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