Recently in Observations Category

Perhaps you have noticed that the pace of this blog is. . . well. . . let's be polite and say, "Lethargic." I've slowed down a lot--or so it seems. And yet, what has slowed down is my pace of posting and the raw, anxious gnawing that acompanied a day or two without a post. I came to the earth-shattering conclusion that most of what I had to share just wasn't all that important.

This liberating realization has yet to work its way into the rest of my life, and yet, I cannot but think that if it did, I, and those around me, would be far better off. By slowing down I have an opportunity to pick and choose amongst the inanities I would share with all. That means fewer inanities and a more patient reader population. (One must wonder about those who hang about waiting for the newest post, but one is grateful nevertheless that such maunderings have a following, no matter how small.)

So things go slowly, and I hope that I can move the slowness into matters that are far too rushed for me.

In the course of a presentation yesterday, I discovered I had been demoted. Where once I was a member of that class of entities known as "human resources," my new masters and virtual owners have determined that what once was a resource is now "human capital."

I can't tell you how appalled I was by this terminology. It was bad enough to be a resource, but to so baldly state that I am here to be spent and discarded as capital is flushed through an economic system. . . ah, long live unbridled, unhindered, uninhibited capitalism, which gives us such gems as these. (As opposed to a cog in the worker's machine on the other side. Isn't it wonderful how economic systems manage to make those involved feel so human, so needed, so absolutely imbued with the dignity of a child of God?)

Recently, I had a most wonderful opportunity to have some of my ignorance dispelled. A good friend at work, a devout Muslim (who pulls out his prayer mat five time a day in his cubicle--talk about an example*) came back from Lahore, Pakistan where he had gone to get married.

On his return, he shared with us the pictures from his wedding and I was astonished. The pictures showed a family looking very much like a family in one of those Bollywood films--the clothes, the settings, the surroundings, were all rich and sumptuous. His wedding clothes were like something out of the Arabian Nights--absolutely beautiful.

When I think of third world countries, my predominant thought is of mud, rutted roads, and buses with chicken cages on top or chickens running loose with the bus itself.

Naturally in a set of wedding pictures one would not see this aspect of Lahore. But what I did see suggested the same sense of civic pride one might find in a small Southern city, or even town like Waynesville or Bucyrus, Ohio. The outdoor spaces were well-kept and lovely and the indoor spaces were decorated for a celebration.

I don't know why I'm always surprised by pictures and experiences that suggest that the third world might have some of the amenities of the twenty-first century, but it is always nice to have that kind of parochialism knocked down a notch or two.

*While the prayer mat is not only tolerated but encouraged because of our sensitivity to diversity and the training that we received, I can't help but wonder what people would make of me taking out the Rosary twice a day. I already get funny looks at the prayer book open on my desk at all times. However, I must say that I am exceptionally fortunate in the place that I work at the amazing toleration of religious observance of all sorts.

What I remember most about Pleasant Hill was not the two stark building, one for women, one for men; nor the building where trays of mulberry leaves were spread as far as the eye could see and women wearing delicate face-framing bonnets picked at cocoons that had been boiled and slowly unwound their slender threads into large spools; nor the meeting house where they demonstrated the dance and the song and thinking about how this society had dwindled to a mere seven in Sabbathday Lake, Maine; nor the administration and guest house where the prefect spiral staircase rose in the atrium, seeming floating without support; nor the green pumpkins the size of small carriages still clinging the the vine thought now rimed at times with frost; nor the chill of the wind or the color of the trees as we rode the riverboat up the Kentucky river to see the wonders of autumnal nature spread before us; nor the bee-hazed cider press that buzzed louder than any modern machinery as a man in round black hat turned the wheel to crush the leavings of the apples; nor the straight ladder-back chairs that so many others oohed and ahed over.

No, what I remember best was a small obscure awninged shade where a single woman sat with what looked like a completely wooden paper cutter and golden straw. And when her visitors would approach she would rise and take some of the straw and lay it across the ridges and valleys of this not-paper-cutter and swiftly chop down on it as if to slice it in two. And the outer peel of the golden straw would break and with some deft movements of her fingers, she would peel it away to reveal the golden threads that lay within. She'd take carding tools, like those for working wool and pull the threads between them over and over and over again. And when she had a puffy ball of the stuff, she'd grab a wooden top she had sitting to one side and pull the fluffy cloud into fine white threads, pausing every now and then to wrap the threads around the spindle.

And when she was done, she would take them to the woman at the loom, who would wind the threads onto her bobbin and race them through the warp and weft of the fabric she was making.

And all around was the clamor of no-noise at all--no radio, no television, no tractors, nothing--the thundering roar of sitting before God in a simple task, and perhaps humming under one's breath:

'Tis the gift to be simple,
'tis the gift to be free,
'tis the gift to come down where you ought to be,
And when we find ourselves in the place just right,
It will be in the valley of love and delight.

Refrain:

When true simplicity is gained,
To bow and to bend we shan't be ashamed.
To turn, turn will be our delight,
'Til by turning, turning we come round right

My friend told me that in their town they would bring an elephant with a golden headdress and seat that was empty.

But what I remember most about the Hare Krishnas, more even than the saffron robes, more even than the dancing and the odd Indian drums they would play, more even than the bald heads with one knotted tress, more even than the chant-chant-chanting, the chant and be happy cycle, more even than the prayer wheels and the images of Ganesha and others, more even than the curious resemblance of their Lord's name and my Own--what I remember most is breaded cauliflower fried in ghee.

From talking to them I learned that ghee is a type of clarified butter. From my own palate I learned that ghee is a type of tangible sunshine, a taste unlike any other. Cauliflower, meek mild, inoffensive, mostly tasteless cauliflower in ghee became the mightiest of vegetables, indeed, perhaps the mightiest of foods excepting only double chocolate chocolate chip cake. Ghee had a way of turning everything that was wrong right and making all things come into harmony. I looked deeply into the mysteries of the east and for a moment understood them as I rolled the ghee-imbued cauliflower around in my mouth.

What I remember most about the Hare Krishnas is the promise of endless meals of ghee cooked marvels--and for a while that was a temptation. But not enough. Nevertheless, I've been granted a taste of heaven here on Earth and it was amazingly simple.