up, that the trains are running on time, and that you are generally safe. Someone is dedicating their days to protecting your civil liberties and clean drinking water.

Someone is regaining their sanity. Someone is coming back from the dead. Someone is genuinely forgiving the seemingly unforgivable. Someone is curing the incurable.

Beautiful isn’t it? And for a shameless plug, you can be part of something encouraging by clicking on the one lap top per child link on the left side bar- it will donate time to children who want nothing more than to learn and grow. My goal of 3000 hours needs your help! (PS. We’re at 1797 at time of post)