This is a print (the photo doesn't do it justice). Several colors are layered on top of each other, with various shapes. It looks like an ocean, with whales and fish swimming through it. The print has a home now in Caen, France because Angele Guitton wanted to bring it home with her, after visiting us. So far Elias has artwork hanging in the UAE, America, Qatar, and now France!
One of the greatest things about coming to Qatar as expats was that my son's art teacher took an interest in his piqued interest in art. Gabriel Deerman, his 7th grade teacher, saw a new kid with autism at the school who needed to better understand the routines of the classroom. Elias was calling out random answers, looking a little bewildered and confused with all the new kids and demands encircling around him. All of a sudden he was in a new school, with no aide, and hearing several different languages and accents. Mr. Deerman approached me, and asked if he could work with Elias after school for an hour a week--on a one-on-one level. The results of that tutelage after one and a half years have been extraordinary. I would even say transforming. Blogpost of Elias being exhibited last year in a museum here: Our Picasso's Art Exhibition
Every child needs to know and understand how to channel their gifts. Yet often times they need a person to help excavate those talents--to nurture and coax them out. When you have a child with special needs, there is a constant ache/hope that someone will understand, talk, and invite them into their world. Gabriel has helped build a bridge for Elias, showing him how to walk across a river where previously there were more gaps and divides. Elias now thinks of himself as an artist, a creator, who is not timid to try new mediums or launch in other directions. As he told me at home a few months ago, "I want our house to always smell like art."Blogpost of Elias when he began his artwork last year: Introducing our Picasso
Elias's interest in art is not necessarily sketching or drawing, the more traditional way, but it is experimenting, improvising with mediums to make surprisingly beautiful creations. As I view his artwork, I am learning to see through another lens. His art voyage has given me a new appreciation for abstract art, to express oneself without necessarily trying to produce images. Yet other likenesses and representations are conveyed in unanticipated ways. Unpredicted patterns, textures, colors, and shapes emerge on his canvases. Elias's artwork reminds me of some kinds of jazz, where music becomes unmetered, but there is a spontaneous balance that magically appears. You can feel the pulse of another place that is familiar, but simultaneously different.
I have gone to art museums all over the world, feeling moved by famous artists' expressions, but I have never been as fond of modern and abstract art. I usually bypassed those rooms--rushing to other areas where I felt more connected--that I understood. Elias has taught me to look a little deeper, and see what the abstract is trying to express. What is the story that is unraveling in the painting, even though there are no concrete images? Just as having a child with special needs has forced me to think in diverse ways, I now see art deeper, more broadly. While listening to jazz, I now enjoy hearing the thrill of experimenting and improvisation. I do not solely live by prescribed scripts anymore; I delight in the spontaneous and extemporaneous. To watch Elias create has given me a wider, more expansive view of what beauty really means and is defined by. He has found a gift. And I have discovered a new way to perceive the world, people, and my son.
When he says, "I want our house to smell like art," I interpret that as meaning: he wants our home to be a place where we are always creating, learning, exploring in new ways. Just as Georgia O"Keeffe said, "I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn't say in any other way--things I had no words for." Hopefully, we can help steer our son to show us what he is trying to say about the world he sees--the deep things in his heart that he does not have the words to say. That is the best kind of creation.
Credit for the video goes to Megan Hansen at MeganjHansen.blogspot.com
If you want to know more about Gabriel Deerman, he and his wife, Ashley, are starting a new artistic adventure in Tamworth, Canada (between Toronto and Montreal) called Salmon River Studios. They are moving back to Canada to begin some creative and educational opportunities, combining two barns for studios and classrooms in a beautiful 50+ acres setting. Gabriel wants to continue to help children with disabilities discover new gifts (and for their parents to learn to see in new ways).
April is "Autism Awareness Month." You can travel the world over to see iconic buildings--lit up in blue neon lights that give tribute to those families and people who deal with autism. In 2007 the United Nations instigated an "awareness" campaign. Many people have organized venues to heighten "the awareness" of this neurodevelopmental disorder--especially with the current research showing that 1 out of 68 children are born with autism. But addressing autism with a call to be "more aware" is not enough anymore.
For example, on April 2 for International Autism Day, Apple galvanized efforts to change perceptions of autism--with some of its new apps. Instead, they seek to to call it: Autism Acceptance Month. I wholeheartedly applaud their efforts. Yet I would add that if the statistics are so high for this developmental disorder, we must not only be "aware" or "accept," but we should friendship. There is a ladder in relationships: first to be aware of another human being, then accept them, but the next step is true friendship. It's time for the world to climb a little higher.
Eleven years ago we learned that our dear three year old son was one of those children in the statistics, and we reservedly, reluctantly started the "autism journey." Blogpost from last year: My Autism Mountain Since I have five older children, the departure from my former parenting experience has been been filled with tutoring turns. I always tell people that I would change the diagnosis for our son, but not for us. He has been our mentor for learning some of the most important lessons of life--how to forgive with no grudges, sing with uncommon gusto and reverence, love boundlessly, to unfailingly, without trepidation, try new endeavors--to just name a few.
Peter, his brother, and a friend, Chase Moore, playing the uke last summer with Elias. They are giving a concert and singing "You are My Sunshine" together. Kids with autism can learn new things--perform, create, tell hilarious jokes. More than anything, they will never judge you, but will love you unconditionally--perhaps with the greatest loyalty you have ever known.
If you would like to adopt a new friend who has autism, I will share a few observations that might help you understand your new friends a little better:
Your new friend can do much more than you think they can!
When Elias was about five or six years old, we were taking our other children skiing in Utah, Sundance Ski Resort, to be exact. Our priority and main undertaking of the day? To teach Elias how to go down a bunny hill, gliding up on the rope tow. After a few times of being pulled up on the row tow in the morning, with everyone's arms being fatigued, my husband suggested another option. How about trying the small ski lift? I winced. There was no way, I thought, that he could possibly even get on the lift. He would fall, the lift would hit him in the head. The skis would tangle up. I knew that option would never work. But with some coaxing, my husband finally convinced me to have him try. Result? Elias was flying down the small ski mountain with his brothers a few minutes after he skillfully got off the ski lift.
Never to stop at one level of success with our son, my husband suggested that we try the regular ski lift. Again, I cringed. Couldn't we just be content with this small ski lift? But his older brothers wanted to accompany him. Everyone assured me they would be right next to him. Again, Elias surpassed my expectations. By the end of the afternoon of skiing, he was soaring down the ski slopes, with his brothers and dad by his side.
I looked at him on his last run of that monumental day, stunned at what I had seen transpire in a few short hours. It was a day I will never forget. As a parent with a child with autism, it changed me. I realized that I was the one holding him back. He was capable of so much more than I thought possible. To see him enthusiastically ski down the slopes with his family was, well, transforming to me. I saw his smile and joy as he bounded down the mountain. And I vowed to not judge his abilities again--to see the broader view. I promised to try to give him all the experiences I could to reach his potential. I knew, in that moment of seeing him ski down that mountain, that there was so much more depths to excavate than I could dream or imagine.
Often people will ask me how to talk to Elias, but I would only say, "Just be a friend." Listen with added sensitivity. If you are a parent, encourage your children to invite others who are out of their normal circle of friends. Strive not to only to be "aware" or "accept." Move to the next level--a higher ground. Be a friend. And if you feel fearful that you will not know what to say, trust your heart. Your new friend will teach you how.
Skiing with our son, Elias, a few years after he learned how to ski. He is just one of "the gang."
I learned a long time ago that he is never fearful to try to new things. He enthusiastically jumps into new waters, without fear or reservation. This is Elias after I learned to get out of the way, about age six.
Elias, sandboarding down a sand mountain in Doha. I love his fearlessness and courage to try new things. His joy and excitement is infectious. This is a picture of him this past winter. No ski hills, but hey, you gotta bloom where you are planted--even if it is in the sand! Blogpost: Celebrating Sand
This week in Doha, Qatar, Elias and his friend, Megan, at the Sailing Regatta Club--gliding away in the gusts and gales of the turquoise Persian Gulf.. Last year in a sailing class, he steered me an hour away from Doha to an island. I think I already knew he can leap over my paltry expectations, but somehow I still get surprised at his successes. I often wonder what people would be like when we do not limit them--especially people with disabilities.
As my good friend, Dick Jacobsen, says about raising typical children, "Move on over, and get out of your kids' way." I am trying, every day, to move out of Elias's way. I have learned that I do not want to block him because he never ceases to amaze me. That is one of the startlingly glorious things about raising a child with autism. There are points in the journey when you realize that you could never have predicted or imagined their successes. I try to cheer by the sidelines, getting out of the steering controls. I have no doubt he will continue to navigate many more beautiful places for me to see--in his heart and in the world. I am hoping that others will not only want to be aware of him, or even accept him. But they will see this amazing person who can be their friend.
Laughing with Jidon, my 81 year old Cambodian grandmother in Thailand, Her story is in the blogpost: Remembering the Refugee Faces Picture by Dr. Lucinda Bateman
With the recent announcements from the First Presidency and Sister Linda K. Burton, General Relief Society president of the LDS Church, to launch an effort to serve refugees, my heart leapt with joy. In the 1980’s I worked in three different refugee camps--in Thailand, the Philippines, and for a short time in Palestine/Israel. Their faces, sometimes bewildered, but often times surprisingly happy, still reverberate within me. Many of their examples and stories continue to tutor me when my heart needs to be mentored or turned. Sister Linda K. Burton voiced her plea to help those who are displaced in the world when she asked us to reflect, “What if their story was my story?” I clearly remember many refugee stories--people who are some of my beloved friends. But I also thought of a visionary man, Elder Marion D. Hanks, a man who has a remarkable story of his work with refugees. In the early 1980’s, he observed perilous conditions in Southeast Asia where he was serving as an Area Authority in Hong Kong. He too yearned for the church to become involved in the refugee effort of that decade (specifically in Southeast Asia) and thus, a few of us were called, as missionaries, to teach and work in refugee camps. However, we were absolutely not allowed to proselyte or even mention the church in any way. I was a missionary, but was strictly forbidden to talk about the church. We developed an agency within the refugee camps that helped the refugees as they waited for their sponsored countries to accept them. Working with other agencies like Catholic Relief Services, the Red Cross, and government and UN officials, we learned how to build a program that was highly respected. We were young, mostly inexperienced, but no one told us we couldn’t do anything. And Elder Hanks gave us all the confidence and support to make it happen. Within the space of about ten years, thousands of refugees were taught temporal and practical skills in Thailand, Hong Kong, and two camps in the Philippines. As Marion D. Hanks, who instigated missionaries to work in refugee camps under the auspices of the UNHCR (United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees) taught us in the 1980’s: “Serve with no strings attached--without looking for any credit. Our purpose is to serve in a way that exemplifies pure religion. As you teach and visit with the refugees, you are sitting in proxy for the Savior.” Elder Hanks further instructed, “You are on a historical errand, and God is depending on you to give solace, comfort,and love to our brothers and sisters who have gone through a refiner’s fire.” None of us would ever be the same. How could we be? We taught them English, but also practical skills to hopefully assist and benefit them in their sponsored countries. We had fun together, and tried to help them forget their current circumstances--with staged fashion and community shows, fairs, and mock job and bank interviews. There was a lot of comic relief. We reviewed the lesson with our translator before we presented it to the class; there was a great trust we developed together. We tucked in jokes, songs, stories to entertain as we taught them about how to apply for a checking account or how to use a vacuum cleaner. Sometimes as I would teach, I unintentionally would say something that would open a flood of emotion, and then just like dominoes, several rows of faces would be dripping with tears. They would talk, and I would listen, and my tears would stream with them. I had not graduated from college yet, but attempted to handle caseloads of psychotherapy every day. I knew that listening to their stories meant more than anything I could say or teach them. One day we pretended to have 335 Vietnamese refugees on a plane, with me as their attentive stewardess (of course, none of them had ever been on a plane and it generated many roars of laughter as they all sat in their designated rows). We taught, with our translator, holding microphones, in large pavilions or sheds, with only a roof and a cement floor. Sometimes there would be 1000 students at one time, sitting on their mats, waiting for me to teach them with my translator. Women breast fed babies, and brought their children to listen too. Men, with anxious faces, tried to grasp a new language and imagine the country they were bringing their family to. I taught Buddhist monks who invited me to their self-made temples in the refugee camp. Older people, who had never held a pencil in their hands, were my students too. We visited their make-shift homes, which were large sheds with three sides--several families living together. Hammocks blowed breezily, as children played and ran in the dirt around them. I loved teaching the refugees in those big sheds, but the best visits were often times when we sat one-on-one, and they could bear their soul or just talk about their dreams. I visited hundreds of those homes, hearing of how they had experienced Pol Pot’s genocide or their experiences on the open seas. We communicated to them through translators that spoke Vietnamese, Cambodian, Lao, and Hmong. I could speak Mandarin Chinese to them, if they were ethnic Chinese. Every day my heart was ripped out, as I heard their tales of trauma and torture--of how they had seen their families slaughtered before their eyes or their women raped on the seas. But we also laughed, long and hard, even forgetting momentarily where we all were: in a refugee camp. We sang, with glee and even happiness--they showing to me as a young 22 year old what it means to survive and go forward when life looks drearily bleak. I was their "teacher,"--a revered position in Asian culture. Although I was young, naive, and mostly ignorant of their struggles, they loved me anyways. However, if I were to be honest, their stories, lives, examples have fueled me all these years. Actually, they were my teachers--on how to forgive, garner courage, generously give (they frequently gave me their bananas from their food rations or invited us to dinner with their meager provisions), and to gloriously laugh. Often we unconsciously stopped time with our jokes. As I look back on those times, laughter was one of the most important things we gave each other. We needed it. Recently I returned to Southeast Asia, after being gone for three decades. But their stories and faces have never been too far from my heart. Some of them I tracked down later in the US, curious to see how they were faring in their sponsored country. A few months ago, while in Southeast Asia, I visited a prison and killing fields where Cambodians were tortured and killed before their family and friends. I swayed on the same open seas around Vietnam where my friends had experienced abuse and neglect of every kind as “boat people.” The trip made me confront images of my mind, their stories--the experiences of refugee faces that have never been too far away. As one Cambodian refugee said, "It would take a river of ink to tell our stories." I am grateful that for a short time, at least, I was able to be in the presence of some of the most wonderful people I have ever known--in refugee camps. After I recently saw their killing fields and the places they had fled, the memories of our laughs and tears streamed together. Many faces and stories unravelled--reminders of their tutoring me on how to be human when others have forgotten how. Whether they knew it or not, they helped me grow up. Because of them, I am comfortable with women who wear burqas or men in Buddhist robes. They taught me that no one is a stranger because I know both of our stories need to be intertwined. Elder Hanks’ vision to rescue the Southeast Asian refugees altered my life, and has given them a refuge in my heart and homes all these years. When I heard Elder Patrick Kearon speak a few days ago in General Conference, my old friend’s voice intermingled in the recent talk about refugees. Elder Kearon ended with a probing thought, “The moment of being a refugee does not define them, but our response to them will help to define us.” Elder Hanks was teaching the same principle 36 years ago in the April 1980 General Conference when he said, “There are others, nearer at hand, who struggle with problems with which we must also be concerned. . . . We must have “individual concern for the strangers among us, resident or passing through.. . .” In other words, refugees can be far away in remote places, but they can be in close proximity too. It is for us to discern how to help the strangers around us. At the end of Elder Hanks’ life, I called his dear wife, Maxine, and inquired if I could come visit him. I was coming from out of state, and had heard he was suffering from Alzheimer’s Disease. He had always been larger than life: eloquent, wise, inspiring. She gently cautioned me, “He may not know you. Sometimes he is lucid, and other times he is not. But I am sure he would like for you to come.” As I walked into his hospital room that day, I could perceive as I looked into his eyes that he indeed did remember me. We spoke, with nods, and me filling up the conversation. At the end of our visit, I asked him because he had always been my teacher (and I had some of my teenage boys standing next to me), “Tell me, Elder Hanks, what is the most important thing we can do in our lives?” In his true sage-like way, without missing a beat, he looked at me with his penetrating eyes, and said, “You already know. Service.”
Anniversary, 2016 in a cove, with sand all around us.
Enjoying the views of possibilities in the desert
Showing my son, Jonathan, a new definition of expansiveness.
Since I am wanderer these days as an expat, I am seeing with new eyes--colors of the world I have never seen before--in every possible hue of beige in Qatar. In Adam Gopnik's travel memoir, Paris to the Moon, he defines two different kinds of travelers: "There is the kind who goes to see what there is to see and sees it, and the kind who has an image in his head and goes out to accomplish it. The first visitor has an easier time, but I think the second one sees more. He is constantly comparing what he sees to what he wants, so he sees with his mind, and maybe even with his heart, or tries to." Being an expat in Qatar has taught me about the importance of opening the possibilities of seeing new kinds of beauty. The catch? Just as Gopnik states, you have to have the optimistic perspective that there is splendor in expansive beiges. As a traveler, keep a hopeful image in your mind as you journey, and the sights will be more scenic, even majestic. Below are some paintings and a video that prove my point:
Taupe, beige, tan, brown, buff or oatmeal colored, all those neutral colors that can blend and blur together are surprisingly beautiful in a desert. In my time of being an expat in Qatar, I have learned to appreciate the desert on another level, and even the occasional bloom in the spring. The sun looms larger here on a flat horizon when there are no vertical slopes to peek over. The ever widening vastness beckons that there are endless possibilities because you see no obstacles or hindrances. Everything is possible in a beige desert, as long as you have your water and occasional shade--just as the wandering nomads of deserts have always known. Blogpost of Celebrating Sand!
Last winter our friend, Steve Chamberlain, captured some of these scenes with his paintbrush. My husband took him on an "off the road' trip. When they returned, Steve painted almost non-stop for a week. Here are just a few of his paintings. You can see more about him at the blog: Residence Artist in Doha, Qatar or check out his website:http://www.stevesartwork.com/#/murals/
Steve, who had never painted in the Middle East, was enthralled with how to express his new love of painting more neutral, muted tones. The desert can open up a new level of creativity. Is it the boundlessness of the borders, the opening of a new world, seeing with new eyes? Perhaps it is the shedding of former thoughts/traditions that the sand has blown away? This picture hangs in my living room. It is not finished here, but I love the sunrise, with the hint of rainclouds in it.
For many Qataris, a tent or a compound of tents is how they live during the winter months here. If you go out to the shorelines around Qatar, there are many people who spend the more temperate winter months by the beach. I love this picture that Steve painted of a tent in a windstorm. The stakes appear that they are anchored in the shifting sand, even in the billowing wind.
The beautiful shoreline of Zeekreet, Qatar
Check out Megan Hansen's Video of "Off the Road." meganjhansen.blogspot.com Megan captures the sublime serenity of the beautiful, beige desert.
Landing in the Hyderabad and Mumbai airports, I was flabbergasted with the new world of India that was seemingly awash with more color than I had ever seen before. It was like walking into a bright technicolor movie, after watching black and white Charlie Chaplin movies for days. The rugs, decor, art, markets with brightly stacked fruit and vegetables were all painted with new combinations of colors I had never seen before. The saris (the women's dresses) were dazzlingly brilliant. Their choices of bright, bold colors in their saris seemed to be confident walking exclamations--that they were women who were beautiful, but also tremendously capable. It was like God had given extra colors on a palette to India, and everyone embraced the vibrancy of their surroundings.
I have heard that India is the Italy of Asia, and I have to agree. Art in every form, texture, and design were ubiquitous--even on the henna-sketched arms of the women. A new sense of wonder and surprise awaits the visitor in India. But it was the voyage to the small rural villages, communities of people who have lived together for hundreds of years, that captivated me the most in India.
A village unites together to make it better for everyone who lives there. One of my favorite things we did in preparation for the wedding that I attended in India was that we divided up about 20 people. We then completely canvased the village of 3,000 people to invite people to the wedding. It is tradition to invite EVERY single person in the village to the wedding. No exceptions!!!!! Every village needs to breathe this air of inclusion and acceptance. I trudged through the village for about three-four hours, ending with an electric black-out. I had already met many of the people of the village before the wedding that was the next day.Ha! It was so personal, so loving. In the video below, you can see the people waiting outside their homes, as we give them their invitation. Also, the woman of the house receives turmeric and saffron dots on their forehead and throat. When you invite somebody, you put a red dot between their eyes to bless them. Also, you touch their throats with saddle wood. Often times they would then "bless you back," by touching your forehead too. It was only done to the women. It also means that they hope the spouses will live a long time, and long lives will be the blessing of the new couple. When a woman is widowed, she no longer wears the traditional red dot between her eyes, her bangles (bracelets are removed), and there is no more mendi (henna-decorated hands and arms).
Video by Megan Hansen at meganjhansen.blogspot.com
All of the expats I have met in Qatar who are from India yearn to return to their kindred village someday. They know they are in Qatar for a certain time because currently there is no employment for them in their villages in India. However, they all plan about the time when they will certainly, undoubtedly go back to their village, their place in this world. They speak of the mango groves or the way everyone comes together for ceremonies in a wistful way, pausing, and then looking away as in a dream. And I understand why. The camaraderie and support in those small Indian villages, emotionally, economically, and religiously, were palpably felt, even to an outsider. The multi-generational layers of history and reinforcement, that has been given for centuries, was beautiful to not only observe, but feel.
A statue of Ghandi in front of the school, reminding them of the power of villages that he preached.
When Ghandi wrote his autobiography, he elaborated continuously on the power of a village, a network of people that daily barter, teach, celebrate, and work together. He wrote, "I would say if the village perishes, India will perish too. India will be no more. Her mission of the world will get lost." The exchanges in ideas and traditions are the unique power in a village--giving an identity and place to practice how to live. Within a small perimeter of space, villages of people live all over the world. They gossip, love, forgive, and learn from one another.
Ashok Choudhary, a young 22 year old from Adasarlapadu speaks of growing up in his village. (I went to for his sister's wedding. Wedding blog post coming), "My parents are the presidents of the village of about 3,000 people. They wake up at 5:00 am, and have coffee together, talk, clean the house, and then the people of the village come from about 7-10 am, talking about water problems, schools, sometimes about any petty crimes that have been committed (like a bicycle being stolen). There are no police, fire stations, library, waste pickup. All of those things are settled in the village." He continued, "The only people who are brought in from outside of the village is when there is an election, and the ballot boxes are monitored. But that is all. My parents were elected two years ago from the villagers to mediate problems and work for the collective good. Everyone in the village knows that they have the best intentions for the families and individuals in the village. Everyone knows my parents are fair, and they respect them."
Again, I was struck by the women, especially the older women who were beautiful and radiant. Their desire to propel their loved ones forward was inspiring. Here is Ashok, with one of his grandmothers.
Ashok spoke of his father and mother's involvement in the village, "Although my father is about 50 (he doesn't know exactly his birthday because no one ever kept track, and it is only my generation that celebrates birthdays and anniversaries), he has been settling people's problems for about 20 years, all the time I was growing up--even when he was not a president of the village. He loves politics. It doesn't make my parents any money, but they love their village. They will never leave, and will never go anywhere else. They know nothing else. These are their people, and there are no enemies to them. If they have a difference of opinion, they just proceed with their life like nothing happened. "
Listening to Ashok speak when we are both back in Doha, I look at the poised, educated young Indian man who calls me "Mom." He tells me in English with no hint of an accent, "When I was 16, my parents urged me to go to Hyderabad to go to college and learn English. I told them I didn't want to leave the village. I pled for them not to make me go. But they insisted that I should leave the village and learn things they do not know or will ever know. Reluctantly, I went to the city of Hyderabad, to go to school, and then worked for Google. I relentless worked on my English. But I will go back to the village, maybe when I am 40 or 50. I will be like my parents, and try to give back. I want my village to have a health clinic, a library. I want other kids in the village to have the opportunities I have had. But so many things I want to stay the same in the village."
Going to the village of Adasarlapadu has triggered many reflections about the power of a village. Although Adasarlapadu has little aspects of modern living that I know, this small village has raised a remarkable young man--one who is tremendously intelligent, creative, driven, funny. He gave us a gift when he invited us to come inside his home, his village. It was obvious to the observer of the many people who had made deposits to this young man, and how much all children need a village of people to love them. Perhaps most people in Adasarlapaudu are uneducated, even illiterate, but they know how to build and nourish a child. The entire time we were there, many people were checking up on him, asking about him. We were endeared because we were connected to him. The women, especially the women, the aunts, the neighbors, the cousins, and of course, his own mother, have loved a little boy who has become a great young man.
The power of women who bond together in a village to nurture children was amazing in this small Indian village. As Ashok told me about his family and neighbors, I could see the the impact that those early connections have on a small child. Gade Kumari (in the red sari), his aunt, who was more educated that many of his family and village always made sure that she brought clothes and anything to her family and loved ones. Because she knew she had more, she gave more. Ashok said, "She would even go to my school to conference with my teachers. She was my aunt, but I owe much to her for making sure I got a good education. Again, she knew she had been given more, and she gave more.
George Eliot wrote in Adam Bede about living amidst the people of our chosen spheres or villages, "These fellow mortals, every one, must be accepted as they are; you can neither straighten their noses nor brighten their wit, nor rectify their dispositions: and it is these people amongst whom your life is passed--that it is needful that you should . . . love." To see the handprints of a village who has shaped such a wonderful young man was heartening, beautiful to me. That is the power of a village.
The beauty, simple, but yet elegant, was painted, carved, and planted in every corner. The courtyard grounds were painted with elaborate tile-like paintings, splashing color everywhere.
Elias walking up the front entry of a beautiful house that was so well manicured. I wanted to linger for a long time there, smelling the passion fruits, mangoes, and bananas.
Doors were painted, with bright yellow colors to show it was a blessed house.
Since we came for a wedding, we were able to see the preparations for the wedding. Village friends helping to prepare for the wedding of two people from the village who had been sweethearts since childhood. I stayed one night at the bride's home (on the roof), along with many others in the family. The groom lived a few "blocks" away. It was remarkable to see a collective group of people plan for the wedding/ceremony/festival in the small village of 3,000. 4,300 people ended up coming to the wedding.
A young man holding his prize rooster. Indians love their roosters. I heard lots of crowing when I was there in the village.
Animals, goats, sheep, and especially the water buffalo are so important to Indian people. The water buffalo are treated like people, and sometimes they are allowed to wander in the house. Usually, they are kept in the courtyard, right next to the home. They provide the milk, but they are loving pets. They are petted often and watched over.
All the parked bicycles in front of the school.
Young girls who stay in a hostel in the village. Some of them live too far away to pedal home every day after school so they stay in the hotel during the week, and then go home on the weekends.
Getting ready for the wedding party, putting up the tent, and taking away the water buffalos to the field for the night.
Some venders who were selling nuts and homemade candies. There was a complete absence of waste products, no cardboard, hardly a bag in sight. Embarrassing, but true, but we had the only water bottles. Everything was composted. The village was clean, efficient, orderly.
Flowers were everywhere. Ashok says, "Indians believe that they should worship God with flowers."
Going inside a kitchen, I was amazed at the orderliness and beauty of each room in the house.
Some children who are trying to get a peek at the foreigners. The one in the orange and plaid shirt followed me around like a puppy for two days. But he had a face that was easily to love....
A tailor, getting ready to iron some shirts.
A young girl riding home from school, wearing her uniform.
Everyone wanted to get a glimpse of the foreigners. Ashok said only a few people had ever seen a foreigner before. Most had never been to Hyderabad, which is only a few hours away. I am already dreaming of going back too, just like my Indian friends. Are you ready now to go to Adasarlapadu?
Martha preparing some healthy carrot juice with ginger. She was inspirational with her energy and vigor at 74!
I must say that Doha knows how to throw a party for the world to come see. National Qatar Day (every December 18), National Sports Day (the second Tuesday in February), and a weeklong Food Festival in March to celebrate have been just a few events that we expats have enjoyed since moving here. In late March Doha opens three venues for a food festival, The Museum of Islamic Art, Katara and The Pearl, all located on the Persian Gulf Cornish. You can climb in a boat for a few dollars if you want to go to all the locations. But we just went to The Museum of Islamic Art Park, and found plenty to do for one night--even a chance to see a Martha Stewart cooking show.
The food festival brought in chefs from China, Japan, and the US domestic diva herself, Martha Stewart. There was not much advertisement about Martha coming to Doha, hardly a thread of information about her free show in the park. When we got to the small outdoor theatre, there were only about 15 people there, and the show was starting in ten minutes. We were about ten feet from her as she prepared juice, salad, and salmon for us. I must say it was quite amazing to see Martha cook me a small meal. I checked on Martha's blog about her trip to Qatar, and you can see us on picture #42 of 80 at her cooking show. Ha! Martha Stewart Show
You can find other Megan Hansen videos at meganjhansen.blogpost.com
Some of the things people said about her:
"I love Martha, warts and all. "
"You can work forever, and keep on being creative."
Interestingly, one 19 year old young woman said, She has made a business of making our homes more beautiful. And although I know she has an army of people to help her, I am more motivated to make my surroundings more beautiful when I see what she has done."
"Our food options are so much different than when her best selling book, Entertaining, came out in 1982. She has been a big part of that revolution."
"It was great to hear her speak about her family and grandkids. You can tell she really likes being a grandma. I was impressed that her daughter is a vegetarian, and has not made the same dinner for five years."
"I have to say she really knows her "stuff."
Some of the things Martha taught day: "Feed your family good and healthy food. Work at it. Be mindful of what you are eating. Keep being intrigued on how to make meals interesting. When I started this business, we didn't eat such an international diet. For example, now quinoa, a Peruvian grain with lots of protein, is one of my favorite foods--not so 30 years ago. Keep learning from every source about how to be healthy. Celebrate with family and friends the big holidays and the daily dinners. All of the days tied together are important--not just the holidays. Grow herbs and vegetables. Share them with family and friends. Get some chickens. Chop food with three knives of the same size, (yes, three). Don't use a lot of paper towels. Use just one good rag. Compost, Recycle. Enjoy every season to the fullest."
Favorite quotes by Martha: "Doing projects really gives people confidence. Nothing is better than taking the pie out of the oven. What it does for you personally, and for your family's idea of you, is something money cannot buy." "My dream now, in retrospect then, was to be an eclectic knowledge-gathering person--in order to be able to learn and then to teach. And I'm still doing that, so I think I am a teacher." "If you learn something every day, you can teach something new every day."
Thanks, Martha. I never thought of you as a teacher, but I was inspired. I am glad we finally met.
Loy Bonseak, from Cambodia, was 17 years old when he escaped from Pol Pot's army to live in a refugee camp on the Thai border in about 1982. He didn't come back until Cambodia's genocide was over, a few years later. He married his wife when they were both teenagers in the refugee camp, and went to Siem Riep (where Angkor Wat is located) to put their lives together again. Pictured are his wife and three daughters now. The youngest child was adopted when they found her in an orphanage. In my recent travel to Cambodia, I was elated to find Loy who demonstrates a profound resilience--an ability to turn one's life around without bitterness. One Cambodian refugee told me when I asked him about his story when I was in a refugee camp in Thailand in the early 1980's, "It would take a river of ink to tell the sorrow of my people during the time of Pol Pot." Loy is a man, as you can see, who has worked to heal that chapter of his young life. What a delight it was to meet him!
Since I was a small child, the power of storytelling has stretched my resilience, eased my fears, propelled me to have courage, and grown my compassion. I believe the power of a story, whether it is spun with written or oral words, is one of the most important tools in life. In my mind, library, heart, and files, I collect stories. I believe everyone has a story to unravel if we have the patience to listen for it. The stories that we keep in our reservoirs can illuminate and inspire us.. They can rescue us, healing and restoring broken hearts, in the most difficult of atrocities. When they are retold years later, the knowledge of these heroic acts of strength (of character) can shape us, giving us mettle when we hobble or ache. Victor Frankel, a survivor of the Holocaust, who later wrote the famous book, Man's Search for Meaning, kept other prisoners alive with his supply of stories in the concentration camp. He tells the experience of how the memories of his wife's image illuminated him in the most desperate of situations: "As we stumbled on for miles, slipping on icy spots, supporting each other time and again, dragging one anther up and onward, nothing was said, we both knew: each of us was thinking of his wife. Occasionally I looked at the sky, where the stars were fading and the pink light of the morning was beginning to spread behind a dark bank of clouds. But my mind clung to my wife's image, imagining it with an uncanny acuteness. I hear her answering me, saw her smile, her frank and encouraging look. Real or not, her look was then more luminous than the sun which was beginning to rise."
In the darkness of the walls of Auschwitz, Frankel told uplifting stories to his fellow prisoners. When he had the energy, he encouraged them to remember the stories of the people whom they loved. He told them to honor that person in their minds, and that a great flood of love would come to them. Through processing the memories of loved ones and their stories, the concentration camp victims could be elevated to another sphere. As bleak and dim as their external, physical lives were in Auschwitz, Frankel taught them how to live in their minds. He wrote that one could understand love in a new way, "The angels are lost in perpetual contemplation of an infinite glory."
In my travels, I have met men and women of immense fortitude that have given me pause to rethink how I could handle my own difficulties. Some have experienced much tragedy, but they trudge on--loving, forgiving, persevering anyways. One trait that I have noticed about all of the people I have known that motivate me: they excavate, find ways within themselves to contribute to others, making the world a better place. Often times they document it for others that will follow them.
Last June we spent the day with Geert Van Den Gogaert, from Gent, Belgium, owner of Normandy Heroes while we toured around Normandy, France. We were there to see the same places that my father-in-law, H. Smith Shumway had experienced when he landed on June 6, 1944 on Omaha Beach as a young 22 year old (Six weeks later he would be blinded in the push to Paris). I noticed immediately that Geert and I both are "tale seekers," trying to discover stores that have been preserved to illuminate history. On that special day of connecting stories to sacred places, we exclaimed how much stories affect our lives--especially from people who are humble, even obscure. Geert, a professional tour guide who speaks three languages said, "When I go into a town and walk on the streets of Normandy, I try to discover someone with gray hair to tell me about the French Resistance and wartimes. The more gray hair the better!"
In the book, The Road to Character byDavid Brooks, he explores human character, as we juggle with the conflicts of trying to become successful in our careers and in developing traits that inspire us to be better people. He writes about the struggle we humans have between "resume virtues" and "eulogy virtues", qualities that will live on with us after we die. Brooks quotes Dave Jolly, a veterinarian, who sums up a thoughtful life: "The heart cannot be taught in a classroom intellectually, to students mechanically taking notes. . . . Good, wise hearts are obtained through lifetimes of diligent effort to dig deeply within and heal lifetimes of scars. . . . The job of a wise person is to swallow the frustrations and just go on setting an example of caring and digging and diligence in their own lives."
Brooks writes eloquently about how good people become better in his book The Road to Character--how they developed traits to endure and love anyways. Yet I found myself wanting to hear other stories of unknown people, who have withstood tremendous sorrows and been victorious. Here are only a few accounts from people whom I have met in the last months in my travels. I am not related to them. Maybe I will see them again, and then maybe not. But their stories fuel me, urging me to be hopeful--of the great capacity for humans to change, contribute, love, forgive--to be merciful. As Shakespeare wrote in The Merchant of Venice:
"The quality of mercy is not strained.
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.
Upon the place beneath.
It blesseth him that give and him that takes."
I am a life-long "taker"--storing the stories when I am in a drought myself. The famous, renown people surely intrigue me, such as world leaders, generals, writers, humanitarians because I love history. But it is the ordinary person who has persisted, in spite of fears, war, and even genocide that move me to another level. I want to hear their voices too. Perhaps it is because the obscure and unknown voices are so often forgotten, off the grid or map. Yet they too show me that I can hold on; they buoy my faith and spirit. I believe every person has a story, an important tale to tell. In fact, they are the currency of the world.
Dileep Varma, from another village in India, was here with us for a wedding in a small village about four hours from Hyderabad. The woman in the picture is Katavathadu, from Adasarlapadu in the district of Khamman. She is my friend's aunt whom I recently met when I attended a wedding in her small village of about 3,000 people. She is a woman who has known tremendous sorrow and pain, but still has the widest smile. Her home is everyone's home in the village, and she wholeheartedly welcomes any strangers like me. Her garden supplies many with fruit and vegetables. When I learned of her story, I was very moved. The rest of the time I was there at the wedding, I noticed her amidst hundreds of people, especially her joyous smile. She was always smiling. I was humbled to be in her presence. She spoke no English, and undoubtedly had little education. But her ability to withstand a huge blow of sorrow gave me some time for reflection. Her story is below:
When we went to her house, it was very simple, clean, and beautiful. In the living room, there was a large picture of a 13 year old girl in the middle of the shelf. My friend told me that his 13 year old cousin was trying to save her grandmother's life when she was tragically killed. Her grandmother, Katavathadu's mother-in-law, had argued with her son the day before. The mother-in-law was so distraught or angry that she decided to jump in a deep well. When Katavathadu's daughter saw her grandmother trying to jump to her death, she beckoned for her to stop, pulling her away from the well. But her arm was caught, and both slipped to their deaths. Katavathhadu has one remaining daughter. The picture of this brave 13 year old girls is in a prominent place in their home, reminding them of her bravery and love for her grandmother. Katavathadu has not allowed her pain to ruin her life. My friend tells me it is her house that everyone in the village likes to come to. It is where strangers and visitors enjoy coming too. He then commented, "You can see, can't you, that it is the prettiest house in the village?" (Next post about the village, and more pictures of Katavathadu's house).
Some beautifully painted stairs, going up to a rooftop or balcony, where it is like another room in the house. The rooftop is where people gather and sleep in the warm weather under the skies.Plants, fruit trees are everywhere. Katavathadu had made her home into a haven, a place of beauty for all to come. In her anguish, she decided to reach out, embrace, instead of caving to sorrow. A remarkable trait of people who experience tragedy is to welcome people into their lives and heart--even when their own hearts hurt.
Katavathadu in the background, with some passion fruit she had just picked for us.
This is a picture of the Best picnic of my life (blog about Normandy). Here is Bernard, now 85 and Collette Marie, about 78, who live in Normandy, France. Bernard was a 13 year old boy when the Americans came to the Normandy shoreline in 1944. He befriended them, and never forgot the gum and friendship they gave him. His wife, Collette, still lives in a home that is about 300 years old. Bernard has been a farmer all his life. They have the most beautiful apple orchards you have ever seen. You can still see the bullit holes on the outside of the house. I started crying when we left the picnic because he picked up his son in the wheelchair next to him with his strong hands to put him into the car. I didn't know a 84 year old man could do that for his beloved son. But he does, every day. He cuts his food. They laugh at jokes. With my minimal French, these people forever etched their influence on my heart. I visited in their home for about five days, and was a better person when I passed through the gate to go back home.
Here we are at the picnic in Le Tronquay to celebrate Le Fete des Voisins and to honor my father-in-law who helped to liberate this small village. Mitch Quilles, a videographer of WW2 stories, Jean-Francois Marie, my son, and the Maries. Jean-Francoise was also a remarkable hero to me. His elementary English went a long way to communicate with his loving heart. When we left the last day, he rolled himself in his wheelchair to the gate. As I looked in my rear view mirror in the long driveway as I drove away, I could see him sitting there, waving to us. I didn't want to leave. These were my people, and I hardly speak French. Since I have a son with a disability, I am touched when parents, even in their 80's are caring for their children. Successful people accept the conditions, and love anyways.
Peter, my son, Mitch, and Bernard in Camont, France, another village where my father-in-law helped to liberate. Remarkable people who have faced tragedies (and if you live long enough, we all do), reach out, embrace, teach, love. They deliberately block the sadnesses and sorrow of their own lives to elevate others.
