Qatar: Parables in the Desert

In the Zekreet area of Qatar where there are amazing rock formations, a tranquil, emerald sea, and endless sands in all directions. You feel far from the world, and almost expect a caravan of travelers to ask for water from your oasis.

And yes, you can find a fellow traveler (his sheep in the background) that brings you back hundreds of years....

After the rainy seasons in parts of the Middle East, you can find a flower called the Cistanche Tubulosa. It has been used for medicinal purposes for about 1800 years. We found them all over the desert yesterday. With no roots, the flower emerges out of the sand in the springtime. Such a glorious wonder of beauty that grows out of the hot sand.

Sometimes there are stories you hear or read that make a mark on you, that change you. You are never quite the same after hearing them. They continue to unravel in your mind, creating images and analogies for years that awaken resolve and will to trudge on--go forward when things get confusing or murky. Long ago in my early 20's I heard this story that I can say honestly changed some trajectories in my life. I think I would be a different person if I had never read it. It happened when I was asked to work in a refugee camp in Thailand while I was living in Taiwan. Now that I live in the desert, I refer to it often in my mind. Yesterday on our "desert adventure" to find flowers after the heavy rains in Qatar, I found myself musing on this tale by F. Burton Howard--that has mentored me all these years:

At a recent campout that my husband and son went on in Zekreet, Qatar

In a desert region one day, a number of travelers set out on a trip. It was hot and the journey was long. They had little in common except their shared desire to arrive at a distant city. Each carried provisions and water expecting to replenish their supplies along the way. Not long after leaving their homes, a great storm arose. Dust clouds darkened the sun, and the wind brought swirling sands which quickly filled the low places in the road. What at first had seemed a pleasant outing suddenly became a hazardous undertaking. The travelers soon realized that the question was not merely when they would arrive at the city, but whether they would arrive at all.

Sunset in Qatar, making the view hazy and dim. When the sand blows in, you can't see ten feet in front of you. Sandstorms are alarmingly dark. You might as well be in a blizzard. No one can see anything, and the sand nuzzles everywhere--in eyes, ears, and gritted teeth. 

Confusion and doubt affected the company. Some sought shelter, while others attempted to turn back. A few moved onward through the storm. The end of the first day found them scattered, with inadequate provisions, wanting water, and lost in the desert. A new day brought hunger, thirst, and despair. The storm still raged. Hope was in short supply. Familiar landmarks were gone. The road, which had been narrow and hard to find, at best, was hidden by silt and debris. No one knew where to go to find it. Many claimed to know the way, but as they could not agree, each traveler wandered in his own way in search of water or the shelter of a settlement.

At the end of yet another day, two of the group, half-blinded by dust and with their strength nearly gone, came unexpectedly, with something more than good fortune, upon an inn and way station. There in the sanctuary of walls and roof, they refreshed themselves and counted their blessings. There they replenished their stores and contemplated the remaining portion of their journey. The weather remained unsettled. The wind continued to blow. The poorly marked road wound ahead through hills where the sand piled deep and where it was said that robbers sometimes preyed upon unsuspecting travelers.

Keep your fire burning bright on the journey.

One of the two was anxious to reach his destination. He had important business in the city. He gathered his supplies and water and paid his account. Early in the morning he set out in haste in an attempt to cross the hill country by nightfall. But the windblown sand had blocked the road. He was forced to dig and detour. When night came, he was far from the city, exhausted and alone. When he fell asleep, thieves found him, took his supplies, and left him without strength and without water to face almost certain death.

The second traveler was also desirous of reaching his destination. But he remembered the others in the desert behind him. They were lost and would soon perish without water and without hope. He alone knew where they were. He alone knew their condition and their need. He likewise arose early and paid his account. He glanced at the hills with their promise of the city beyond, and then turned back down the road whence he had come. The sky was a little lighter now. He recognized some of the landmarks. He knew about where he had left his traveling companions. He called out to them by name, for he knew them. After hours of patient searching, he found many of them. He shared with them life-giving water from his own containers. He told them he knew the way. He spoke as if he had authority, so they followed him, and he brought them to the way station with him. There they rested and regained their strength. They were given directions regarding how to reach the city. They renewed their provisions, filled their water containers, and went out again to face the storm.

The journey was still difficult. The wind still blew and clouds obscured the sun. The road still wound through the sometimes deep sand, and thieves were still in the hills. But this time the traveler was not alone. The group was large. When sand blocked the way, work parties were organized to remove it. When some faltered, the strong shouldered the burdens of the weak. When night came, there were watchmen to man the watch. After many days, the second man and his friends arrived safely at their destination.

Footsteps to the Persian Gulf in Qatar--going from a wilderness to a paradise....

When they arrived there, those who had been rescued and given water gathered around the second traveler and said, “We could not have come to this place without you. We shall ever be grateful to you for searching for us, for finding us, for sharing your water and your bread. We know that you put aside your own journey and submitted to the hardships of the desert in order to help us when we were lost. What can we do to repay you?”

Conversing on a mountain of sand....

And the second man replied, “Thank me not, for by no power of my own did I find the way station. The water there would have been bitter had I not shared it with you. I know that I could not have arrived at the city without you. Your strength and encouragement enabled me to continue on. Your presence prevented robbers from attacking. I have come to realize that in order to save my own life, I had to save yours as well. I know now that it is not so much the haste of one’s journey but rather what he does along the way which determines whether he will arrive at his destination. Thank me not,” he said. “In truth, I have not brought you to this place, we have brought one another.”  

The desert reminds me: In our quest for self-actualization and checking off bucket lists (to get somewhere and fulfill our own desires), the most authentic and pure joy is to lighten the packs of others along the way. Pleasures and excitement are thrilling to be sure, but there is no replacement for the knowledge that you tried to help someone on their path. And then there is the humble realization that you would not have kept on the path without their light, provisions, and friendship. If I am honest with myself, any time I have tried to help someone else, they have only brought me to a better place than I would otherwise travelled. As we always say about our son/brother who has autism, "He saves us from ourselves." Any delay on route is worth it....

I have learned so much in the desert: packing and preparing your previsions for a journey, trying to find an oasis in the expansive desert, remembering the wilderness comes before the promised land, carrying your own water to replenish in the heat, you need a fellow sojourner to protect you from some obstacles along the way, and sometimes you have to trust a stranger on route. But more than anything I have relearned here in Qatar that trekking on your own path is never enough. When you try to assist others on the journey or in the sandstorm, you only save yourself. Other people, strangers and loves ones alike, save us from our petty, isolating concerns. The purest joy is to arrive together.

How many love languages do you speak?

Joakim, Karolina, and their amazing 11 year old triplets. How I love them!

Anyone who knows me is aware that I am very proud of my Icelandic heritage. Blog on Icelandic Family Bonds One of my cherished joys is to meet and learn more about my relatives who still live in Iceland. Although we share a distant relative, a great-great grandfather, Eggert Vatnsdal, generations in time dissolve when we gather. Chapters of time fall away, and our stories, laughter, and interests intersect. We are family--no matter what side of the Atlantic Ocean we were born on.

One of my Icelandic relatives, Karolina, who currently lives in Sweden, her husband, Joakim, and their triplets came to visit us in the Middle East last fall. I took away many lessons from their visit. One of them was a fascination of how both of them effortlessly speak different languages (Joakim speaks five, and Karolina speaks six). Learning languages is a way of life--the way they show their love for one another and others they meet. In fact, they have spoken four languages to each other, in various chapters of their relationship.

Playing on the beach in Qatar

Joakim, who is from Stockholm, and Karolina, who is from Reykjavik, met in their early 20's in Munich, Germany. Each of them was there for one of their first jobs, away from home and familiarities. Both were learning German at the time. They met through friends, and continued to speak German together in the first phase of their relationship. When they got married and moved to the United States for graduate school and more employment, they spoke English to one another.

Fast forward some more years. They decided they wanted to move closer to family so both of them found a job in Reykjavik--Karolina's hometown.  Most people would be intimidated to learn to speak Icelandic, but not Joakim. After all, Icelandic is a North Germanic language, and he wanted to communicate with Karolina's Icelandic family and friends. When people spoke to him in English, instead of Icelandic, he showed his resolution to learn Icelandic. They lived and worked in Reykjavik for about ten years. While living in Iceland, Karolina gave birth to triplets--two girls and a boy (yep, she is amazing).... The children learned Icelandic at home and school, and then Swedish from their father.

Joakim with the triplets on the seashore in Qatar

When the triplets were about six years old, Karolina and Joakim decided it was time for them to move to Stockholm to be nearer to Joakim's famly. That meant that Karolina would have to learn Swedish. Although Swedish is also a North German language, it coincides more with Danish and Norwegian--not Icelandic. But just like her husband, Karolina was not daunted to learn her new country's language. They enrolled the kids in the ESL language at their their school, and Karolina and the triplets began to speak fluent Swedish with Joakim.

Recently she said to me after a business trip to Brussels, "I just love people." As I thought about her love of languages, there is a deep connection of a love for people--especially for Joakim--who was her friend, boyfriend, and now husband and father of her children. Nothing was too difficult to speak to her beloved. To be with a couple who have spoken four languages to one another, and seamlessly interweave four languages in their conversations, is nothing but remarkable. It is evident that the love they have for one another runs deep. Neither has balked at the inconvenience or challenge. Learning a language for the other is just adding another layer of love--a beautiful history that connects many chapters and periods of their lives.

Getting ready with Joakim, Karolina, and the triplets of our annual ice skating party. The triplets are, of course, learning English, to speak with their family in Qatar!

                     Lessons of Learning a Language:

1) There is an underlying friendship shown when another attempts to speak (even a few words) in someone else's mother tongue.  When I worked in refugee camps in Southeast Asia, sometimes I would call out words in Vietnamese, Cambodian, Thai, English, Chinese, or Tagalog. Smiles erupted. Bonds of friendship were connected. Maybe not every word was pronounced absolutely correctly. But the effort was appreciated.

2) I have noticed that people who speak different languages or at least attempt to try to speak with others whose language is not their own are risk takers. The weight of fear is tossed away. The learner prefers to try to have a connection or friendship--than to be precisely, absolutely correct.

3) Learning a language is like a pleasant series of fireworks going on in the brain. Sometimes the light of learning a new word can illuminate a whole sky. As Jhumpa Lahiri says in her book, In Other Words, "What does a word mean? And a life? In the end, it seems to me, the same thing. Just as a word can have many dimensions, many nuances, great complexity, so, too, can a person, a life. Language is the mirror, the principal metaphor. Because ultimately the meaning of a word, like that of a person, is boundless, ineffable." 

4) Keep a notebook of expressions or vocabulary. When I would pull out of my brain a very fitting chengyu (or Chinese saying) when I lived in Taiwan or China, I would see people take a new glance at me, as if they were saying, "Ah, now I know you not only get my language, but my culture, my history, my humor. Nuances are important to you." As Lahiri states, "A notebook contains all my enthusiasm for the language. All the effort. A space where I can wander, learn, forget, fail. Where I can hope." 

5) Never let go of that rope of hope. Don't let it strangle you or don't let anyone else repress that desire to learn a language. It will open new friendships, new worlds, new connections. For those of us who are from the United States, it erases misconceptions that we do not learn languages. It gives cause for another to smile, to bond. 

6) Sooner or later, learning a language is about friendship--desperately wanting to speak to someone who you find interesting, someone you want to inspire or to laugh with. Ultimately, learning a language is about love. 

Switzerland: Building Your House in the Sun

HoHow

On top of the Simplon pass, going into Milan, where Hannibal crossed over with elephants to surprise the Romans. There were very few houses or hamlets, for that matter so high. But we did see a few that gave me some comfort if anything happened on a stormy day. Another post about light: http://trekingonward.blogspot.qa/2015/11/the-year-of-chasing-light.html  You can see I am fascinated by light....

How glorious a greeting that the sun gives to the mountains! --John Muir

An old home and hotel on the top of the Simplon pass, in case anybody needed rescuing....

One of my dear friends grew up in a little village in Interkerken, Switzerland--not far from Mieringen (where meringue was supposedly invented). As a child, the looming Alps cradled their village, hugging it tight, as if to keep it remote and unknown to the outside world. In between the crag-edged cliffs, there is a small valley with fields, farms, scattered houses, a few stores, and of course, a steepled church. The mountains, she thought, were always there to keep her safe and protected. But she later told me, those majestic cliffs also delayed the sunlight from coming overhead to the valley. The Alps are so close together on that pass, clinging to the narrow valley, that it sees little sunlight. Every sun ray is precious. It's like you want to capture it in a bottle and seal it up.

When I recently went to see my daughter who lives in the French speaking part of Switzerland, we hiked, tromped, and drove along the steep mountain passes--with the mighty Alps beside us. If you drive in Switzerland, plan on going through dozens of tunnels and winding around steep descents. The expansive terrain of sun and sand that I am used to now in the Middle East seemed far away. There are no vertical drop offs in Qatar. I am accustomed to an ever present sun that explodes every morning, and shoots out its rays all day until it droops off the horizon. No need to bottle up sun here in the Middle East; it is seemingly ever present.

In the Sion/Sierre valley of Switzerland. You can see the "Toblerone"mountains in the distance.

My daughter pointed to the villages on our walks, almost hidden between the crevices of the Alps. She said, "Some houses are almost always situated in the fog or mist. But see how those people build their houses in the sun. Look at the villages nestled up there, and how they catch every possible sunlight." I then noticed that most every house plot was chosen purposefully--selected with meticulous forethought and care. Finding the right location meant receiving the maximum sunlight--in every direction. The house owner had strategically planned where they built their home so that on the dark, cloudy days there would still be some shrouded sun--maybe even a rainbow. She told me that in some villages the real estate is much more expensive because the sun shines more on one valley than the other.

Being in Switzerland reminded me of how we all need to cling to light--in our fogs and clouds. Engineers can build tunnels and nifty trains that carry cars through long, dark passageways. However, ultimately, it is critical to choose a sunny, cheery place to perch your spot. And when the storms inevitably appear, we would have soaked up enough light to survive any tumble. Mists gather on all mountains so we need to be like a prism in a sun drenched room. With every sway or touch, the crystal catches colorful rays that lights up our surroundings. Switzerland taught me to build my house in the sun that scoops up all the light in every direction--no matter what valley or mountain I have chosen.

A painting I found in a restaurant that captures the desired spots on the mountain to catch all the sun rays.

Another perfectly situated house, with orchards around it.

A house built on the right side of the valley to get as much sun as possible.

More homes that are strategically placed in the Sierre/Sion Valley

Egypt: Time and Immortality

My view of the expansiveness of the human spirit was widened in Egypt--what we humans are capable of building and creating is staggering. But more than anything, the tombs, temples, and pyramids reminded me of our common universal desire: to be remembered and to live forever.

The immense scope and vision of the ancient Egyptians amazed me every day. Their aim to be architects for the passageways to paradise was remarkable to behold.

Several weeks ago I lost a dear friend to ovarian cancer. I had planned to attend her funeral, but was on a trip with my family in Egypt during the holidays. It was impossible to leave with my family around me. I knew her death was imminent, but the news still wrung my heart. I just wanted to laugh one more time with her or hear her insightful reflections. Thoughts streamed in: Had I done enough to comfort her in her suffering? Had I learned the lessons from her that I needed to implement in my own life? Did I understand her wisdoms that she unfailingly shared-- to love boundlessly and bring lightness and laughter to every room? I realized then she knows passageways and portals I have not entered yet.

Tresa and I at a Girls Ranch, about to have a barn dance. She was always up for a laugh. But more than anything, she was someone who loved without any borders or obstructions. 

When I heard of her death in Egypt, I shook off my tourist eyes. Instead, I saw the pyramids and temples from another angle. Everywhere I looked I saw deeper meanings in the tombs and temples-- of the yearning to live forever. My scope was widened. As I gazed out at the sands who had known prophets, priests, and pharaohs, it was simple to visualize Napoleon's armies, Cleopatra, the eleven Ramses, and hosts of others parading across my view. Whispers of their echoes filled the corridors. Dynasties swooped by like a bird overhead. Time, like rushing wings, flew by as in a panorama. The walls of hieroglyphics, thousands of stories and people, voiced their cries to be immortal--to reunite their mortal body with their 'ka' or soul. Ancient armies and cities had built these wonders. And none wanted to be forgotten in their ephemerality.

Here is a collage of portraits from the Roman times in Egypt (lasting about 700 years, after Alexander the Great). The portraits are on a temple in Luxor, painted over some hieroglyphics--about 25 feet above the ground. To stare up at them, I was reminded again of our universal desire to be remembered, memorialized, and live forever.

In the tombs of the Valley of the Kings and the Sphinx, there were long entrance channels cut deep into the rock, begging to be explored. In a few corridors, I became a little teary-eyed, seeing these paths, so fastidiously engineered and built (and covered floor to ceiling with instructional hieroglyphics). These stones were designed to be a map of the stars--a map to go to another world where there is no death. The corridor was a book of instructions on how to reunite the body and soul. There were hieroglyphics chiseled on the walls, with signs and symbols to help the deceased to enter another world or paradise--just in case they forgot the words. Egypt is a constant reminder of how all civilizations earnestly try to bridge life and death--to find that elusive path to immortality.

In the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, there is a wall of Greek portraits from the tombs--of all ages and genders. I stood in that room for a long time, gazing at each portrait--people who had lived over two thousand years ago. As I looked into their gorgeous faces, both young and old, I was again astounded at the inescapable ache to live again after death. I was also struck that this woman could be my next door neighbor. Each seemed so assessable--despite the passage of two millennia.

At the entrance of the Sphinx, there was another long narrow stony passageway. The stones in the walls were carefully placed to represent the sky, with the exact distance of the constellations in place. With the knowledge of these stars, the sojourner could travel from this mortal life to the next world through the cosmos. Likewise, in the tomb of Ramses the IV, there were cobalt blue clouds and bright yellow stars swirling above me, as if the navigator were on a quest to find the greatest of treasures--immortality, resurrection, 'ka.' Descending down the sloping pathway of Ramses 1V's  final resting place with the stars above me, I felt the perennial yearning in the walls to live on--that this earth life of several decades was not nearly enough for them. Immortality beckoned.

Showing the wall to wall hieroglyphics in a tomb.

At the Saqqara, the first known pyramid that was built. I like the fact that it was a "practice pyramid." Just like anything that is build that is auspiciously grand, there must be diligent workmanship and discipline to make the edifice.

Surprisingly, in this desolate Egyptian wilderness so far across the world from my friend's funeral, I was enlightened. even comforted. In the dusty sand, time stood still for a few moments for me. With pyramids, temples, and the flowing Nile close by, it was wondrous to see these memorials of an ageless quest for eternity, of having life without end. It made me remember that someday all of us will walk the portal to another world, where light, brighter than the sun of Egypt will shine. And that we will all stand in a judgement of our heart--to measure the weight that has been shed in our lifetime. The aim? For our hearts to be as light as one single falcon feather.

The Day of Judgment: Here is a picture of the process to to reach paradise that was known as the afterlife, what the ancient Egyptians had been striving for their entire life. They believed that the deceased spirit came to the Hall of Judgment, and had to stand before 42 judges, reciting words to them from the Book of the Dead. These specific words provided access for them if their innocence was not complete. Next their heart would be measured with a ceremony.--to see if they had been virtuous and upright. If their heart measured light, they were able to pass to the next world. You can see the symbol of ankh in the gatekeeper's hands.

This is a symbol that is ubiquitous everywhere in Egypt: a cross with a handle on it called the ankh. The meaning of this token in the mummy who receives it is eternal life--never to die again. The ankh is a key obtained at judgment (after your heart has been weighed), which unlocks death's portal for the departed one.

I love this picture of Elias, with the symbols of the ankh in the pharaoh's hands. The idea of eternal life, knowing the right words and signs to give at The Day of Judgement is what they earnestly aspired to in their mortality.

A picture of an anonymous Egyptian friend or you could even say "rescuer." When he saw that I was paralyzed with fear when the rest of my family ran across four lanes of speeding traffic (no crosswalks to be seen), he came from the other side of the road to stop all the traffic to guide me across. He bravely, resolutely began walking across the lanes, looking like he was an angel stepping on air, and held up his hands to motion the drivers to stop. If I am at the The Day of Judgement with him, I will vouch that he has a heart that is the weight of a feather.

The striking image of the falcon feather and The Judgment Day reminds me that we do not come to that final judgment alone. Our hearts are infinitely carved and sculpted by the myriads of people whom we have known in our own panoramic view--our mortality. A slice of forgiveness here, a jot of acceptance there, a large portion of mercy given at necessary allotments. The final desired product, a weightless heart, representing a feather, as the Egyptians believed, was casting off all those suffocating human feelings that weigh us down. Egypt was a reminder after my friend's death--to use mortality to discard the rubbish that can cling to our human hearts. Hearts were not only meant to be mended, but to be lightened.

Thanks, dear Tresa Chamberlain. for leading the way down the corridor, for teaching me to keep a light heart, free of  needless weight. And to remember there are other worlds to venture, shiny paths to cross. You are just a little further ahead in the passageway.... It is a noble journey we are all on. As one of my favorite songs exclaims, "There is no death above." And thanks to Egypt for stopping the fleeting, dizzying pace of time--for just a moment.

Christmas: Learning to give the first gift of true love

It is the season of Christmas for Christians, and hearts at this time are outstretched to those around us and even far away. Hopefully, this enfolding of our hearts happens all year long--no matter our religion, creed, or opinions. I have seen literal and transformative changes in people as they give, and because I am Christian, I see it no more clearly than at Christmas. Some of my fondest memories, if I could chronicle them, are at Christmas when my own heart has shed all layers of any misconceptions or generalizations. It is a time when our hearts learn how to grow.

My husband, when my daughters were small, dressed up on one of their first Christmases. Christmas has always brought us closer together because both of us were taught how to give true gifts as children by our own parents.

For Muslims (and because I live in a Muslim country), I am touched at their giving at Ramadan to those who are unfortunate. Our friend in Turkey always gives many sheep to others who are unfortunate so they may eat lamb meat. When I lived in Asia (Taiwan, China, Philippines, and Thailand), I needed to be very careful if I complimented someone on an object I liked. Unfailingly, I would then be given the item that I just admired. The scarf or necklace would often be taken off of them to give to me.

My Jewish friends, it seems, are very intent all year long to make the world a better place, contributing with money and service. One friend, a very talented attorney, was on our school board in St. Louis. He saw the distinct need that some high school kids needed to learn math and science better, but they had no one to tutor and help them. Every morning he was at the school to mentor them about math and physics--the subjects he loved so well. A few years later he retired early so he could teach at an inner city school. He is passionate about all children having the same educational opportunities.

Last night we asked each other (our children are older now), "When was the first time you remember how wonderful it was to give than to receive?" Sometimes the answer was simple, and the gesture was spontaneous. In other words, a simple exchange of hearts did not require much planning or fanfare. Perhaps it is when we are ready or prepared to receive that flow of compassion and love that is always there to gush in--if we have not diked the wall. But sometimes it was when we had planned an outing or activity. One son remembered in 2006 when the Cardinals won the World Series, we went to a men's shelter that Christmas Eve Day. One older man pleaded to sing, "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen." I can still here him singing in a beautiful tenor voice his requested song:

"God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, Let nothing you dismay. Remember Christ, Our Savior, was born on Christmas Day. To save us all from Satan's power when we have gone astray. O Tidings of Comfort and Joy...."

There were not many dry eyes in the crowd when he finished the cherished Christmas carol. Afterwards, I went up to talk to him, and he told me he had not long been out of jail. Those few moments at a men's shelter that Christmas changed my life. A man who had known "dismay" and the feelings of going "astray", but now had comfort and joy. And then with jubilant glee, he asked us all to sing "Take Me Out To the Ballgame" to remember our beloved Cardinal World Series win a few months earlier. My blind father-in-law, provided the accompaniment of the song on his harmonica.

 I have to say St. Louis came together that Christmas Eve Day. Our hearts and our children's hearts were different as we walked out of that shelter. Any rifts, chasms, or even fears that were in our hearts when we entered the shelter had evaporated as we unitedly sang together. A complete joy replaced skepticism and tentativeness.

When I look back on the years we raised our children, it is the moments of when their hearts were opened that give me the greatest satisfaction. To see them become new people, and I along with them,  are some of my favorite memories.

It is Christmas, the time to cast off misgivings, grudges, and yes, even despair--to learn how to live that way all year long. It is time to remember the lonely, the poor, the hungry, the disconsolate. As Howard W. Hunter said, "This year mend a quarrel. Seek out a forgotten friend. Dismiss suspicion and replace it with trust. Write a letter. Give a soft answer. Encourage youth. Manifest your loyalty in word and deed. Keep a promise. Forgo a grudge. Forgive an enemy. Apologize. Try to understand. Examine your demands on others. Think first of someone else. Be kind. Be gentle. Laugh a little more. Express your gratitude. Welcome a stranger. Gladden the heart of a child. Take pleasure in the beauty and wonder of the earth. Speak love and then speak it again."

As my father-in-law would say, "We all need it."

I was a stranger.... but not anymore.....

Syrian refugees fleeing from Aleppo

On December 18, National Day in Qatar, a large screen of pictures from Aleppo's destruction was shown to huge crowds. The much anticipated holiday was cancelled to remember the Syrian crisis here in Qatar.

This past week as the world has grieved with Aleppo and watched the exodus of Syrian refugees leave their beloved homes and communities, it is hard to know what to do to relieve the pain and sorrow of the pictures I see. Right before our eyes on a screen real people are fleeing. Genocide and slaughter grow in a place not far from where I live now. A war is raging. Some of my friends here are Syrian. The atrocities I see only seem to make my own shelter and food seem extravagant--even though it may be simple to some. 

This week, in solidarity with Aleppo, Qatar cancelled much of its National Day celebrations. That is like cancelling New Year's and the 4th of July. The entire country has been asked, no matter your race or religion, to meet with clothes and food, in tow, for Syria. The gathering place is at a flag pole on December 18 in Doha. I know it is nothing much to bring clothes and food to give, but it is the only thing I know what to do to assuage my conscience. I put out a notice in my compound, and soon there was a carload full of bags to give.

It makes me wonder what would happen if the entire world were trying to alleviate pain and suffering..... So proud of Qatar today for their leadership in raising money for Aleppo

Today as I reached in some closets to choose some clothes to give away, I spotted a coat that I had bought more than a year ago. I had worn it only a few times. And besides, I live in the Middle East so down coats are definitely not required attire here. As my family pulled the clothes in our closets and the piles layered higher, I couldn't help but remember a ten year old girl who began my decades old practice of collecting clothes and food for others--especially in this season of Christmas. As I pulled the new coat off the hanger, I remembered another coat I gave away long ago to her. I think it was that coat that started this passion of mine to collect clothes and food for others. Somehow the colossal divide I see in the world is a little more equal when we share. 

I can still see her forlorn face as she entered our San Diego, California 4th grade class. The teacher placed the new girl, Athena, in front of me so her bedraggled appearance was always in my nine year old view--as I looked at the blackboard in front of me. Her hair was rarely combed, and her beautiful blonde hair was matted and rumpled. If I remember right, she wore the same frayed cotton dress every day, with sandals that barely fit over her ankles. I think the worst part to the people surrounding her was that she must have rarely bathed. There was always a conspicuous oder when she was near. Of course, no one wanted to play with her at recess or even talk to her. Worse, she was the brunt of cruel jokes; most everybody fled when she entered their periphery.

As the days got colder (and even in San Diego there are some brisk days), I noticed she did not have a coat. I don't think I was a particularly observant child, but I could not help but see that after we came in from recess, Athena had goose pimples all over her arms and bare legs. Some days she stayed in from recess because she was chilled--and maybe she knew no one would play with her.  I began to talk to her, and played with her out on the black top. In my nine year old mind, I thought it was inconceivable that I had two coats hanging in my closet at home, and she had none to wear at recess. I remember asking my mom if she could come over to play with me, and if I could give her the olive green corduroy coat I did not wear anymore. 

I can still remember her smile and joy when I asked her to come to my house to play. I gave her the coat, and said I thought she needed it. I told her I didn't want her to be cold anymore. We drove her home that day to a place called the "River Bottom"--a few shanty houses that were situated under a bridge. As she left the car with her new coat on, she turned back to smile at me. Her family must have been on the move because it seemed she left a few months later. Maybe they worked the tomato fields in the River Bottoms, I don't know. Athena came like an easterly wind, not staying long, but with enough time to leave an imprint on my heart and conscience forever. 

Although I was only nine years old, her short friendship was not lost on me. Now several decades later, my family and I have gathered and collected truckloads of food and clothes. Today when I told my son with autism that we were collecting clothes from his closet for the Syrian refugees, he said, "We are changing the world, Mom." I don't know about that, but all I know is that I am changed every time I give in my small way.  

I wish I could personally give the down coat to a refugee in Syria. I would like to see them turn around and exchange a smile--a nod that we are friends--and tell them I don't want them to be cold. Instead, I think I will put a note in the pocket and say, "I know this is a very meager and small gift to give a coat to you. But the world is thinking of you as the cold, easterly winds come to Aleppo. You are our friend. You are remembered and loved."

The letter that I tucked into the coat. I hope Syria knows there are people in this world who are horrified at what is happening in their country, and that we are praying for them. Also, that we will do what we can do help them.

Lighting the World #LighttheWorld

I found this picture in a museum in Hosfos, Iceland. These little girls know what it means to savor light when there is only three or so hours of sun in the darkest December days in Iceland. To cherish the light and see the possibilities for luminosity in the world is the first step toward giving light to others.

On the last day of 2015, our family gathered together to celebrate the upcoming new year. We decided to read two books together, and choose a word that would be our personal theme for 2016. The plan: that particular word would illuminate our choices and actions. It would be our individual creed or mantra in moments when we felt adrift. One simple word to jolt us back into remembering our rooted resolves. My word for this year? What's the word that has repeatedly sprung to inspire and remind me to be a little more hopeful in wavering times? The word is light.

The city of Doha, Qatar in the background with three of my sons enjoying the dusk. The Middle East captures a whole new definition of light with it's explosive sunrises--with no obstruction of vertical slopes to dim the rays. There are few shadows in a desert--just expansive, voluminous light. http://trekingonward.blogspot.qa/2015/11/the-year-of-chasing-light.html?spref=fb

Another year of being an expat in the Middle East has given me a front row seat to a kaleidoscope of cultures, religions, and new friends. It is a journey that makes us nomads, but also seeing the immense goodness of people on a grassroots level in the world--even when chaos and upheaval swirl around us. James Fallows, a journalist, wrote about his travels over the "flyover"America in The Atlantic Monthlyhttp://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2016/03/how-america-is-putting-itself-back-together/426882/-- places he previously thought had not much culture or economic potential. He states that when people are discouraged about the state of America or their locale political problems, the answer is: get closer to the action at home, immediate issues at hand. Make a difference. Support a public art project in the community. Read to a child. Engage in your own community to make it better. Forgive a loved one. As he states, "Hopeless places are reinventing themselves" because individuals are willing to turn the tide. They are lighting their candle.

For me a lightness of being and looking for the light are anchors I look to daily. And when we seek for the light, we undoubtedly find it--in the glory of nature, in thoughts and ideas, within people. We feel the surge of luminous light when we love and serve; burdens and struggles vanish when we try to see the soul of another. I have traveled to many countries now, and am endlessly fascinated with how other cultures and peoples crave and cling to light. We as humanity have the ability to be conductors of light, to shed goodness and joy. When we are our best selves, forgiving, loving, giving, we shine. And that is when we know and can see who we really are.

All the shadows and layers disappear when we choose to light our candle--in our home, neighborhood, and the places we thought as previously "flyover." Every candle counts, and if the wind momentarily snuffs our candle out, we can rekindle the light in each other.

Lighting the candle to be dropped into the Thu Bon River in the beautiful town of Hoi An,Vietnam. It is considered good luck for the year to light a candle, and then lower it into the river with a basket. You can then float down the river in a boat with the candles in a little box drifting next to you. I have to say it is magical.

I was at a traditional Indian wedding this year, and these are the aunts (they let us participate) giving light to the bride.

To see the radiance of beauty in our world can always give lightness to our souls--pushing away cares--making them drift down the river, far from our gaze.

I love this picture of my dear neighbor's children, and my husband getting some stitches out. It is time in this world to #LighttheWorld with more than tolerance, but kindness. more than inclusion, but friendship. Starting with our neighbors and communities, it will ripple over all the borders in this world.