Mar 24, 2016 Climate Change is Real!, Daily Life, Ramblings and Musings
Climate Change is Real: Day 6 of My Lone Vigil
©March 24, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
(Woman with Sign, standing in for Man with Sign)
Everything becomes a habit, that’s why we should treat any activity with the caution it deserves. Come close to it, sniff around it, find out whether it’s good or bad, then let it become a habit, if it’s ultimately for the good. The problem is that good habits are very willing to die a quick death. As for the bad, those are SO hard to get rid of (as everyone knows).
My good habit from this week? Getting up earlier and earlier in the morning before the alarm went off (of course, this “earlier” is nothing compared to the “earlier” of the time when I was a school-teacher, but it’s VERY early compared to my rather recent late-rising tendency) – today it was 6:45 a.m.
My bad habit? It’s still the old, old habit of getting to bed very late at night.
Okay, moving on.
With yesterday’s reheated coffee in travel mug (ugh – but I made a fresh pot upon my return!), dog let out and let back in, orange-scarlet scarf in place, black shirt, grey pants, green hat, dash of lipstick, slash of eye-black (but very muted hardly visible), moon-boots laced up, and phone in hand (but no i-pod, because I forgot to charge it), I headed out, and made it to the location at 7:40 (it’s getting better all the time).
The wind was not pleasant, and I was ill-prepared for the elements, plus foggy from lack of sleep. Not many layers beneath my coat, thin gloves, and hat kept off the worst of the chill – but I was cold. Cold can make one numb, or cheerful. I started off numb, then grew cheerful, then numb again. I found out later that it was 37 degrees (so foggy was I this morning that I didn’t check). I felt yanked around unceremoniously by the weather this whole week. I feel like protesting. Wait! I AM protesting!
I had Guruji’s (Pandit Shreeram G. Devasthali’s) voice in my head, even if I didn’t have his voice in my ear (since I’d left the i-Pod behind, and the music thingy on my i-phone wasn’t cooperating). Technology is fun, but it can get old. I began to sing Raga Bhatiyar again (both Hari hari nama, and Barani na jaye, along with gamak taans, aakars and sargams, created nice rhythmic patterns, and it felt good. Sang lustily and defiantly into the cloud-layered, windy sky above me. The cars went by, and I didn’t care for the first few minutes.
There were many, many smiles, waves, nods and thumbs-ups today. Several were from women this time. A woman driving with three children in the back, smiled at me, and all three of her children waved. Three young women in a bright, swanky car gave me a thumbs-up. A man drove by in a van, and his passenger stuck his head out and said, “You bet it is!” in response to the sign. A couple of bicyclists rode by, smiled, waved. The usual trucks advertising technology, tree-services, home-security, Verizon services, Clean Air, and so on trundled past. Several drivers wanted me to look at them, so I did. Our ocular spheres rolled about our orbits, each registering the other. There was not ONE sneering face or skeptical look. It was a good, uneventful day.
I tried to think profound thoughts. Nothing happened. It was a Curly kind of day (I’m tryin’ to think, but nothin’ happens!”). It was a Joseph-Heller-rambling kind of morning. The wind didn’t help. My fingers were getting resentful at being out in the cold without much protection. I consoled myself by saying that I had a warm home to return to, and that an hour in the cold was simply like waiting for a bus that one just missed. It would be over soon. I didn’t castigate myself by saying, “There are SO many people out there who don’t have what you have, so shut up, and put up.” Why? Because I castigate myself enough already.
I looked around at the birds. Yay, they were there! I heard a birdsong that was familiar, but didn’t know what bird it is: Tweee, tweee, tweee… twetwetwetwe (Tufted Titmouse? Wren? I really must brush up on birds – it isn’t enough to just love anything these days. One must know about it in some relatable way. However, might I be excused for my ignorance for now? Thanks!) A lovely bluejay flashed by and landed on a branch. Three birds of nondescript plumage tweeted imprecations at the sky. There were no cardinals or geese to capture my imagination.
The cars were denser today, and the air began to feel less pleasant as time went on. I saw a few Indians who looked at me in an amused, bemused way from their affluent cars. I saw many professional-looking African-Americans in their polished cars who gave me a politely interested look, several people who might have been South-Americans going by, looking quizzically at me, and one weary-looking black Rastafarian passenger in a car driven by a white woman. He directed a solemn look at me as they drove past me, giving me a barely perceptible nod. I nodded back, just as imperceptibly. I wondered briefly about them, as one does. I wondered whether he’d suffered from police pat-downs, whether the woman who drove him was his wife or girlfriend, whether her being the driver might protect him from being pulled over for DWB, whether he and the African-American drivers who went past me who looked expressionlessly at me as they went by thought, “Ya, well, easy for you. You are not the one who’s going to get targeted. We have to protect ourselves every day. How will this help?”
I don’t have any answers to any questions. It’s hard enough to just live our lives, and try to beat the Winter Blues. It’s harder if you don’t have enough money to feed yourself and your family, about which, thankfully, we don’t have to worry. It’s very hard if you have to watch your back every day, not knowing if you will be the next victim. It’s hardest when you know that none of this will matter if the coasts of the world as we know it are mostly underwater within half a century.
I was not sad, just cold. But I sang well, and I was happy when the hour ended. With the wind pushing hard against me and Warren’s sign, I wended my sleep-deprived way home. I felt as if my legs were wading through molasses. I still sang, though, and my voice sounded clear and bell-like. Not bad for an hour in the cold in traffic!
Perhaps, gasoline fumes are good for singers who wish to protest Climate Change. (That’s snark, in case you worry that I truly think this!)
Thanks for reading, everyone. It’s been fun in its own strange way. Three more week-days of writing these posts, then Warren will be back. I cannot wait!
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Tags: #ClimateChangeisReal, #ClimateVigil, #GasolineFumesAreGoodForSingersSNARK!
Mar 24, 2016 The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt: Help
Help Taken and Help Given
©March 25th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
Help may be asked, and you may give it, but don’t expect thanks.
You may need help, and someone gives it, but do not forget.
It takes true freedom for people to thank you for helping them. Everyone things he or she is beholden to no one. And it takes true freedom for you to thank those who’ve helped you. In both cases, pride gets in the way. Shame gets in the way, as well.
Think before you offer help. What do you truly want out of it?
Think before you take help. Will you truly acknowledge it without fear of being thought weak or helpless?
Discard pride. Discard shame. Simply admitting you need help is a sign of strength.
Everything, including this realization, comes in its own time, and dawns on us when we are ready to acknowledge it:
All help given and all help taken connects us, one to the other, vast strands of life holding onto a tenuous, unseen rope-ladder of evolving goodness.
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Tags: #Acknowledging help, #Daily Prompt, #Help, #Thanking someone
Mar 24, 2016 The Daily Post
In response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt for March 23rd, 2016: Nerve
Neural Impulse, or: Echolocations
©March 24th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram
So many nerves, so many branches
Striving towards the others.
Even here, in this
Deepest, densest, convoluted
Folded forest beset with confusion,
Weary travellers cross
Vast distances with urgency
To touch another kindred cell.
So, too, we.
With our pixellated selves,
Our stories and songs,
Our responses, our feelings,
Our spilling of secrets
Into the ether, winging our
Solitary way into the vast night,
Hoping that another secret
Traveller will hear our
Echolocation.
Synaptic songs
Signalled stories
Nerve endings.
All here.
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Tags: #Communication, #Daily Prompt, #Nerve, #Travellers