Feb 8, 2018 Climate Change is Real!, Original Poetry

May 16, 2017 Climate Change is Real!, Original Poetry

Dinner on Flamingo Plate
©May 16th, 2017
By Vijaya Sundaram

Today, I ate off a ceramic plate.
Vibrant with life, the head and beak
Of a flamingo dipping into water
For food on the plate
Caught me by surprise.

I dipped my spoon into the bowl
On the plate, with the dipping flamingo.
I felt one-legged and long-beaked.

A rooster strutted, in several squares,
Above the kitchen sink,
And a jug with a bird-beak spout
Filled with gurgling water,
When we stood there, carrying
Things out to the garden table.

A Portuguese water-dog stood
Silent, attentive, ready to hunt
Under the garden table,
While we humans above it
Spooned bean soup made by our host,
Talked about Climate Change,
And ate the spiced vegetable pulao that
I’d brought as an offering.

We discussed environmental bills
And legislative matters, wrapping
Our heads around abstruse matters
Like a turban around an impenetrable skull.
But the flamingo peered at me
All the while, one interested eye
Arresting my crab-wise attention.
And that beak was the bill I read.

I dipped my spoon into the soup-bowl
On the plate, with its dipping flamingo.
I felt one-legged and long-beaked.
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Tags: #DinnerPlate, #OriginalPoetrybyVijayaSundaram

Apr 12, 2016 Climate Change is Real!, Ramblings and Musings

Climate Change is Real:  Day 14 of My Part-Shared, Part-Lone Vigil
©April 12th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Today was an extremely long day.  Finally, I sit down and try to recapture my vigil from this morning.

Yes, I went out today, after a gap of two or three week-days to face with some degree of resignation a wildly changing weather and an unvaryingly boring traffic flow.  Having already had my coffee and a good night’s sleep, I was somewhat awake.  Of course, there’s no such thing as being fully awake at 8:20 in the morning, despite the fact that had I been teaching at school (as I’ve done for seventeen years until last June), I would have been well into teaching  my first class period of the day, and would have been scattering good mornings! and cheerful smiles in all directions (except if I’d pulled an all-nighter).

As it was, I had to face no one but the traffic (which, being the vast, faceless entity that it is, as it snakes through the roads, cares not one whit) and my husband (but he’s pretty forgiving).

The signs were already in place, and Warren greeted me with a beautiful composition in Raga Desi, which he had been singing.  I’d forgotten how transcendentally beautiful this raga is, and it displaced Raga Adana (which is beautiful, as well), to which I’d been listening on my way to the vigil.  I joined Warren in singing the teentaal bandish in Desi, Pritam prita lagi naa bhulaana, which our Guruji had composed.  Filled with sweetness and a sense of pleading, it’s laced with the unspoken fear that the singer’s beloved might/would forget the singer.  Forgetting a beloved may be sad, but even worse, is the fear that I suspect many of us share – the fear of an eventual loss of memory. 

I have forgotten much in my life – names, people I’ve met, movies I’ve seen, places I’ve been, stories I’ve read, and things that happened to me – sometimes, I think this is a form of self-protection.  At other times, I think the mind can hold only this much, and no more.  Yet, at the same time, I cannot ever forget the hurt I’ve caused someone.  I cannot forget that I’ve wasted time.  I cannot forget that I’ve been wasteful of resources and of whatever talent I’ve possessed. 

This, I will not forget:  That our time on Earth is short, that the harm we’ve done it is lasting, and the good we can still do can prevent the worst.  As we fight to save our planet, we need more songs, more stories, more spoken-word poetry to keep our collective memories aloft. 
. 
And we need to remember this Earth, our Mother. 

Warren left after we overlapped for fifteen or twenty minutes.  I stayed on, and sang along with Guruji’s voice in my ear-buds, as he took me through “Naiya More Bhayi Purani,” an absolutely heart-breaking composition, which translates thus: 

Naiya More Bhayi Purani (My boat has become ancient)
Khewata sada matawaro (The boatman, aka God, is always intoxicated, whimsical)
Aughata ghaata mein (At the difficult,inaccessible steps leading to the river)
Sujhata nahin (I don’t understand what’s happening)
Aana padi majhadhar (I have arrived at the eddies of the midstream)

Our teacher explains the whole thing as “rupak” or metaphor (India is the original land of metaphorical thinking).

Yes, and of course, we can apply this song to all of us as we age, and to our planet, as she ages.  Many don’t understand what’s happening, and those of us who do, do so in a frightened, boat-whirling-in-midstream manner.  A couple of days ago, I read about how melting ice sheets are changing the earth’s axis.  It did not make me very hopeful about the future.  Sorry.

On a happier note, I LOVE revisiting our time with our teacher through these recordings we have of our lessons.  Even his speaking voice takes on the notes of the particular raga which he’s singing as he explains the poetry of the bandishes he teaches us.  He is musical to the very core of his being.  To me, he’s not dead – he’s always here, his voice still magical. 

There were no real interactions with anyone today.  A few waves, a honk, a thumbs-up … that was all.  We were, all of us, wrapped in our own internal worlds.

The clouds were grey, the wind gusted from time to time, and the sun moved slowly through my forty minutes out there.  The sun-saturated air beyond the pearly grey sky made my eyes hurt, and I squinted, unseeing, into the slow crawl of cars, as I sang.  No stories suggested themselves to me.  A horde of schoolchildren waved from a schoolbus that trundled by.  I waved back.

Soon, it was time to go.  I saw a beautiful woodpecker fly off into the woods behind me, as I picked up the signs, and allowed the wind to push me this way and that as I crossed the bridge.  Below me, the cars crawled in one direction (towards Boston), and flashed by in the other direction (northwards).

I was glad to go home. My daffodils, crocuses, and a narcissus and hyacinth plant were perking up, greeting the morning.  All those dire warnings of a catastrophic future resembled science fiction at that moment.

For here, now, was beauty.

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Tags: #ClimateChangeisReal, #ClimateVigil, #Music-making and bearing witness, #Pandit Shreeram G. Devasthali, #Raga Desi

Apr 6, 2016 Climate Change is Real!, Ramblings and Musings

Climate Change is Real:  Day 13 of my Lone Vigil
©April 6th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Twenty-three degrees this morning at 6:55.  Twenty-Five around 7:30.  Twenty-eight around eight a.m.  Thirty before I left the house around 8:37.  Thirty-two by the time I reached the spot at 8:42.  Thirty-four by the time twenty minutes passed.  And it got steadily warmer.  Thirty-eight degrees now.

That’s alarming.

I woke up this morning, reciting The Walrus and the Carpenter in my head (yes, I am somewhat strange that way – random lines float into my head from poems I’ve read, or books I soaked up, and they insist on being voiced out loud), and stopped when I came to these much-quoted lines:

“The time has come,” the Walrus said,
“To talk of many things:
Of shoes–and ships–and sealing-wax–
Of cabbages–and kings–
And why the sea is boiling hot–
And whether pigs have wings.”

Somehow, that penultimate line seemed relevant today.  I wondered about the warming of the Pacific  (as one does, these days), which has caused a flurry of speculation and alarm among those who keep tabs on news of Climate Change.  A “boiling hot” ocean seems very fitting.  And we, like lobsters, won’t know it until it’s too late, and we’re tapping frantically at the lid of the pot on the stove….

… unless, of course, we as a species develop more intelligence than a lobster (I think we just might), and not insist on foolish fantasies, coupled with denial of data.

My nonsense poetry recitation rapidly moved onto Jabberwocky, which also seemed fitting, but I’m not sure how.

Perhaps, because it lent itself to these words I just made up:

“Beware of Climate Change, my son
These years that kill, those jeers we hear.
Beware Denialists and shun
That foolish Trumpeteer.”

Moving right along.  I was out there for an hour.  After a quick recounting of his experience, Warren passed the baton (so to speak) onto me, and moved on homewards.
And the temperature moved from thirty-two to thirty-four to thirty-six, all within the space on an hour.

And the cars moved with it.

I sang Raga Jog-Kauns, a hauntingly lovely raga, an exquisite blend of Jog and Chandrakauns, but (as our teacher argued in the recording, and we concurred) it could also be a blend of Jog and Malkauns.   Since it’s a newish raga, he said, we could make a case for singing either “kauns” aspect of it, including a run through a Pancham Malkauns, which is beautiful in itself.  The text of the bandish goes: Kaise samajhaoon, maanata naahi, mana mora?”  (How will I convince or persuade my mind to understand, when it does not heed me?)  It goes on to talk about the singer’s beloved, with whom s/he wants to cavort romantically, but cannot, because the two lovers are separated, and s/he is restless because s/he feels desolate without her/him.  Lovely piece!

If I were just to take the first line (“How will I persuade my mind to understand, when it does not heed me?”) and apply it to many people’s attitude to Climate Change, it seems sadly apposite. 

We are separated from our true selves, the bigger Self (yes, yes, I know I sound all mystical here), and if we were to bring our separated selves together, surely we could effect change, change to the better, change to combat Climate Change.  (This is where the cynics can leave the room.)

Well, the sun shone down brightly, and I wasn’t sad today. The cars drove by, all cheerful, many honking, many waving, many thumbs-upping (the people, that is), and I saw no dissent. Perhaps, our different selves will slowly come together? And when they do, will we still be alive to celebrate? I leave you with that cheery thought.

And I galumphed back, bearing my vorpal sword on my shoulder. The birds were singing as I left, and I declared to myself, “O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” because I had completed yet another vigil and was feeling momentarily virtuous.

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Tags: #ClimateChangeisReal, #ClimateVigil, #Jabberwocky, #TheWalrusandTheCarpenter, #TheWarmingofthePacific

Apr 5, 2016 Climate Change is Real!, Daily Life, Ramblings and Musings

Climate Change is Real:  Day 12 of My Lone Vigil
©April 5th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

I awoke, swampily, out of a thick dream which enclosed me like a blanket, and when I opened my eyes, I found it was the blanket.  Pah!  It was no dream at all (although there might have been a flying monkey somewhere in there, and a giant, flashing being who straddled the sky and earth – but I might have imagined it).

Last week, I was out there at the Intersection on four out of five days.  This week, today was my first day out.  Yesterday, it snowed and snowed, and I declined firmly and politely to go out and face it, having (as usual), gone to sleep at an ungodly hour (there must be a detox facility for those who are addicted to late-night wake-itude like me).

This morning, after putting on three layers of shirts, one sweater, a fleece sweater on top of that, plus tights and pants, and two pairs of socks, and a winter coat, I called Warren, and said, “Wait for me – I’ll join you soon.”  Alas, after I filled up my travel mug with hot coffee, and  dealt with Her Serenely Goofy Dogginess, I did join him – but not soon, you understand.

Still, I made it there.  The sidewalks were treacherously slippery, and it was 25 degrees out there – REALLY cold – but the sun shone merrily, and the sky was a tranquil blue, and I felt less reluctant today. 

Warren and I had barely any time together (he had to return to teach a student on Skype), so I continued where he left off.

I put on my ear-buds, and listened to Guruji sing Kafi:  “Aja Khelo Shyama Sang Hori Re” – very ironic, because this song (although appropriate for the Spring season, and India’s Holi festival) seemed so absurdly out of place in today’s snow-cloaked landscape and roadscape.  Our voices in the recording were full of laughter and pleasure, and rich, warm singing from all of us.  Guruji’s follow-up after that was thrilling, and I enjoyed myself singing along with his tappa composition titled “Bera, Bera, Manuva,” which was full of twiddly bits and, and gamak-laden bol-taans.

And, as I watched the cars go by, I felt both pleasure and sorrow in the vigil today.

Pleasure, because I was alive, still fit, still strong, still full of life, and love of life.  Pleasure, because the sky and sun were blue and gold, and the air was cold, and I’ve learned to love the cold.  Pleasure, because I knew at the end of my vigil, I could go home, and eat a slice of toast, and drink something, and take my daughter to Home-School Chorus, and write a poem at Starbucks while I waited.  Pleasure, because I would come home after that, and eat Sambhar-chadam, and drink water, and cuddle with Holly.  Pleasure, because my life’s pretty good, and reasonably safe, and full of interesting things to look forward to.

And sorrow, because I shall never be as good as I want to be about helping the cause.  I have too many selfish needs, and am too enmeshed in this world to sacrifice much.  What I SHOULD be doing is to give up ALL new things, eat less, drink no coffee, avoid buying foods that are trucked in from far away, refrigerated for all that time, avoid restaurants, avoid buying new books, avoid the clothes dryer, the washing machine, the dishwasher, electricity, a car, and give up all milk products, entirely (I couldn’t care less for most milk products, but I really LOVE yogurt, and no matter what the vegans say, soy or any other yogurt is HORRIBLE).

What I WANT to do is:
Go vegan completely (I tried it for a few months, and it was good, but I went back to my bad old vegetarian ways);
Eat only vegetables that I’ve grown;Not travel, unless it’s by bicycle, foot, or public transport (at least we have only one car, and we use it mostly for S’s activities);
Raise my own awareness by reading a whole lot more about Climate Change, not just the hair-raising articles I see online;
Attend more conferences on Climate Change;
Preach at schools (and THAT would be very popular, no doubt – HAH!);
Propose Neighborhood Meetings where people can pool together local resources;
Do something dramatic and public about it.

But I’m selfish.  I like to read, sing, dream, work at home, write, take care of my family.  How does one reconcile private needs with Public Need? 

If I were to cut everything, I would have to give up being a family person, too, because being in a family means taking into account everyone’s needs at home, or making sure that no one (including me) feels forced to do something, or give up a way of living.  That’s not on the cards right now – no way!  So, compromise is all I’ve got.

Meanwhile, as I thought sadly about my various failings and failures, I stood there, sipping hot coffee, enjoying the sun on my face, and the intense cold on my nose.  I saw the cars go by steadily, assembly-line style, coming into view, and vanishing into nothingness, as ephemeral as my place in this world.

Many honked, and smiled, and waved, and one man smiled, leaned out, and called: Vijaya!  (Although he looked familiar, I did not know him – perhaps, he could be a friend of mine from another dimension.)  So, I said, “OMG, HI!” enthusiastically, figuring that if he was someone I knew, I had acknowledged him.  It doesn’t hurt to do that.

At the end of forty-five minutes, I had to leave to attend to my daughter’s schedule (I have to come earlier tomorrow).

As I walked home, with the wind buffeting the two signs I held, I saw something shining in the snow on the sidewalk. My glasses from last week! I picked it up, and was sad to see that it had lost one ear-stem (at least, that’s what I call it). I kept it, anyway. Perhaps, I’ll see the missing part tomorrow. Maybe, I’ll even be able to fix it.

Thank you for reading, all!

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Tags: #ClimateChangeisReal, #ClimateVigil, #GoingVegan, #SacrificesICannotMakeYet

Apr 1, 2016 Climate Change is Real!, Ramblings and Musings

Climate Change is Real:  Day 11 of my (15-minute) Shared Vigil
© April 1st, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

I acknowledge temporary defeat today.  I am utterly spent this week (probably from everything I did for the past fifteen or so days), and did not do more than fifteen minutes of vigil, this time in Warren’s company.

Left my coffee at home, and dropped my glasses on the road to the Intersection.  I know this, because a driver leaned out and said, “You dropped your glasses!”  I went to look for them, but they seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth, probably swept into another, parallel universe where I stood tall and proud and defiant, holding the cup of coffee, singing into a hostile wind, and acknowledging the various nods or shakes of people driving by.

As it was, I couldn’t find the glasses.  I reached Warren, who waved cheerily to me, and told him in tired, broken tones (not really, just being dramatic) about my left-behind cup of coffee, the lost glasses, my aching bones, and my sleep-puffed self.

Warren commiserated (and if he hadn’t, I would have been grumpier), and we stood for ten or fifteen minutes together. 

A man drove by almost immediately after I’d reached Warren, and yelled something like, “Bernie bots!” Hah! 

Warren and I laughed a bit, and then sang a wonderful palta in Raga Bhupali Todi that he’d made up and shared with me, and turned it into a bol taan which spanned 26 beats – two cycles of notes which added up to 13 beats.  I enjoyed that a lot, and it made up a little bit for my two losses, but then …

… Another man drove by and yelled something that didn’t sound friendly.  Fortunately, we couldn’t make out what he said.

And that was enough for me.  I decided to return home with Warren, and not linger in that spot any more for the day.  I shall resume next week, and be more consistent.  After all, this was a disrupted week for me.  I shall pardon myself.

So, I didn’t feel in the least bit detached today.  I have a sneaking suspicion that any detachment I feel is after a good sleep, and a cup of coffee. 

And thus, my dependence on one of the most wonderful aspects of modern civilization is highlighted.

And where will I go, when Climate Change takes over coffee, as well?

P.S. Yes, yes, I know the news is from last year, but it’s still relevant!

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Tags: #ClimateChangeAndCoffee, #ClimateChangeisReal, #ClimateVigil, #FuzzyBrain

Mar 31, 2016 Climate Change is Real!

Climate Change:  Day 10 of my Part-Shared, Mostly-Lone Vigil
©March 31st, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

I took a day off from doing the vigil on Wednesday, since Warren returned from India on Tuesday afternoon, and I wanted to sleep in while he returned to his vigil.  Today, having rested a little, I resumed my post at the Intersection.  I wanted to be there earlier, but decided that I would join Warren towards the end of his time there.

We overlapped for about five to ten minutes, singing together.  Warren showed me the pattern he’d been working on in Raga Gunkali (a very cool one, which he calls an “anchored palta”) – I loved it, so I sang it for half an hour after he left, before I moved on to a lovely bandish in Raga Kafi (Kahe Chhedo Mohe Ho Shyaam).  Our vocal teacher(Guruji)’s voice in my ear-buds sounded bell-like, and his incredibly mellifluous singing made me yearn to be back in the past, sitting in Muktangan with Warren and him, just singing and singing for hours in 1991 and 1994.

It was very nice to stand there with my husband, drinking good coffee, singing, and watching traffic crawl by.  I remarked to him, while we stood together, that it was very liberating, very freeing, to be out there, seeing the slow flow of humanity.  I felt as if I were detached from all of humanity.  I didn’t care what the people in their cars thought of me.  It was a wonderful feeling.  [The only other times when this occurred were when I was delirious with a fever in 1983 or 83, and years later, when I was in the hospital, ready to birth my daughter.]  When I shared this (the feeling of liberation and detachment) with him, Warren speculated that it was like being god-like, but I didn’t necessarily feel god-like – just not part of the human race.

People come and go, and there’s an endless sameness about it, as well as endless variety.  The cages we come in look pretty, yes, but they’re still cages.  The people look the same, all bipeds with eyes in the front of their faces, noses in the middle and moving mouths.  I do celebrate all our different colored eyes, hair, skin, width and heights that they have, but wouldn’t it be wonderful if some of us came whizzing by with triangular faces, eyes on the sides of our heads, and little forked tongues in square mouths?  No?  Ah, well.  Must be my tiredness speaking.

Speaking of cages and sameness, this song comes to mind, although Malvina Reynolds wrote about houses, not cars:

Little boxes on the hillside,
Little boxes made of ticky-tacky,
Little boxes, little boxes,
Little boxes, all the same.
There’s a green one and a pink one
And a blue one and a yellow one
And they’re all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same. 

I know that I’d look like the same as everybody else to someone standing on the roadside with a sign, possibly about wanting food or money or work.  I wonder whether those other sign-holders harbor resentment or love in them when they see me going by in my car.  I wonder whether they’re too beaten or hungry to care to feel anything else.

And I wonder whether becoming homeless (as some do, by choice) also yields the same feeling of freedom that I mentioned above.  Would the last bonds and restraints (shame, embarrassment, mortification) fall off?  I’m not ready for that kind of liberation, though.  I like the ties that hold me to my world.  I like my cage.

Many people at this later hour (8:40-9:40) who drove by smiled, waved, honked, gave me thumbs-up signs, and were VERY nice – no harsh words or negative comments marred my morning.  One man leaned in my direction from his car, and asked, “What can WE do?”  I couldn’t hear him at first, ear-buds obstructing sound, so he repeated it.  And I stood there, like an idiot, unable to answer with a sound bite.  I said, “Look it up!” because traffic was slowing behind him while he waited for me to answer.  When I called up Warren, and told him how sad I was that I could not respond quickly, he was helpful.  His suggestion was that I should tape a list of suggestions behind the sign, with phrases like  ‘Eat less meat,’ ‘Consume Less,” etc.  I shall definitely do this.

I’m still tired today, but it was a warm morning.  The sun shone prettily.  The sky was a beautiful lake-blue, and there were a couple of stray clouds, all looking very idyllic.  Birds sang in chorus – I’m sure their singing is not all that lovely in bird-tongue, since it’s all very functional, and all that, but to my ears, their singing is deeply moving.  I’m grateful, every day, for birds.

But the gasoline fumes began to settle in the air, and while there were no black fumes as might be found in India, they were still detected by my throat and lungs as unfriendly additions to a beautiful morning.

Coughing a little, I made my way home, still detached.  As I descended the hilly green-brown slope towards my house, the sight of our seven or eight lilac bushes coming into their first green leaves cheered me.  My purple, yellow and white crocuses are still bright against the light, still blooming and lovely.  Soon, the lilacs will bloom like pale, purple ghosts on our bushes, and their delicate fragrance will temporarily cleanse my soul.

[I am one of those for whom daffodils and birds bring a temporary joy, Climate Change notwithstanding.]

Beyond this rambling, I have no thoughts, no humor, no wisdom, not observations, no complaints, no wondrous revelations, no nostalgic thoughts, no words of praise, no analogies or poetry to share.

Thanks for reading.

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Tags: #ClimateChangeisReal, #ClimateVigil, #Hindustani classical vocal music, #PreservingThePlanet, #PreseveringMusic, #RagaGunkali, #RagaKafi

Mar 30, 2016 Climate Change is Real!, Ramblings and Musings

Climate Change is Real:  Day 9 of my Lone Vigil
© March 29th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

Climate Change is Real:  Day 9 of my Lone Vigil
© March 29th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

This was my worst day for a vigil – being very sleep-deprived all week, and waking up earlier than usual, well before the alarm, did not set me up for a good morning.

Then, having done everything requisite on the home-front – put dog out, let dog in, make coffee, wash, and look reasonably dressed and neat, and ready to be there ON TIME … but  wait!  What was that out there?

NO!  Not the trash truck!  Nooo!  I had our trash and recycling bags all ready to go in the mud room, but I hadn’t taken them down last night, thinking they could wait till the morning.  And now, those  garbage trucks were OUT there, having already dumped whatever was in our large trash bin, and moving like lumbering, arch-backed green beetles to the next house.

I have to explain:  Our town has a VERY good trash-and-recycling-collection system:  Some years ago, every house had been given two large plastic bins a few years ago, one for trash, the other for recycling.  Every Tuesday, we put them out on the road, just off the sidewalks outside our house, for them to be picked up and emptied by those wonderful semi-automated garbage trucks.  It’s a good system, and now, there seems to be less waste in our town.  So, I left everything on the front step, ran down 40+ steps with the trash bag, and managed to reach the truck, even after they’d emptied out our bin.  Then, I ran back.  By now, I was feeling rather hot and breathless – and also, somewhat dim-witted.  I remembered to grab my travel mug with fresh coffee in it, locked the door, picked up the sign, and turned my face towards the traffic streaming into Our Spot.  Having seen on the weather app on my phone that today was going to be in the 50s, I thought I wouldn’t need a coat, or a sweater.  So, I sallied forth with neither, just my sign-scimitar, my coffee-elixir and my cotton-wool-clouded head.  I was halfway to my spot when I realized something about the weather.  It was COLD!

For, what I hadn’t seen was that the temperature reading for the morning was 43 degrees (which is WARM by our standards).  AND the wind blew about me like a crazed banshee, threatening the sign and me, as I climbed up the hilly slope from our house towards the on-ramp that led to Warren’s Intersection.

I was COLD, and very tired.  I wanted to cry like a baby.

I admit it.  I thought of quitting.  I said to myself that nobody was forcing me to do this.  I was there, because I liked doing the vigil that Warren began.  It makes me feel that I contribute in my own tiny way to something positive that helps to awaken people to our Climate Crisis.  I’ve gotten in the habit (over nine working week-days, in the space of the thirteen days that Warren was away) of awakening in the morning of my own accord, resisting the urge to curl up and sleep the rest of my life away, and heading out to do the Vigil.  I liked all of it, even the Chick Tract guy (who threw another one for my delectation yesterday, something I just remembered).

So, like some sort of transplanted Puritan, I dealt with the discomfort, and refused to go back home.  I was going to stick it out, wind or no wind, dagnabit!  I was going to dig my heels in and stay.  The birds were singing away – or were they complaining?

Guruji was in my ear, and the music was lovely, but it skipped around inexplicably (must have gone to shuffle) – going dizzyingly from Bhatiyar to Nayaki Kanada to Amritavarshini. No matter what I did, I couldn’t make it stick to one raga.  So, I sang along with the recordings, but I was morose, and my mind refused to comply with my desire to sing nicely.  I resented the wind, the traffic, the clouds, the streaming self-contained boxes of steel on wheels cutting through my air , and the people in those boxes.  My self-discipline was sorely tested.

Nope, I am not always cheerful during these vigils, it seems.

The wind blew, and I sang, and felt like King Lear, and wanted to declaim:  Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!  Fortunately, there’s no kingdom, no sycophantic older daughters, no need to have love proven to me – just a sign that reminds people that something that’s happening all around them is REAL (and hope that they’ll do something about it, even if it means talking about it, and spreading awareness that can translate into action to impede the flow of Climate Change).

Forty minutes in, and I’d had enough.  Besides, I needed to be home to make S’s breakfast, deal with dog, and get ready to take my daughter to Chorus.  So, I started walking towards my sloping hill, head down, sign on shoulder, misanthropic thoughts filtering into my brain.

And as I did so, a middle-aged red-haired woman leaned out, and said clearly: “Thank you for what you’re doing.”

Nice!  I looked up now, and felt cheered.  How simple it is to cheer a person up, no?

The effect of her nice remark was marred immediately by a man in a monster SUV, who leaned out of his window, and said, “It’s a myth, all of it!”

I yelled back, “Go look it up,” and went on, but I still felt cheerful.

My eyes are closing right now.  I’ve been up for hours, having awoken early, done the vigil, dealt with daughter’s schedule, cooked a very good dinner, baked a cake, made some Indian-style masala chai, walked the dog, cleaned, and done a lot of laundry.  Warren returned from India this afternoon, and my relief was profound.  We were so happy to see him, all three of us!  Holly was beside herself with joy.  Together, we feel completed.

As I type this, I hear the somewhat frantic, desolate honking of a lone goose flying through the dark (I didn’t know they did that!), and I wish it well.  Must be hard to be lost in the night.

Now, it’s time to go to sleep.  I shall see you all anon.  Tomorrow, there will be two of us at the Vigil.  Happiness!

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 Sorry, no pictures of me yesterday, or today.  Tired of selfies!

Tags: #ClimateChangeisReal, #ClimateVigil, #Day 9 of Solo Vigil

Mar 28, 2016 Climate Change is Real!, Daily Life, Ramblings and Musings, Uncategorized

Climate Change is Real:  Day 8 of my Lone Vigil
© March 28th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

This morning, I actually had some dreams (which means I had about five hours of sleep, instead of four) from which I arose, like a fish jumping out of the sea, water streaming off its fins, before plopping onto an unforgiving shore.  Fortunately, that’s where the fish analogy ends, because I evolved quite rapidly, grew legs, and trooped downstairs with dog, to start my coffee.

Dog went out, came back in, settled down, and I left.

I dragged myself to Warren’s Intersection (as I have dubbed it), travel mug in hand, and the “Climate Change is Real” sign on my shoulder.  This was a most unusually flavored coffee, for it tasted like French Roast and Ginkgo Clarity tea (because I had accidentally forgotten I was pouring coffee into the travel mug, and had tossed in the ginkgo tea prior to that.  Fortunately, I detected it before I left, and fished out the offender).  Ever tasted coffee that tastes like ginkgo and other herbal ingredients?  I don’t really recommend it, though it wasn’t completely awful.

It was a cloudy, gray morning, with no sign of sun.  There was no sign of anything that denoted life, except an endless stream of cars, which, having awakened from their Sunday torpor, sullenly headed towards Boston.

I should have checked the weather (duh, here I am holding a Climate Change sign, and I don’t even remember to check the weather?!  Tsk, tsk!).  Why?  Well, it started to rain, and increased in volume as the hour unrolled – and I’d forgotten to wear rain-proof gear.  I mean, my wool-influenced winter coat held off the worst of it, and so did my wool felt hat, but my shoes were getting more wet than I would have liked.  So irate and discombobulated  was I that I didn’t notice anything much that would have piqued my interest.

So, I drank my coffee grimly, and started up the music, my ear-buds in place, hoping that would dispel my gathering gloom, and it did.  More songs in Raga Bhatiyar, a nice tarana (the Indian Classical Music equivalent of scat-singing) that our Guruji had composed that was massively fun and rhythmically thrilling to sing, so much so that I had laughed out loud in delight in our 1994 recording, and laughed out loud today.  That cheered me up a little, and took my mind off the weather.  I confess I forgot about Climate Change, as well, for a little bit.

So, the cars went by, and there were even a few waves, smiles, thumbs-ups, despite the dreariness of the morning.  At one point, someone honked, and I looked up from fiddling with the i-Pod, and a young man waved, held his phone out the car, and took a picture.  Hm.  (I’m going to be world-famous, folks!  Hah!)

The usual vans and trucks advertising various services drove by – plumbing, masonry, water conservation, air purification systems and other environmental services, security systems, communication systems and construction services – the providers of the infrastructure of our modern modes of living.  (Sometimes, I wish that Atlas could shrug.  That would show us the way to a different world).  Apart from that, the usual cars drove by with preoccupied people and their Dunkin Donuts coffee, their i-Phones, their children, their spouses.

When I see all these cars, I make up stories about the people in them, just to pass the time.  I have always, always, been curious about every single individual I see, because each person is such a magical mystery tour of sorts, each person’s trajectory is unique, each person’s life is being lived parallel to mine, and I know ONLY mine.  And yet, great things happen simultaneously with terrible events, tragedies occur, people are born, people learn, people play, fall in love, get married, get separated, or stay together, and people die.  People love and hate, live and give, and take and make, and everyone is moving blindly, or consciously, along the path or her or his life, like a bead on a wire.  And we learn from all these experiences, and from our reactions to our setbacks.  It’s all we can ever hope to do.  And music can steady us as we learn.

Music has been in my blood and bones, in my voice and in my fingers, and it has helped me always – that is why when Warren speaks about saving music, the traditional music that bridges the past and the future, it resonates deeply with me.  Music is the best of who we are.  (I wrote a semi-sci-fi story about it three years ago, which I transferred from an old blog of mine to my current one.  See:  Polaris-Bound – A Short Story.)

We have to preserve our best selves.  We have to preserve the planet and its music.  Climate Change is Real, true, but music is Real-er (sorry about the grammar, but as a former English teacher, I grant myself a pardon on this one!) – so, sing, and learn the music that sustained you as you grew up.  And if it didn’t, find the music that does sustain you.  When there’s more beauty, there’s more peace, and more concerted effort to unite.  And we can unite on this issue.

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P.S.  A nice encounter this afternoon.  I was walking Holly in the misty afternoon rain, when a young man came towards me from the opposite direction, and said, “Excuse me, but are you the one who stands with the sign every morning?”  When I said I was, he said, “I have to tell you I appreciate what you’re doing, and think that it’s right and true.”  Then, he said, “And what happened to that gentleman who held the sign earlier?”
I informed him that “that gentleman” was my husband, and that he was returning on Tuesday, and would be back at the circle.  We exchanged names.  He had nice words for Holly, and we parted.  Gives one hope, doesn’t it?

Tags: #ClimateChangeisReal, #ClimateVigil, #Music, #Original Short Story: Polaris-Bound

Mar 25, 2016 Climate Change is Real!, Daily Life, Ramblings and Musings

Climate Change is Real:  Day 7 of My Lone Vigil
©March 25th, 2016
By Vijaya Sundaram

I awoke at an early hour, emerging sluggishly from a swamp-like sleep, in which I could not detect any dreams.  As I got ready, put the dog out, heated up old coffee, and dressed, I was feeling pretty detached.

Still, I looked forward to going out there to battle the elements with my trusty sword, or rather, Warren’s trusty sign, “Climate Change is Real.”

Today, I was better prepared.  More layers, thick gloves, the same scarlet and orange scarf as yesterday, two pairs of pants, moon-boots, hat – all that good New England preparedness which it took me years to learn. My phone and i-Pod were charged, and ready to go.  Holly took her time coming back in.  I was briefly frustrated, then shrugged it off.  Whatever.  She’s a dog, and has her business to attend to.  It must be hard being so dependent on her humans who let her in and out, and decide when she can be taken for a walk.  I felt bad for her, then shrugged, again. She has a very good life.  We each pay the price for safety and shelter.  What we do get is boundless love in the case of our dogs, though.

Holly was as good as gold when I left.  She always is.

I was there at 7:54 a.m. sharp.  Pah, again!  Well, there’s always Monday to look forward to, and two days of blessed rest on Saturday and Sunday (of course, “rest” is a relative term)!

The air was rich with March moisture.  While it cheered me to see the fog (I like fog), the fine, misty rain, which is more insidious than an outright downpour chilled me to the bone, despite it being about 40 degrees or so.  I don’t like the cold of rain – I prefer the cold of snow.  In any case, it got much warmer as the day wore on, just not in the hour that I stood there, fingers numb despite warm, thick gloves. 

It being Friday, the traffic was somewhat sparser at the beginning, but grew denser as the hour unrolled.  I sang Raga Bhatiyar moodily, my mind on other things, such as how awful old coffee tasted, and what possessed me get to bed so late all of this week, and did we have a future on this bleak planet, and why couldn’t I focus on Bhatiyar? 

It didn’t matter.  I sang, and my voice got stronger, and clearer, but the foggy air did not. 

Listening to our Guruji’s voice, I re-focused my efforts.  More taans and meandering aakars, gamaks and then, this very philosophical song (which I believe our teacher, Pandit Shreeram G. Devasthali wrote.  Correct me if I’m mistaken in this memory, Warren):

Kahe Dekhata Mukha Chandra

Asthai:  Kahe dekhata mukha chandra (why do you look at my moon-face?  Note:  It doesn’t sound so silly in our language, because chandra is not just moon; it signifies radiant, shining, effulgent beauty, and such-like concepts.)
Dekho na, dekho na mukha chandra (do not look at my moon-face)
Nahi dekho mora mukha chandra (same thing)
Prati dina yaha cheena hota  (Every day, it [the moon, and my beauty] wanes)
(“This beauty is ultimately going to perish,” said our teacher at this point)

Antara:  Athi chanchala jobana roopa (“The form/beauty of youth is fleeting, flickering, transitory”)
Ghadi pala yaha ghatata jaata (“Every moment, it gets diminished, goes away”)
Mohe nahi isape ghuman (“I don’t have any pride in this, because every moment it’s going away, it is so fleeting, I know for certain that it is not going to last …” so explained our Guruji.)

I love our teacher’s philosophical, exhortatory songs!

The cold seeped into my fingers and feet, but I didn’t mind so much anymore.  There is something lovely about March rain.  I admired the deep browns and grays behind me, where the Fells began (or ended), and stretched into the unseen distance.  I was grateful for stereo vision (as I am every day).  A few brown-yellow leaves from last fall stood out, brightly three-dimensional, against a background of dark brown tree-branches, and the pearl-gray gleam of water behind them made me glimmer in response.  I admired the reflection of the golden headlights of the cars on the tarmac, moving steadily towards me in the dim rain.  I looked up at the sky, and admired it for being the sky.  Now, as I write this, my favorite Beatles song Because sneaks, unwittingly, into my head. 

Because the world is round
It turns me on
Because the world is round
Ah Ah
Because the wind is high
It blows my mind
Because the wind is high
Ah Ah
Love is old, Love is new,
Love is all, Love is You.
Because the sky is blue
It makes me cry
Because the sky is blue oo

I know exactly how John Lennon felt.  I resonate with all of his lyrics, and all of his music.  The sky can make me cry.  The wind does blow my mind.  The convexity of the earth does turn me on.  Where the cars appear on the slope beyond my vision, and heave into view, the earth is curved and sexy (the cars aren’t). 

Okay, I’m rambling again.

Today, there were a few smiles, a few waves, one thumbs-up, no negative head-shakings, except for one woman.  I saw a couple of bicyclists, one of whom waved to me, as he does every day.   All of these, plus muted birdsong and birds, and the moody fog … all of these images, visual and sonic, just hung around me like a dream.

I thought of the head-shakers, as I picked up my effects, preparing to head on home.  I think I know why they do that.  We’ve all done that at some point in our lives, perhaps more than once.  When we don’t understand something or someone, we feel superior.  It’s easy to put down someone, much easier than trying to understand them. 

I will try not to do that in my life with things and people I don’t understand.  It’s a cheap and easy cop-out, and a loss of opportunity to learn and love the world around us, flawed though we are, and frail and foolish though we might be.  We are still beautiful and worth saving.

Have a good day or night.  Thank you for reading.  Happy weekend!

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Tags: #Because, #ClimateChangeisReal, #ClimateVigil, #John Lennon, #PanditShreeramG.Devasthali, #The Beatles, #Warren Senders