Words so ancient, words so new…

My generation embraced a childhood without television and the internet. Our recreation time was usually divided between reading and the great outdoors, thanks to which we have explored almost limitless worlds both virtual and real.

Storybooks were fun reading and therefore preferred to the mandatory textbooks (except for the Eng. Lit. texts which included short stories, poems, excerpts from novels and were readily devoured to the full even before term commenced!) Other compulsory reading included religious texts and the Bible. Fortunately for me, I had a wise and knowledgeable old nun who taught Sunday School. Instead of telling us to be good and devout and read the Bible every day (sigh!), she sought to introduce the Holy Book in a very different way. She asked us if wanted to read about love and romance (Yes, of course!). Adventure and expeditions (Goes without saying!!). Politics and intrigue? (That too!). Sinful living, idolatry, adultery, the works? (Wow, this was getting interesting – at the risk of our immortal souls and our reputations, we quavered ‘Yessss?’). Well, there was one book that had it all – the Bible. We groaned. There just had to be a catch. But our curiosity was aroused and we poked our noses between the covers to discover the wonder and the reach of the greatest book ever compiled. And yes, we were hooked.

Years passed. The Bibles gathered dust. And I listened, instead, to the short excerpts read out at Mass, sometimes on weekdays but mostly on Sundays. Nothing enticed me to explore further. But then, I was roped in to do the reading which was followed by the Psalm of the day. And I discovered anew my joy in the good book.

The psalms are for me, the most evocative prayers ever written; their reach is tremendous. You will find joy and lamentation, praise and supplication, recognition of God’s bounty and even rebuke for his deafness, commendation for faith and chiding for doubt, a simple conversation or a paean of praise, assurance of mercy and consolation for sorrow, courage to face the unknown and grace for the day, perhaps even the morrow. Yes, the psalms have it all.

The most famous and favourite is the twenty-third: The Lord is My Shepherd. But there is a whole book full; each one a gem, each one appropriate to the need, the moment. And each one is fresh with every encounter.

Today, as thunder rents the vaulted skies and the rain makes fresh the earth, I turn to Psalm 19: The heavens declare the glory of God; the firmament proclaims the work of his hands. And if the rain should prove more than I can handle, there is Psalm 69: Save me, O God, for the waters have risen up to my neck. I have come into deep waters, swept and engulfed by the flood!

I wonder if the Psalmists expected their words to reverberate down the ages till the end of time. For myself, I am simply glad that they did – that they do.

As windy as it can get

‘Where the wind comes from, where the wind goes,

Nobody knows, nobody knows.’

It’s a little over a year since I started my blog and the monsoons are here to remind me. There is nothing quite like the changeover between seasons to bring back memories. And as the wind blows furiously through the wide open windows, making the curtains billow in ever more manic choreography, I think about all those metaphorical winds that we encounter in our lives: the winds of change, ill winds, winds that pummel, sowing the wind (and reaping the whirlwind!), winds that clear the air, winds that blow away the cobwebs of the mind.

Today, when one hears the phrase ‘harnessing the wind’ one thinks of clean technology and alternatives to traditional methods of power generation. Those giants of folklore and the enemy of Don Quixote are coming into their own as they begin their march along the landscape, as we bid to blow breath by breath with nature.

There are also winds which generate a tremendous power within our own lives. Sometimes the winds are gentle, wafting us along in the comfortable phases where problems are small and the pleasures are many; sometimes the wind is buoyant, lifting us up so that we soar to heights beyond our wildest dreams; stronger winds, presaging stormy weather, buffet us about but do no real damage; sometimes the winds are a hurricane, spinning us around and out of control, creating havoc in mind and heart. Sometimes the wind dies down altogether and we are mindful of its absence wondering when it will return and how. Yes, the wind and its ways teach us to know the good from the bad, predict the storm, prepare for it and weather it through – a lesson that we sometimes ignore to our own peril, in nature and in life.

Winds blowing through the years also blow in our direction the friends we meet and make along the way. Some blow on, some stay providing the windbreak that we all need. Today, a message from such a friend blew into my box; it consoled and encouraged at a time when the gusts in my life have been strong and have left me struggling for balance. It is a poem by Howard Goodman:

Dreams
I've dreamed many dreams that never came true,
I've seen them vanish at dawn.
But I've realized enough of my dreams, thank God,
To make me want to dream on.

Prayers
I've prayed many prayers, when no answers came,
Though I waited so patient and long,
But answers came to enough of my prayers
To make me keep praying on.

Trust
I've trusted many a friend who failed
And left me to weep alone,
But I've found enough of my friends to be true
To make me keep trusting on.

Generosity
I've sown many seeds that fell by the way
For the birds to feed upon,
But I've held enough golden sheaves in my hands
To make me keep sowing on.

Life
I've drained the cup of disappointment and pain
And gone many days without song,
But I've sipped enough nectar from the roses of life
To make me want to live on.

And my favourite quotes with a ‘windy’ flavour? ‘The wind can fell an oak but it cannot break a reed’ and ‘We cannot direct the wind but we can adjust the sails!’ Proverbs that inspire, proverbs that show us how we can live with and harness the wind!

Growl and Squeak

As I revive my very rusty keyboard skills, I am taken back in time to all those occasions when they were intermittently resurrected to accompany congregations and rag-tag choirs in two different parishes.

We had the loveliest little reed organ, in our parish church, with the sweetest sound. One needed to coordinate hands moving horizontally on the keyboard with feet pumping the pedals in vertical motion, but the resultant melody rewarded the most basic of skills with an almost professional output. Coaxed by the musician priest in our parish, I reluctantly graduated from bashing the school piano with the mandatory daily rendering of Chopsticks and the Devil’s March as we processed to class from assembly. He wrote the music, taught me the chords and the fingering and encouraged me to practice and, hopefully, improve. It also helped that he sang like an angel and while he led from the pulpit, I played confidently, comfortably hidden away behind a handy pillar and out of view of the congregation. The church used to be packed to the doorways in those days. These are some of my happiest memories. The priest is no more, but the music is still with me.

Then, I grew up, married and moved. A new home, a new parish, a new priest and the time of electronic keyboards – just plug in and play! The parish had been established for some time but the church structure was still in the making, so what we had was four walls topped with corrugated roofing. The congregations was somewhat rustic in comparison to my earlier parish, and I soon found myself playing to a tempo that galloped in contrast to the more sedate accompaniment that I had been schooled in. Buoyant and hearty would be an apt description! No matter how loud or slow the accompaniment, the congregation forged ahead in happy unison and full voice to the pace that they enjoyed. I was younger, my fingers more flexible and I soon learnt to keep up!! I was joined by a violinist and a guitarist and together with the lead vocalist, who thankfully also had a lovely voice, the music of the liturgy became an event we all looked forward to. Tucked away in memory are the Nativity and Easter vigil services, when voices soared to heaven under the stars, at the open air services. I also remember the monsoons when an umbrella had to be unfurled over the keyboard to save it from the rain coming through the holey roof. (Sorry, bad pun!) We enjoyed the sublime and the sometimes ridiculous and took it all in our stride.

Then, once again, a change of residence. This time, the parish had no need of my keyboard skills and they lay dormant for over twenty years. Other occupations and distractions kept me busy. Today, as I rediscover the keyboard in its newest avatar, with a variety of ‘bells and whistles’ at my disposal, and grope my way through key signatures, timing and tempo, I am reminded of how often I have had to adjust and readjust to the range enjoyed by the lead singer and congregation – too low and they growl, too high and they squeak. Singing is supposed to be all about the music and the melody, but one gets to encounter many unexpected sounds in the repertoire! Ultimately, it all comes right on the day. Nine times out of ten. Fingers crossed.

From all my experience, two things have remained with me: it is the splendid music of the liturgy that holds me in thrall to my faith – a tradition that has been handed down from generations and rises like incense to God. What a legacy! And the other is that, with encouragement, even a meagre talent can bloom!

The Grass is Still Green

I am not a Facebook aficionado, but one has to keep up with the times and the news of family and friends, so I have joined the herd. I check in occasionally to see what is happening, but most times I forget that it is there until an email pops into my box reminding me of messages, birthdays and ‘friend requests’. The other day a more unusual message met the eye – my photo had been tagged. I followed the link, so helpfully provided, to find that a young friend had labeled me as being ‘very rich’. Annoyance gave way to humour. But then humour gave way to introspection. How do others really see us? How do we see ourselves?

When the majority of our people are without shelter, clothes, proper food, education and are denied much of their due and when I have all these then, by comparison, I am certainly well-off.

I have a loving and supportive family and a small but close and understanding group of friends whom I can turn to when in need and that is wealth indeed.

I have enjoyed the benefit of an excellent education which means that I am employable and can earn enough to put jam on the bread and butter. As the billboard outside the Anglican Church says: ‘When you know that you have enough, you are rich.’

I have also enjoyed my rights as a citizen of my country with freedom and without fear, albeit with some hassles which now appear insignificant when viewed against a comparative backdrop. This means that I am certainly better off than those who need to do interminable battle for what is their entitlement.

I have kicked off my senior citizen year with my health and faculties in good order (by my standard at least!). And that is an immeasurable blessing.

Though there is much I would like to change – I have known insecurity and I have known grief - at this point in time, it is obvious to me that the grass is still green on my side of the fence.

Therefore, I am not just rich, but very rich indeed. Thank you, my young friend, for reminding me.

It’s on the tip of my mind!

For most things irrelevant (and irreverent) I have an excellent memory – almost photographic. But when it comes to names it falls embarrassingly short. So very often, a friend, an acquaintance, a relative will bump into me, faces will light up in mutual recognition and the other will say, ‘Hi, Wendy, how are you?’ and I will respond appropriately while all the time searching frantically in the attics of my mind for the name that matches the face. Sometimes, I do come up with a name but invariably it is the wrong one – a name for a sister, a brother or a lookalike!

Friends soon got to know and helped me out by stating their name clearly as in, ‘Hi, Wendy, Elaine, how are you?’ What a relief! But for the most part, I am left groping, and so I employ a defense mechanism – I develop an association, a kind of mental image, with the name. Michael is an archangel, Rose is a flower, Oscar as in the awards, Clementine as in the song, Caesar is a Roman emperor, Patrick is definitely Irish, Henry is, metaphorically speaking, the one with six wives, and so on. This works well when you are speaking of the person to a third party, because you have time to flip through the album of all the ‘pictures’ you have created. But when you are confronted by the person and require instant recall, the situation can still be fraught.

I could never remember our Parish Office Assistant’s name. I knew it, but I could never remember it. So, I created a word picture (as usual) and the association was with an American President. One day, when I was in the office with him, I was going through the mental list: Lincoln Abraham (no), Washington George (no), Adams John (no), Jefferson Thomas (no), Jackson Andrew (no) – oh dear! And then I hit it. Of course! Franklin as in Benjamin and Roosevelt! So happy was I that I exclaimed aloud, ‘That’s it! Franklin!’ The office assistant, who had his nose in the Parish register, jumped out of his seat: ‘What happened?’ Sheepishly, I replied, ‘Nothing. I just remembered your name.’ Frequent encounters ensure that I no longer have a problem when I meet him, but he always gives me a wary smile, nevertheless.

Now that I am older, memory lapses are more acceptable and I take full advantage, ‘Take pity on my grey hair, and remind me once again, your name is?’ Being a senior citizen allows for discounts in more than one area, as I am delighted to discover.

Now, where on earth did I leave my keys?

An Angel before Breakfast

Christmas is a time that resonates with angel presence and angel song. And ‘angel crochet’ too. Many moons ago, in preparation for the season, I had decided upon angels as my motif and was so delighted at the outcome that I broke out in print (I write better than I sing!). Once again, angels are the reason that I write.

Much has happened. Seasons have come and gone, and my lovely husband who so delighted in my crochet is no longer with me. Bereft of his presence and his enthusiasm for all things Christmas, I saw no reason to take up hook and needle. Nothing inspired. Nothing jogged mind or hand.

Till now.

A niece, struggling with a pattern, called for help. I read the instructions, thinking that a hint here or there might help to set her on track. But the directions intrigued me and, before I realised it, I had pulled out hook and thread and the angel formed beneath my hands – tiny, adorable, precious.

One angel completed. Then, almost without volition, a second joined the first and a third was well on its way, as my fingers moved automatically in remembered rhythm to form the stitches. I could see my husband’s eyes lighting up and feel his joy on being presented with these harbingers of Christmas, already present in summertime! I always needed to start this early to get my quota ready by December.

Once again, I sit in the early morning hours, cup of tea at elbow and hook and thread in hand. Each day, I will crochet an angel before breakfast while memories play back in my mind: memories at the same time happy and sad. And, while we cannot bring back the gladness of the past, we can take forward and share the remembered joy.

I am indeed indebted to angels – heavenly, human and crochet!

The picture in the frame

At four floors up, our hospital ward provides us a bird’s eye view of the surroundings. I use the phrase quite literally: two sets of pigeons are roosting on the AC fans outside the windows. One pair is sitting on eggs while the other is nursing two hatchlings. And, since hubby’s bed is near the window, we share the same lookout.

The view spans the hospital backyard and the by-lanes and buildings beyond. On the nearer horizon, is a wide and heavy gateway. Strong pillars support an ornate horizontal beam – too narrow to be a canopy, too broad to be termed a strip. And as the scenes of life unfold, this gateway provides a temporary surround to an ever shifting tableau.

Caught within the frame, today, were five schoolgirls, laden backpacks in place but uniforms askew, chatting animatedly. They were replaced by a young boy walking an exuberant puppy, the red of the collar and leash a bright contrast to the puppy’s firm cream coat. After a small hiatus, the ‘frame’ was filled by a man trundling a barrel on a handcart. He was succeeded by a gaggle of local matrons, gaudily attired in nylon saris, on their way to the shops in the maze of by-lanes that characterize the locality. A couple of nurses going off duty walk swiftly through. Two little boys persuade their bicycles forward, the training wheels providing unnecessary traction. A young man, eyes fixed on the paper in hand, pauses to get his bearings. He accosts a couple of gents entering ‘stage left’. A short conversation later, they go their divergent ways.

In the afternoon, the ‘frame’ remains empty. It casts a shadow on the road below, lending a watchful tranquility to this somnolent time of day. Even the inanimate deserves a siesta!

Come evening, the light fails gradually into sunset. In slow motion ‘still life’, the vegetable vendor lays out his produce, while sparrows peck at the seeds and leaves – their final scrounge for the day.

Each moment presents new pictures for the viewing, a little bit of detail against the larger canvas in the background and a welcome distraction from the ward within; it provides the opportunity to speculate and daydream and weave a little fiction of my own.

I have no talent with brush and paint, but if ever an artist needed inspiration, he – or she – would find it here; a sketch already composed and framed!