The Inhaling

Memory is a funny thing. Some are relatively clear as though the events themselves transpired not all that long ago. Others are hazy, yellowed with age, frayed and faded. Some are held close to the heart, nurtured and cared for,  like a path well worn by time and use, traveled often, embellished along the way, joy and warmth in every step. Others, are kept at a comfortable distance, often fading away to nothingness.

Some of my favorite childhood memories are wrapped around our visits to India, the land of my heritage, my parents birth place, and home to a great majority of my family.  My DNA inextricably woven through the coconut trees and palm leaves of places named Vazhoor, Kottayam, Kollad, Cheppad and Edathua. This is the land my ancestors walked and settled. The sands of Cheppad, where my mother learned to read and write the malayalam language, and where I remember walking with my gentle grandfather amidst the rice paddies. The back waters of Edathua, my mother's first swimming pool, and where I saw my mother's characteristic vivacity and fun multiplied and echoed manyfold, within the personalities of various family members. The dirt roads of Vazhoor and Kollad were the stomping grounds of my father, his siblings, and their many cousins, travelled often, without an iota of fear, loving family all along the way. The twinkle in my father's eye, his smile, delight and mischief echo throughout both of these much loved places. For my mother and my father these places were vast playgrounds of homes amid tropical forests rich with coconut, rubber, banana and palm trees.  They weren't man made playgrounds of metal, plastic or steel, like the ones we and our children have known growing up. These playgrounds were made of the land, the trees, plants, streams and rivers,  These were their swings, slides, climbing  equipment and water parks. Imagination and camaraderie their vehicles of expression.

Every other year, my family had the extraordinary privilege of traveling back to India, on what was termed "home leave", one of the benefits of my father's employment contract. The final destination was always Kerela, but on the way, or on our return, we would make stops in Mumbai, Belgaum and Bangalore, spending time with aunts, uncles and cousins. These visits back to India were special times of connecting and catching up, coming to terms with the physical changes that time had wrought since the last visit. Hearing the highlights of life transpired in between. These were times where old stories were pulled out of memories albums, and where new stories were birthed. Listening to the humorous escapades from my parents past, would often give a fuller breadth to these people we knew and loved as our parents. And the laughter, oh the laughter! There was so much laughter, joy and fun. Even now, as I write this, a smile breaks on my face, as visions of family dance in my eyes.

India always greeted us in it's exuberant, vibrant and sense altering way. Our very first steps out of the cool dry comfort of the airplane, would tell us that we were not in New Jersey anymore! A blanket of humidity would envelope us, suffocating us in it's warmth, until we learned to adapt and breathe different breaths in this new place. And once we did, we would inhale the scents and fragrances of jasmine, spices, sweat, sweets, aromatic oils and exhaust fumes, all coupled together to taunt and overwhelm our senses, until they began the processes of differentiating and cataloguing. Meanwhile our eyes were being tantalized with the swirling, moving, breathing, living color spectrum, as nature's every hue danced around us in silks, cottons, rayon, and chiffon, draped over bodies of every shape, size, and color of brown. Not to be diminished was the orchestra of life that filled our ears. Loud speakers blaring annoncements and speeches, harmonized and conflicted with the joyful beats and sounds of music  playing from shop speakers, punctuated often by the constant touting of horns, underlaid with hundreds of voices in conversation. Our senses, once living in a quiescent state of being, would scramble to full attention,  understanding, that while in India, their full depth and range would be challenged and used to  a level of capacity not experienced since their last visit. India's welcome mat, greeting us in all it's richness and vibrancy. Even now, inhaling deeply, the smell of the monsoon rains linger in my senses.

Arriving in Cochin airport, our eyes would search out the crowds for familiar faces, often landing on the beaming smiles of Prasadchayan and Valsammama, who would make the long trip to pick us up and take us to Vazhoor. Seeing those smiles, as well as those of all the family members who have lovingly come over the years to greet us at India's airports, our hearts and eyes would be full, as we waited to walk into the welcoming embrace of loving family, and in their hugs, be welcomed home.  Closing my eyes now, I can still recall that spike in my heartbeat as a fondly familiar face was found in the crowd.

The drive from the airport would be that time of reacquaintance, often squished together, any distance that time might have created quickly fading  away in the face of our close proximity. This form of loving closeness, would become a familiar image in our visits to India. At that time, seat belts were rarely if ever   used accessories! As the kilometers flew by, staring out the window at the passing landscape, a melody of welcome would be sung and found in the little villages, colorful homes, rice paddies, and swaying coconut trees. The song of India coaxing forth my identity's refrain. This place, known to us also as home, would slowly begin seeping into our beings. And then there was always that final stretch, as we made our way to my grandmother's home in Vazhoor, familiar landmarks would be accompanied by growing excitement, as we passed Koodanoor Junction, passed the cross, took a right, and on the left, the gate of Thoppil house would announce our arrival home. Anticipation would build as the gate was opened and we would drive the short distance to the house, our tires crunching the red gravel beneath our car. Disembarking the close quarters of the car, we would climb the stairs often to the rhythm of the click of locks being unlocked one by one, nervous anticipation growing with every click. The doors would open wide, and there would stand our diminutive grandmother, with a huge smile on her face. One by one we would wait for our hugs. Her arms would enfold us tightly, as she inhaled our essence and wiped the tears from her eyes. We were home.

The inhaling hugs were what I equated with love's greeting. They would be repeated over and over in our time spent in India, by aunts and uncles, my other precious grandmother, and numerous grand aunts and uncles. It would bridge the distance that years and miles created, flowing from my heart's chambers to theirs, back and forth, the connection of love and family warming every artery and capillary with a melody of joy, acceptance and reunion. It was a song of love.

Inhaling deeply now, a rush of memories stream to the foreground of my mind, India's love song to me. My younger brother playing my cousin Miriamchechi, dressed in a dress and doing a one man monologue that had us all in stitches. Afternoon nap times filled with laughter and shared stories. Evening prayers. Cousins dressed in pristine uniforms, headed to school. Badminton, Rummy and Caroms competitions. Teasing. Laughter. Love. Sailing paper boats in monsoon puddles. Playing hide and seek. Singing. Visiting the park with the elephant statue. Riding on the back of my uncle Titenchayan's motorbike from the airport. Weaving through the chaos of India's traffic. Riding in the back of my uncle Prasadchayan's army Jeep; peering through the flaps on rainy days. My mother's brother, Mohanchayan, sharing the nature and uses of the plants surrounding us. Travelling with him to Trivandrum by bus. My aunt Sallyamie's wonderful coffee and beautiful smile. My cousin Suman's vivaciousness and her brother Kirren's humor and laughter. The scent of ayruvedic oils accompanied by the boisterous and quiet laughs of my two granduncles. Water being heated in a large black urn, over a wood and palm leaf fire; hot water for our baths. Grandmothers and aunts cooking over a fire made with palm leaves. Visiting the beach near Cheppad and watching the fishermen bring in their catches. Watching my grandparents play Bridge. My granduncle Eapenappacha's quiet dignity; making rice for us. Seeing an elephant at the Kozzencherry house, and watching the fish. The parrot. Laughing with my cousins Delipe, Unup and Deepu. Humidity like a suffocating blanket. ceiling fans for cooling. Quenching thirst with boiled water, coconut water, Thumbs Up, Fanta or Limka. Watching clothes being washed in the stream, their rhythmic slapping against the stream's stones and rocks. Reading Phantom comics, Enid Blyton and the classics. My cousin Marina singing "Killing Me Softly." Her older sister's painting titled Rock Of Ages. A day at Jothi Nevas college with my cousin Sue.  Shopping with my Mumbai cousins, where I  learned that money for shopping always comes before money for food! Chai time. My cousin Joey hiding Nestle's mini chocolates from his grandmother. Watching and teasing back and forth and quietly marveling as my cousin Reggie ironed my aunt Ammalkochamma's sari blouses to perfection. Family trips. My uncle Anianchayan's laughing voice. My aunt Ammalkochamma's warmth and sweetness. The chair swing. A family wedding and practical jokes played on unsuspecting newlyweds! My beautiful and sweet cousin Vavadi. Rubber chappels slapping against our feet. Washing the caked on dust from our feet before entering the house. The satisfying feeling of mushing a banana together with uppama, squeezing it out in between my fingers. Eating with my hands. Kneeling in prayer. Listening to the radio. My aunt Lulukochamma singing Cliff Richard songs. Eating milk powder in Cumbanath. Hiding behind an adult as they scared away the cockroaches and hairy spiders in the bathroom before I would use it. Watching as rice was sifted, and the grinding of the rice into powder. My grandmother, Vazhoor Ammachy's home made ice cream. Mmmm. Best Hotel's parathas and mutton curry. Finger bowls with lemons. Banana leaf dishes. Monsoon rains. Teasing. Laughter. Love. Badminton games with "kaili / munda  breaks."  My aunt Lulukochamma's entertaining and winning badminton doubles strategy, accompanied by my uncle Jochachen's commentary on the sideline! Puri eating competitions with my cousin Manoj, he always made us laugh!  My cousin Sue and I on a train bound for Belgaum. The call of the chai wallah's at the stops. My uncle Jochachen's teasing smile and humor. Family nicknames, and names given to family; My uncle Titenchayan's handlebar mustache, which earned him the title of Moustache uncle for many years. My aunt and uncle Elsie kochamma and Titenchayan walking, one looking at the ground the other up at the stars. My mother's sister Valsaammama, sweetly and patiently trying to teach me how to sew;  leaving little notes for her husband Prasadchayan. Stories of days and years past. Family history. Walking from family home to family home in Kollad and Edithau, and laughing all the way. My Mumbai uncle Ebbychayan watching cricket. Relaxing and spending time with my aunty Annamakochamma and cousins Meera, Sara and Gina. Lovely food. Height competitions with my aunt Elsiekochamma! Finding out howmany Fenn family members we could fit in one Ambassador car! Frogs leaping. the music of rain falling on roofs and trees. Swinging hands with my cousins as we walked down the street. Flare pants! My brother Jiku in flare pants! Playing catch. Trying to learn how to make a car with palm leaves and coconut shells. The fun times with all our Koshy cousins in Vazhoor. Looking out for snakes as we walked from one family home to the other. Packed like sardines in a bus. Umbrellas. Scents. Noise. Exhaust smoke.  Glass house and Cheenie house. Houses with names. Traveling by canoe or house boat in Edathua. The boat races. Shopping on MG Road. Sari stores. Fabrics flying gracefully, a waterfall of colors. Jewelry stores. Sweet stores. Watching the art of bargaining. Ambassador cars. Marathis. Paper Dosas. Geckoes. Baths with buckets of water heated by geezers. Squatting toilets. Rails in windows. Spending time as a family. Visiting my future sister-in-law Bina at Ramaya college. Ponds powder. My grandmother poring over her Bible in the wee hours of the morning or kneeling in prayer.  Prayer meetings and Church. Women on one side and men on the other. Incense and the passing of the peace. Family gatherings. My grandfather, Vazhoor Appacha's chair and picture. Chickens milling around. Lush greenery. The Indian Ocean. Sleeping mummified in a sheet, afraid a geckoe would fall on me during the night. Music blaring from radios. Strikes. Granduncles and aunts and numerous second and third cousins. The best aunts & uncles and first cousins a person could ever have. Communicating over language barriers. Visiting. Weddings. Auto Rickshas filled to the brim with children going to school. Going to the movie theatre and watching english and bollywood films. People laughing, singing, and commenting during the movie. Intermissions. The all purpose Indian head shake. Mangoes and Guavas. Mini bananas. Rubber flowing down the cuts along the bark of a tree. Houses with names. Family names. Lineage. Stories. Family. Teasing. Laughter, Prayer. Love. India.

Memory is a wonderful gift, holding treasures from the past. It's a lingering and familiar scent. It is both my grandmother's enfolding arms, hugging us close to them and inhaling our essence, as if to mark it in their beings, to remember and capture our scents. Memory, it's the great inhaling. It is marking every moment deep within our consciousness.  Precious. Treasured. The echoes of life and love.

"The Class", A Discourse On Education

I just finished watching the french movie 'The Class" ("Entre Les Murs"), my mind and emotions whirling. Fragments of thoughts and ideas, philosophies and beliefs, reason and presuppositions ricochet off one another, uncovering and charting new territories of thought and understanding. The movie's remnants echoing through the caverns of my consciousness.

I feel jittery and unsettled. Something is askew, an anchor has been dislodged from it's moorings. I can't explain what or why, as my own understanding appears to have lost it's footing.

Let me begin with a disclaimer: I am not a philosopher, nor am I an educator. I don't spend endless hours, nor minutes, contemplating or struggling with ideas or concepts. I am comfortable in superficiality of thought, or following the waywardness of streams of consciousness.

I am a daughter of an educator, a niece of one, cousin to some and a wife of one, but make no claims to being one myself. My father was a high school biology teacher and an administrator, whose love of education and educational philosophy and thought was prevalent throughout my life. Perhaps my childhood mind absorbed more than I thought of my father's discourses on this topic. Perhaps those thoughts or fragments of thoughts have wandered the chasms of my understanding, waiting upon the spark that would lift them out of obscurity into light. The spark, cloaked today in the guise of a french movie.

Let me also begin by revealing that in recent months I have listened to, and participated minimally in conversations centered around education; whether they be the crisis of education in the US, or on a molecular level, the educational dilemmas as seen by a friend, a teacher's aide, to a class of children with varied and diverse learning disabilities, or the concerns of parents such as myself, with the perceived peccadilloes of the educational system.

Having now put forth my disclaimers and small revelations, perhaps now we can return to the cause of this discourse in the first place, the movie "The Class", and all that it entails.

The movie, shot in the style of a documentary, is based on the semi-autobiographical novel by François Begaudeau, who plays the lead character, french language form tutor Mr. Marin, who teaches a class of 14 and 15 year olds from diverse cultural and ethnic backgrounds in inner city Paris. For a good part of the movie I thought perhaps I was watching a documentary, the acting too real to be fiction, and yet it was fiction. The actors were all non professionals, most taken from Mr. Begaudeau's actual class, who through the acting method of improvisation, give to us the viewers, a movie brimming with realism and compelling, funny, and thought provoking scenes. 

What is it about this movie that so drew me in that for the duration of it's two hours and ten minutes, I sat completely engrossed, my heart palpitating, my mind whirling?

Set completely on school grounds, with the majority of the scenes taking place in the classroom and faculty lounge, this movie confronts us with the challenges and complexities of modern day high school education, in multi-cultural and multi-lingual urban settings. It's truths echo throughout public education, the world over. 

Our world is changing. Populations have, or are transitioning from monocultural units into diverse demographic mixes. Nothing remains static, and change very often brings with it a paradigm shift, and what ensues is a battle of sorts, as lines realign, understandings change, and new paradigms are birthed. Public education faces its own paradigm shift. Fault lines erupt throughout every classroom as teachers are faced with not only teaching their subject matter, but taking on by necessity the mantle of diplomats, anthropologists and peacemakers, wading everyday through the cultural nuances that make up their students and classrooms. In urban settings where immigrant populations are dominant, and especially in the inner cities, these teachers when stepping onto school grounds, enter a foreign land, walking gingerly around land mines of teen angst amplified by cultural, social and religious barriers.  Traditional methods of teaching and relating need to adapt and broaden. Even the most understanding and culturally astute teachers run into roadblocks, as demonstrated throughout this movie, most especially climatically in the last scenes, when a normal classroom debate changes into a taut confrontation where geographic and cultural loyalties play a key part. the situation further unravels as tempers are lost and the demarcation between students and teacher, suddenly and without warning, becomes a moat of resentment and frustration, incivility and discord.  

What I love about this movie is the humanness of its characters. These aren't cardboard cutouts with one dimensional personalities, but are complex, multi-dimensional and multi-faceted individuals and collectives. The staff room becomes the center of a debate on philosophical differences on discipline. The classroom is a mixture of changing alliances, and edgy and often humorous discussions. The students challenge the material at hand and its relevance to their existence, as well as the cultural content of the material. There is no room for placidity in this classroom. The teacher is often left scrambling to answer a students challenge. Neither students nor teachers are portrayed as heroes or villains, none fit safe and "colored in the lines" categories. Labels fail to capture the fullness of their characters.

Without knowledge of their outside worlds, you are left to try and understand these characters through their discourses, debates, reactions and emotions. The only time the outside world makes its brief appearance, is during the interactions at parent-teacher conferences, and a student's expulsion hearing. That hearing, a pivotal part of the movie, is filled with awkwardness coupled with underlying frustration and resentment. When Souleymane, the student in question, is brought in accompanied by his mother to the disciplinary hearing, one can not help but feel an overwhelming sense of sadness, as the son acts as interpreter at his own hearing between his mother, whose understanding of french is very limited, and those who sit on the disciplinary committee. Empathy lies with both the teacher and the student at this moment as we recall the relationship that has brought them to this point. Moments where both met in mutual understanding, and moments ripe with tension and challenge.

Laurent Cantet brings the reality of the classroom experience to us through the thought provoking vehicle of this film. This is a film that should stimulate much discussion amongst educators, as well as students. It is a film where even a non educator like myself, has been given much food for thought. In contemplating this film, I have had to reevaluate my own perceptions on education, and even this happily shallow thinker, has quite willingly delved into the layers of this debate.

I highly recommend this film to everyone with an interest in education, and to those of you who don't, I truly believe that you will walk away from it with a new interest and insight on the subject. This is a five star movie. Watch it.

Sunrise. Sunset.

Our church had it's annual Family Camp this past weekend, beginning on the Friday evening and drawing to a close on Sunday afternoon. This weekend was a special time, spent with very special people, people who have become a part of our family.

As a new bride and a newcomer to our city, I was akin to a child on her first day of school, nervous and unsure of her welcome. I soon made new friends, friends who to this day, remain close to our family. I also found a new family in my husband's aunts, uncles and cousins and their families, and I found a new church home, a family of faith who have become an important and vital part of our life. With shared faith and prayer, we have woven together a tapestry of friendship, love, support, and encouragement.

Perhaps one of the aspects I loved most about this time, was watching the children, seeing their joy and their excitement. hearing their laughter and watching their smiles burst forth, like sunshine on a rainy day.

Last year at camp, a special couple were expecting their first child. This year their son made his first appearance at church camp, and as the only baby there, and an adorable baby at that, held a captive audience with young and old alike. Over the years I have watched our babies become toddlers, toddlers turn into elementary age children, and elementary age children become junior highs, who then transform into senior highs, and senior highs venturing out onto new pathways, some now classified as young adults, young marrieds, and young families. The years seemingly having flown by with little notice taken, until that day when your own baby walks up to receive his high school diploma, and the road you have placidly been traveling for the past eighteen years, takes on a totally different direction and dimension.

The song "Sunrise, Sunset" from the beloved musical Fiddler On The Roof profoundly captures this sentiment with the following lyrics:

 "Is this the little girl I carried? Is this the little boy at play? I don't remember growing older, when did they? Sunrise. Sunset. Sunrise. Sunset. Swiftly fly the years. One season following another, laden with happiness and tears." 

Yes, when did they grow up so quickly? I see my eldest approaching young adulthood, and my youngest with only two years to go before she too will leave her childhood years behind, and venture into life's new territory, and I weep at time's progressive and relentless march forward, and yet rejoice at the gift of every new day.

I find myself now in my mid forties, an age that in my callow youth would have been perceived as already quite over the hill and headed towards antiquity, and yet now I cling to every drop of breath my forties yields as a fragile thread tenuously holding me to that land before time, before time's tides sweep me into the next half century of life.

Don't get me wrong, there are a number of things about aging that I enjoy, not the least of which is, that if I am still here to lament growing older, then I am still alive and breathing, and gifted with more time to accomplish the dreams and wishes of the heart. I enjoy the relative maturity that time has brought and that indelible sense of comfortableness in who I have become. I enjoy watching my children grow and search out their own identities and begin their own dreams, while I begin to dream again and wonder at what life now has in store for me. I have watched my parents, though not always having an easy time of it, live a rich "retired" life, surrounded by family and good friends and travel and new experiences, and I hope to have a little of that for my husband and myself. There is still much to be enjoyed and discovered about myself and others, and I do look forward to that, and am always aware that the sands of time are slowly sifting away.

With age I have inherited a new vocabulary, and have ventured into areas previously considered foreign territory. I've discovered the term "arctic blonde" of which I, whose heritage lies in the Indian subcontinent, now have apparently become, my dark locks now woven with moonlight's rays. A form of chemical warfare known as "highlights" has become a part of my aging vocabulary, and I find myself joining the waves of Indians who have suddenly and quite unexpectedly started to sprout gold and red tints in their once black hair. In a fit of rebelliousness, I thought to age naturally and gracefully, and to let my "arctic blondes" frame my face and shine to their hearts content, until vanity proved too much, and the lady in the mirror sent me scurrying to book an appointment with a colorist as fast as possible. I did try a return to my youthful black hair, but instead of rediscovering the youthful me, found in her place an Indian version of Elvira. Needless to say, another appointment with the colorist was booked!

But hair has not been the only marking of time, there is now the aches and pains and groans that accompany them that have become new companions, and where health was once not even given a cursory glimpse, now seems to be a constant point of contemplation. Then there is that wonderful gift of Peri Menopause that can apparently grace ones life for a few years to help you prepare for the main event, the theme of "Rocky" now playing in my head. The fresh bloom of youth has begun to lose its glow. Body parts that I could once blithely ignore, have now taken on new importance, who knew how useful knees and backs are to ones mobility? Memory has become elusive, and names, places and time play games of hide and go seek along my synapsis.

Many find this a triumphant time, a time to run marathons, to hike Mount Kilimanjaro, to take up soccer, and try other adventurous avenues. I unfortunately, still have that gene latent in my being or completely missing in action, and would much rather not do any of those afore mentioned activities, but take a more leisurely and less strenuous approach to living and aging.

Sunrises are beautiful, but equally so are sunsets. When I look at the wisdom and character that life gives to those who have seen many sunrises and sunsets, I see beauty and lessons learned and lived. I see so many stories and experiences to be heard, shared and noted down.

As I see the faces of my babies transposed over their current images, I wonder, as the lyrics sing "What words of wisdom can I give them. How can I help to ease their way?" What will the sunrises and sunsets of the years to come hold in store for them? What lessons will they learn, and what stories will be written in the tablets of their lives. 

The last day of camp dawned cool and overcast, as we set out for the nearby lake. We watched as two of our teenagers accompanied by one's grandfather, and our youth pastor, waded through the frigid shallow waters of the lake, and before the assembly of congregation members, were baptized. For them, a new sunrise had begun, and watching the grandfather baptize his granddaughter, I wondered how beautiful it must have been for him to be there, and to offer her the wisdom from a faith lived well, through many sunrises and sunsets.  I looked at the rest of the assembly around me, and noted their expressions of joy and wonder, as many of us recalled these two as newborns and toddlers, as young elementary children, junior highs, and now senior highs. We were all bound together in faith, prayer, memory, hopes and wishes. I don't know how time will work on this image and memory, but I hope that it will remain as clear as it was that day. I hope that for the younger ones, it left an indelible impression, and for us older ones, a beautiful picture of sunrises and sunsets and faith's precious gift.

For us "older" ones, take a moment to spend time with the little ones in your life, and the not so little ones. To listen to them and to hear them. To enjoy their joy and youthful exuberance. Wonder at the enjoyment they find in simple things, and in life itself. And to those young people who might read this, make time and get to know the "elders" in your life. Hear their stories and learn from their wisdom and experiences, there is wealth and richness there. Listen to the musical score of their life, the heights and depths, the soaring parts, and those that gently meander. Sift through the layers and dynamics and find relevance, truth, humor, love, faith, tears, anger, joy and LIFE. Sunrise, Sunset, and a wealth of Life in between.

Friends And An Art Show

I recently had a lovely outing with two friends of mine. We went to an art show, and not just any old art show, but one which featured two paintings by my friend Karen as well as two by my art teacher Johanna.  It was my friend Clara's birthday celebration, and we wanted to do something special for her.

I don't know about you, but art never really claimed hold of me until the past number of years. I can't tell you why it was this way, I'm not sure I understand it myself, but I do know that with the passing years and with the joining of my art class, I have grown to appreciate deeply the wonder that art brings to an individuals life. Having a friend like Karen also helps. Karen is one of those special gifts people get in their lives; a person of warmth, exuberance, humor, joy, fun and a well spring of creativity. She's one of those lights that God gives us. I'm not putting her on a pedestal, we wouldn't want her head to get too big, but that's just who she is. Karen, Johanna, my friend Sara, my sister-in-law Bina, Tom, Kevin and many others, have taught me to find art in the every day, and to savor the beauty in little moments. Bina, my sister-in-law, told me that while on holiday, she makes it a practice to chase sunrises and sunsets. I thought, what a beautiful thing, and what a reminder of the blessing of a new day, and the thankfulness for a day well spent. What a reminder of the presence of God, as He paints the skies of dawn and dusk, that neither photography nor paintings have ever quite captured in richness or detail. Karen does the same. She revels in the beauty she finds in a bloom or reflection, or in something that captures her eye. The other day, hitching a ride back with her from music practice, she pointed out the sunset to her daughter Katie, and talked about the different colors in harmony within it. It was a moment to stop, pause, and wonder.

I've learned to look for the beauty in a snowflake or an icicle, and to hear the music in the pounding of a rain storm, and to watch the glistening pools of water adorn the streets outside my window. I've learned to see art. And it was with these new eyes that I accompanied my friends to my first art show. It was not a grand affair, but a warm and welcoming one, featured by the Art Council, and held in their library. There was photography, three dimensional artwork as well as paintings and drawings, and mixed media. There were sections for Beginners, Intermediates, Advanced and Masters. And it was a wonderful demonstration of the breadth and talent of our Alberta artists. We had so much fun there, taking it all in, marveling at the techniques and different mediums, and going back and looking closer at all the details we missed the first or second time through. My friend Tami even bought a piece, a beautiful depiction of our big Alberta skies, bordered, contrasted and showcased by a canola field in full bloom.  I was so proud of Karen and her pieces that were hung there for all to see. She is a wonderful artist and I hope to see more of her work hung in art galleries and shows. I love the way Karen uses color, and how her pieces come to life. The Lady Walking her Dog and the vivid red canvas featuring a branch with its delicate bloom, are so different from each other and yet equally appealing. She has so much fun with her art, that it is contagious. And Johanna's pieces were an excellent display of mixed media art. They were fun, creative, thoughtful and beautiful. The variety that was showcased was engaging and captivating. There was a papier mache Einstein that I wanted to take home with me, and a wistful pencil drawing of a little girl blowing a daffodil. There was a humming bird in flight and a folk painting featuring laundry and an outhouse. There was a wonderful watercolor of horses, and paintings that captured the character of rusted old cars. There was an incredible oil of a salt shaker, and a touching colored pencil drawing of a father and child. Then there was the incredible wire horse sculptures, and mixed media paintings using wax, which added unusual and attractive detail to already beautiful work.

Sharing this experience with friends made the evening even that much more lovely. Art I think, is meant to be shared. If you have a chance to go visit a gallery or an art show, take along some friends and enjoy the experience.

Jeenu :)

A Painting Breathes

I don't know if many of you remember the 1995 movie "A Walk in the Clouds" or not, and if you do, if you would even consider it a good movie. My husband and I both enjoy and love this movie, and every time I revisit it, I come away with the same sense of beauty that I experienced the first time I came for a visit, many years ago now.

It has what my husband calls a fable like quality, a fairy tale if you will. It is a movie that exudes old world charm that is refreshing to find these days. Every frame is a painting coming to life. And for a few precious moments you find yourself, along with the characters, walking within it's frame. Beauty, Family and Life are the words that come to the forefront of my mind when I reflect on it.

The dignity of this lovely mexican family brings to mind eras long past. Their sense of family and tradition is a reminder of how much things have changed. There is a sense of belonging, like a tree's  roots, that is planted deeply within their world and customs, rooted to the land they cultivate and nurture. Their world is threatened by the arrival of change in the form of a young man named Paul Sutton (Keanu Reeves), a young man, a "gringo", who is introduced to them by their daughter Victoria as her husband. The act of marrying a "gringo", and of doing so without their consent or knowledge, is viewed as an act of disrespect by Victoria's father, Alnerto Aragon, played by Giancarlo Giannini. This, coupled with a deeply rooted fear of change, brings out a churning anger and disdain towards the unsuspecting Paul, an orphan in life, who envies Victoria her family, including the rage-fully protective nature of her father's love. 

There are complexities to this story surrounded by and within gentleness and passion. It is a story filled with characters and humor. The incomparable Anthony Quinn (Zorba The Greek, La Strada) plays Victoria's grandfather, the irrepressible Don Pedro. When Anthony Quinn is in a frame, you can not take your eyes away from him, his whole being exudes life. There is a nobility to each character in this film, a nobleness born of depth and personality. A film does not have to have the same metal as a "Sophie's Choice" to be filled with depth, it can be found in the romance, in the cultural mixes, and in the history of it's characters. One of the characters of this movie is it's imagery. There are so many beautiful images in this movie, but one in particular stands out to me, the image of the waving of the butterfly and angel wings, within a backdrop of evening, lanterns and grape vines. It is a visually stunning scene, and one can only imagine how much more it must have been in the mind of the one who envisioned and created it. It will call out to the artist within all of us.

This is one of my personal favorites, and if you need a little uplifting then open this one up, and like a box of chocolates, bite into it, and relish the burst of flavor that explodes in your mouth and being.

Happy viewing!

Color Me Joyful!

For a few years now I have been attending a wonderful art class in my neighborhood. Held in the basement of my art teacher Johanna's home, it is an exciting time of creativity, joy and expression. There are only four students, each working on their own pieces, in different mediums and styles, and at different levels of accomplishment and talent. There is nothing quite like watching the creation of a piece of art, from an idea or an image, to the first colors that caress the blank white canvas. As the layers are added and defined, it begins to take on a life of it's own, guiding you and showing you where  the strokes should go, whether to put in more light or shadow, what dashes of color will suddenly bring to life what was once upon a time flat or uninteresting. Then there is the final reveal, when the piece has reached it's culmination, and there is nothing more to do, but put aside your brushes and paints, and with a little bit of sadness mixed in with the joy, acknowledge that it is finished.

I am not an accomplished artist by any stretch of the imagination, but I love this safe place where I let go of the inhibitions and insecurities, the stresses and challenges of everyday life and revel in the new and undiscovered. I still need to call on my teacher for help and advise, still not quite confident in my own abilities, but that's okay, for each of us it is a process, some learn quicker than others, but all of us are on the journey.  When I first began I was quite literally scared of color. An Indian scared of color, now there's an oxymoron! I was afraid of failing, of choosing the wrong color for the walls of my house, literally paralyzed with the very thought. I began art out of fear and curiosity, would I discover a creative bone in this body of mine, however small or insignificant that it may turn out to be, could I bring it to life? What I discovered was far more than the breadth of my imagination at the time could ever have conceived of, a treasure trove of color and beauty, of wonder and adventure, and of joy and fulfillment.

But it is not just art which makes this time so special, it's that special camaraderie that is shared during these moments. The walls echo back not silence, but laughter and banter, suggestions and stories. Stories of life. Some happy, some sad, but all important. It is a time where words, music and art intertwine to create a tapestry rich with detail and texture. Life's palette, with all it's vividness and expression. Fear is no longer the word I associate with art, in fact, it is perhaps the last word I would choose. My imagination has woken from the long sleep it has been in since childhoods last glimmer, and now feels the joyful aches and pains of muscles long out of use, leaping and twirling in the splashes and sprinkles of color that have become this novice artists palette.

A Country Forgotten

I spent the latter part of this evening at a fundraiser for the victims of the flood in Pakistan. I was there to support this cause and to offer encouragement and support to a lovely Pakistani gentleman who I and others in our church have come to know over the course of a few years. Every Saturday, he and others from other countries come and play ping pong in our church basement. They are a wonderful group of people, and it is so much fun watching them play ping pong and talking with them.

I may have misheard the figure, but even if in reality the figure was half of what was stated, we are still talking about a huge amount of people whose lives have been displaced, and for many destroyed completely. The figure quoted, and again, I may have misheard, was 20 million. Let's say the actual figure is 10 million or 5 million, five hundred thousand or one thousand, that's still too many lives affected. One life is too many. The question was raised there, and I must admit to thinking it myself, why we weren't hearing or seeing the same amount of support and media attention that followed the natural disasters that hit Haiti after the devastating earthquake, Indonesia after the Tsunami, and New Orleans after Katrina? Why has there been such little coverage of this event? Where are the celebrities and their special fundraisers? What is the cause of people viewing this as less important than the other natural disasters, and believe me, this is not a competition about which disaster is worse, they are all equally terrible and devastating, but it does make one wonder. Is it because we are "disastered out"? I sincerely hope not. It is hard to stay focused on a place of crisis, when it is not in your own back yard. It is natural to have short term focus, but not right. I am as guilty of this as the next person. I pause for a few days, watch continuously, donate money, cry at the face of tragedy, and then proceed onwards with my own everyday life, and soon that tragedy takes on a distant focus that becomes progressively dimmer as days go by. Right? No. Natural? Yes. When I was in India I would sometimes hear this phrase "What to do?", said with a resigned accent. Well, what to do? I don't have the answers to that. I wish I did. Maybe we can start by taking a moment each day to remember in prayer or thought, the victims of these tragedies. Maybe then, they will be closer in mind and heart. Some of us might be able to go on aid work to the affected areas, but that's probably not realistic for the majority of us. Perhaps we can find what is needed in terms of supplies and make it a goal to send some supplies in instead of funds. Maybe some of us can donate funds. Others, time. Maybe we can link up with one family we can help in some way. Perhaps we can look to our own back yards as well, to see the needs in our communities, cities and nations. I wish the answer was simple, but maybe it is. Maybe we should just remember to remember, and perhaps that in itself will promote some form of action.

I read a recent UN statement about the crisis on CNN online. I encourage you to read it and remember, and help in whatever way you can.

Thanks for reading and hearing.