have you ever done this?

it’s quite a bizarre experience…

do you use i or me, you or us… i was afraid to contemplate such pronoun usage for fear of developing a psychological, bi-polar-ish disorder.

none the less, i wrote a letter to myself because i wanted to remember and i didn’t want to forget.

my indian friends mailed my letter to me a few weeks ago and it’s been sitting unopened, and unread amongst my belongings.

i was kind of afraid…

i was afraid i had forgotten what it said, which i guess is the purpose of writing it, but not reading its contents defeated it.

i suppose i was afraid i’d already forgotten what a year in india had done to the development of ‘me’ and that only five months after leaving, i had negated its importance.

despite the fear of ‘knowing’ is the even greater mystery of not opening.

so i did; i opened it… i even read it.

and guess what?

i failed.

i’m not who i hoped to have been.

and i’m not… nor will i ever be.

i’ll never figure it out. i’ll never love the way i want to. i’ll never give the way i should.

i stumble a lot and i find myself on the ground again.

but i pick myself up.

i try to extend myself the grace He so graciously extends me.

i leave the now opened/read letter besides my bed [air mattress, mind you]

perhaps i’ll do better tomorrow.

26 april, 2007

jill.

okay. it’s been a few months and the time you spent in india might seem as if it is a dream. but open up your photos, read through your journals; what you saw, what you did, it was real. in fact, it was probably more real then the place you find yourself in now. the people here are so hungry for the Truth, their souls crave love. don’t forget we are all in need; don’t forget your own.

right now i still have a month left in india. i am torn between wanting to stay for the purposes and the people but a longing inside to be on to the next thing. as i write, i have no idea what the future holds after the chapter here, i don’t know where you will be living or what you will be doing. but i do know He will guide. perhaps by the time you’re reading this, you’ll have a better understanding to where He’s leading. if not, it’s okay; He’ll direct in His perfect timing. just wait. remember open hands.

i’m scared that when you return to life as you knew it before, you won’t fit, you won’t have a place anymore, you won’t find satisfaction in things as you had before. but even more scary than not fitting in as you had before is that you will. you may slip back into the comforts and convenience of life and forget about the way you lived in india. they’re not bad; just remember that contentment doesn’t require complacency; remember that you can live with less and the simpler life is actually easier. it’s okay to be a misfit, to be a foreigner in your homeland. eternity has been written in your heart and when you grasp this, everything else will feel temporary. this world is not your home. remember what it is like when the Father guides your day, when you start your day at His feet…your attention is focused on what matters today.

many people will not understand why you went, but don’t worry about it. we are all on different walks of life and the Father is constantly teaching us new things. we are all works in progress and don’t forget that He has a unique story for everyone of us. i hope you’re helping others along on their walk and other ones are helping you as well. please find women to invest in, widows to reach out to, hungry to feed. you are wired to be in relationship; you have been blessed to be a blessing.

the changes that occurred in you as you were in india, were internal and life-altering. it is my prayer that those inside changes have made their way outside and that your life looks different now. i hope the actions you are making are speaking louder than any of the words you are using. i hope when people look at your life, they can see that there has been a shift within you, a purpose driven deeper into your soul. you found a greater sense of your identity in Christ in your time here. don’t slip back into the pattern and defining yourself by the mirror or job you have, the busyness of your calendar or the number of relationships you are in. pick up your cross each morning and remember your identity as a disciple.

look over your computer screen, what do you see? i look out now to see a fantastic view of the himalayian mountains stretched out before me. do you remember how much you loved this view? you may not have the same obvious beauty now; you may find busy streets and high rises instead of pine trees and snow… but the same God who is alive and working here created them both. find Him there.

.jill

part of me wants to close your cover. i’m ready for the next book and to move past my time with you… i don’t want to tell your stories nor try to figure out how you changed me. i’m ready to write your conclusion and put your numbered book on the shelf with the rest of them. i’ll pick you up again someday, when i’m ready to read you again. but not until then.

then part of me is afraid to finish you. i’m beginning to forget what your soap smelled like in the kitchen, the freshness of your morning, and they way your people made me smile. i’ve lost the stillness i found in your mountains and the reflection which came so easy under your stars. i cannot seem to find the purpose and simplicity i had with you and i wonder how things got so complicated so fast since we parted.

i wonder if you miss my presence on your soil, if you even remember my curls amongst your dark hair. did you see me while i was there? did i make a difference in your land? you probably don’t even realize i’m gone… with one billion other people to keep track of, i’d forget me too. but i haven’t forgotten you. i could never forget you.

sometimes, i see you here. i went to an indian emporium the other day, and it was like i was with you again. the namkeen on the dusty shelves and the colored masalas all aligned in a row. i wondered down the aisles for awhile just smiling to myself. i bet a lot of your adopted children can be found here… trying to catch a scent of your perfume, hold your hand for a moment, remember what it was like living under your care. but then i closed the door to my air conditioned car and crossed you off on my ‘to do’ list.

life here is different, i don’t think you’d like it. yes, you’d love the gadgets and toys, the space and opportunity. but you’d miss your afternoon chai. you’d want to actually know your neighbor and wouldn’t understand why we don’t have time for dinner as a family. you wouldn’t see why everyone needs their own space and even with a closet full of clothes how there still could be nothing to wear. a lot of things here wouldn’t make sense to you. but it’s okay, sometimes i don’t understand either.

tonight, in my world, i cannot sleep, so i thought maybe we could have a dream date in yours. i’ll meet you as the sun rises and paints the most brilliant color of orange across the sky. we can go for a walk with laura in the morning and eat breakfast with ivy and gretchen in the kitchen. i’ll sit on the porch, admiring your himalayan peaks and wonder if a more beautiful view is to be had. maybe we can walk down the hill to the bazaar or hike the eyebrow trail even if we get lost. every person we pass, we’ll greet with a friendly ‘nameste’ and respectfully tip of our heads. life won’t be perfect, there will still be lots of problems. but we won’t forget why we’re here, we’d remember why we’ve come.

i know you’re busy with your own children but please give them my love and tell them they’re in my prayers. as one outside of your family, i won’t expect a reply. i just wanted to thank you again for my time with you and for taking your time with me.

until we meet again.
.jill

i rolled away in the taxi this morning, leaving behind dear friends. i knew this day would come, the goodbye was inevitable; but that doesn’t make it any easier. how can people, known for only a short time, be so difficult to leave? i cannot begin to explain to you all of the emotions the past two weeks have held, so i won’t try…the people and places, the memories and encouragement. i’ll tuck away these special moments for myself and savor them in the days in the valley to come.

as i left mussoorie and the place which for the past season has been home, i almost retrieved my camera to capture the scene. but over the past year, multiple attempts have proven inadequate and i’ve given up trying. eyes still wet, i soaked in the view and committed it to memory. i thought back to my first drive into these hills last august…i wondered then, if i would ever get used to the beauty, i hoped i would never take for granted the vastness… as we swerved and curved our way down the mountain i realized today it was more beautiful than it had ever been. some things never feel normal.

tonight, a plane seat awaits to carry me out of this beautiful country. i’m off to hong kong for a few days to unwind, visit a university, and spend time with a friend.
what’s after that? ha. that’s a good question.
back to the plains of kansas for the summer; a part time job awaits to satisfy my graphic nature and gives me time to pursue some freelance projects and a possible photography show…all things to keep me processing and decompressing from this year.
you really do have to recover from a year in india.
and then after that? whoow…i can’t go there yet. i’m still in india!
perhaps…sustainability in the developing world…graduate school…teaching in asia…?! yikes. it’s too much to take in; one step at a time…for now, i’m thinking san francisco.
i’ll tell you more about it later.
so, how was india? the other inevitable question that i still haven’t figured out how to answer. don’t be surprised if you see a bewildered look on my face as you wait for a response. no doubt there will be unforeseen battles while standing in grocery store aisles and looking at clothing price tags. i ask for your grace and patience with me as i adjust back to the place i came from and a culture which brought me up as i try to combine the old and new me. i hope i do less talking about how india changed me and more living it.
thank you for following along with me in this indian adventure. i have a feeling there are many more reading and watching this journey unfold than i may ever know.
i pr in the middle of one of my musings, you found encouragement.
i ask in the midst of one of my struggles, you were lifted up.
i hope somewhere along my story, you saw truth and then, i hope you went beyond it.
at His feet.
.jill

the mountain. [chapman]
i want to build a house upon this mountain,
way up high where the peaceful waters flow
to quench my thirsty soul, up on the mountain
i can see for miles upon this mountain
troubles seem so small they almost disappear
Lrd, i love it here, up on the mountain
my faith is strengthened by all that i see.
You make it easy for me to believe,
up on the mountain.
i would love to live upon this mountain
and keep the pain of living life so far away
i know i can’t stay, up on the mountain
i said i’d go Lrd wherever You lead
for where You are is where i most want to be
and i can tell we’re headed for the valley
my faith is strengthened by all that i see
so Lrd, help me to remember what You told me,
up on the mountain
You bring up here on the mountain,
for me to rest to learn and grow.
i see the Truth up on the mountain,
and i carry it to the world far below.
so as i go down to the valley,
knowing that You will go with me.
this is my prayer, Lrd, help me remember,
what you’ve showed me, up on the mountain.
i cherish these times up on the mountain
but i can leave this place because i know,
someday You’ll take me home to live forever,
up on the mountain…way up on the mountain.
as i’ve reflected on my season here, i see how much my time here in india has been literally and figuratively represented by living here on the mountain. i feel as if i’ve been given glimpses of a bigger picture, i’ve been allowed to see further than i was able to see before. there is a direction to follow, i can see it from high above. but now, i have to leave this lookout place and move back into the valley to pursue it; to follow the path that’s not always clear; though the destination is more clear, the journey there is not.

we just clicked. right from the beginning, as i sat on the bed in the room her family eats/sleeps/entertains in, i knew she would be one of those kind of friends i would connect with deeply. she has this magnetic personality that draws me to her and leaves me sad when we part. if i could, i would try to fit her in my suitcase and take her home with me. but then i’d be depriving mother india of one of her most beautiful daughters, asha.

teaching indians english and foreigners hindi, she is well known in the community. few pass us without her cheerful ‘nameste’ as playfully she argues with the shopkeepers for our goods. i feel taken care of as i walk besides on the streets of mussoorie. the middle of five children, she is the oldest left at home and runs the household…cleaning, chapattis, and laundry. her days are full yet she still makes time for me. saturday nights in oaklands are not only blessings for us, but escape from her responsibilities at home. she loves taking a shower without having to go outside and sleeping in a room void of the rest of her family. in the morning, we both indulge in filtered coffee and peanut butter toast. i sit across from her on the couch, the mugged, warm goodness, still resting in our hands as we share our stories…

‘our life is very different from other chr-stian’s we know,’ she declares from the beginning.

her parent’s had four girls until the gods finally gave them a boy. it was because of her father’s drinking that they lost their house. often he hit, other times he just yelled, ‘our family was broken, very broken.’ although he was allowed to keep his job at the international school, he lost the privilege of staff housing. asha was only seven when she saw all of their belongings on the side of the road; an image still frozen in her mind. there was no place to go, no house to find, no one to help. no one, that is, except judith. she and other chr-stians in the community welcomed asha and her family into their homes. ‘before then, nobody wanted us and i felt so alone.’ life after that was never the same.

their new friends told them about a Gd who was different from the others; He was personal and full of love. ‘before, i never knew what to do or who to turn to. J-sus changed my life. i am not a chr-stian, i am a believer in J-sus.’ there’s a difference and asha understand it. all the females in the family came to faith and began attending the local chrch. her father came as well, but more out of respect for the people who had done so much for his family. relatives rejected their new beliefs and believed there was something evil in their family, but ‘we never stopped believing. i knew Gd was Truth. when J-sus came, peace came to our house and for the first time, i felt real joy.’

after several years, they were given a small room and adjacent kitchen in the school’s staff housing where they have remained for the past thirteen years. the family that once rejected them, later found refuge between her family’s walls as they lost their own housing. ‘we forgave them. we didn’t want them to go through what we went through.’ her father still drinks, but he no longer hits or goes to the temple; he’s changing, everyone can see it. ‘if we keep pr-ying, he will come.’

asha and her family have become the backbone in the small community. though they are the only light in their neighborhood, they shine brightly. ‘we are all humans and sometimes i’m mean and sometimes others are mean to me. but i want to forgive; i want to make friends not enemies. i want to love them. i want them to know the Truth and hope that they see it in us as well. they come to us for pr-yer when they’re not at peace or healthy. they know we worship a Gd who answers our pr-yers.’

our time together often ends with pr-yer to that same powerful Gd. she petitions in hindi while, at the same time, i lift up english words. this time i cry; i cannot stop the tears nor the thoughts of how precious she is to me. i wonder when or even if, i will see her again. i want to be there when her arms are covered with henna for her wedding day. we need more time to cook together and watch silly bollywood movies late into the night. i want to take walks and drink chai, go shopping and have dance parties… but for now, i have to leave my indian friend and trust that someday, our Father will allow our paths to cross again.

as we part, she hands me a crumpled piece of paper. a new nose ring, a big smile rises across my face. she had taken me to get it pierced and as long as my nose is indian, i’ll have her with me.

chai garam. chai garam.
a deep, disembodied voice echoes fro the railway platform, calling to the train’s sleepy passenger. roused from a miserable attempt at sleep, the weary traveler quickly withdraws a single rupee from his wallet and eagerly thrusts it through the bars of the compartment’s open window. soon he holds a red clay cup, brimming with steaming liquid. like a parched wanderer in the desert, he brings it to his lips. bliss. loved by some, hated by others, chai – the indian tea consumed by the masses as well as the maharajahs – is one of the constants on this subcontinent.

if you’re like most westerners, when you think of tea you probably picture an elegant porcelain pot with some exquisitely aromatic assam or derjeeling leaves steeping inside. nearby stand milk and sugar, ready to serve if called upon. a decidedly british sort of arrangement. to no great surprise, considering the long years of the raj, this setup can be found all over india, but only in first-class waiting rooms, western-style restaurants, and starred hotels. if this is what you want, be sure to order ‘tray tea.’ alas, it won’t always be available. on the other hand, maybe you’re visualizing something a bit more utilitarian. but the tea bag has failed to penetrate very deeply into india culture.

okay, you’re wondering: what is chai? what are its magical ingredients? what special alchemy produces it? pull up a chair in one of my favorite chai stands and watch the chai-wallah at work. squatting by a brazier of glowing coals, the maestro reaches for his favorite pot, a much-dented, fire-blackened thing made out of the cheapest metals possible. deftly he knocks out the remains of the last batch of chai, wipes out the pot with a dirty rag, and sets it on the brazier. he adds several cups of water [better not ask its source] and two ladles of whole milk. as the mixture begins to heat, the chai-wallah reaches for a large, red tin of brook bond red label, the best ctc tea money can buy [ctc tea is the name given to what’s left of the tea after the finest leaves have been sold for export. the letters stand for the crush-tear-cool process that these remains are subjected to]. into the pot go several generous pinches. now a critical step. out comes another tin, this one full of coarse crystals of partially refined sugar. in goes a spoonful. and another. and another. and another. you lose count. the mind boggles. with effortless grace, the maestro reaches for a bidi, a cigarette hand-rolled in a leafe of tobacco or the cheaper sall. now it is time to wait and have a smoke. there’s no hurrying this last, all-important stage: the cooking.

minutes pass. at last the bidi has burned down, and the chai is ready to be served. a serious young boy in stained pajamas steps forward: the sorcerer’s apprentice. he deferentially hands his master a mismatched cup and saucer. with practiced showmanship, the wallah flourishes a strainer and pours the tea. following the example of your fellow patrons, you pour the piping hot chai into the saucer and take a sip. a feeling of sublime well-being spreads slowly through body and soul.

the best chai stands, of course, are something more than a place to sit and relax. like any good coffeehouse in the western world, a chai stand is a social center. newspapers are read, politics debated. friendly patrons, observing that you are a foreigner, may draw you into conversation, inquiring into the country of your origin, the nature of your journey, the frequency of your sex life. give them an enigmatic smile and continue sipping. some of india’s more upscale chai stands like to infuse their brew with cardamom or other indigenous spices. ginger, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and black pepper are all common choices. the cardamom, some say, is best when chewed fresh by the chai wallah, then spit into the pot. i’ve never witnessed this myself, but wisdom might dictate keeping a close eye on the maestro while he is brewing your tea.

jarrold steward. chai! chai! chai! travelers’ tales: india. san francisco: 2004.

life is so beautiful,
when we see it like a mirror.
life is like a moving train,
life is like the showering rain,
life is a gift, accept it.
life is a promise, fulfill it.
life is a lovely dream,
life is a soft gentle stream.
life is a miracle of the Lrd,
life is a gift of Gd.
life is a collection of joy and sorrow.
but life is not a thing that we can borrow.

i think if i could describe her in one word, i would choose glowing. her features soft and the shape of her face round, she carries a gentle light in her eyes. she might tell you she’s far from confident, but when you’re in her presence there is ease in conversation and comfort in the silence. i met puja at community of nations chrch while living in mussoorie, india. i knew her voice long before i knew her story as she was one of the hindi translators in our service. her words, articulate and clear, told me of her journey to the Truth one afternoon in the spring.

i see an evidence of an independence in her spirit as we sit on the warm pavement. she tells me growing up, she wasn’t a ‘girly’ kind of girl like most are expected to be. when others are more concerned with knitting and cooking, she’d be found playing cricket with the boys. if given a choice, she’d choose the game field over the market place any day. though still in love with the outdoors, she’s put away her pig tails and play clothes; she’s a woman now. i often admire her salwar kamiz and the vibrancy of the colors she uses to cover herself. she loves to cook, often experimenting in the kitchen. ‘when i’m cooking, i worship Gd,’ a statement she never would have made two years ago. a lot of things are different now.

growing up, puja spent little time with her parents, who traveled for the military, living instead with her grandparents. in hindi, her name means ‘an act worship’ and is a word uttered billions of times a day around this hindu world. in a country where hundreds of thousands of gods exist she had no problem accepting J-sus as one of them, ‘why not? another one could always help.’ however, when she was sixteen, she saw this J-sus was far different from the rest.

if you’ve ever wondered if there is a spiritual battle out there, if you’ve ever questioned the forces of the demonic, just talk to puja. you see, this sweet, innocent and gentle indian was once overcome and controlled by something else beyond the physical world. plagued with constant fear, she would burst into fits of rage, throwing things and every member of her body around while shaking uncontrollably. she couldn’t talk in these moments, she couldn’t express what was within. she shows me her arms and the places where there should be scars from her attempt to end the suffering. she’ll tell you now she’s thankful she wasn’t successful, ‘suicide is never an option.’

her little sister had begun attending a chrn chrch with a friend and for reasons she can’t explain, she joined them one week, ‘it was a holy place. the demon within me couldn’t stay in that holy place.’ after much pr’yer and petition the strongholds were loosened and she began to experience freedom unlike she had never known before. though the bondage was broken, change has not been an overnight process. But it has been deep. she has surrendered every corner of her heart to a Gd who doesn’t control His followers by fear, but offers love unconditionally and provides life when only death can be found.

her family believes in ‘her’ Gd, they’ve seen the change. she and her sister are still the only ones who trust, but she cannot deny the power of pryer. ‘someday,’ she says with soft confidence. she’s learned to write poetry and express what used to be hidden through drawing. another year of school and she’ll begin pursuing training in computers and communication; it’s the responsible thing to do. but her heart’s desire?
‘i want to continue translating, learn to preach, and pr healing for others. i
want to tell my story because it glorifies Gd.‘

mussoorie the queen. by puja
mussoorie is a queen of the mountains, said his own story.
higher, higher mountains,
deeper, deeper secrets,
if we saw them like the mother of nature.
all religious people live here together,
id, diwali and christmas are celebrated together.
if we said, ‘here are so many colors in the house of the queen.
come and see company, kempty and gunhill.
when snow falls in the mountains, the view looks so beautiful,
we feel so cold but our heart wants to see the view.’
these are the small stories of this queen.
not receiving but giving to people is her identity.
so we say, mussoorie is the queen of the mountains,
mussoorie is the queen of the mountains.

this place has been good to me; i’ve found comfort between its peaks. it’s been patient, letting me learn at my own, stubborn pace. i remember my first day out on the trails…i had no idea how i was going to get home. last week, i navigated them without getting lost once. that was a big deal. i’ve seen the seasons change from the electric green of monsoon, into the a period affectionately called ‘the most beautiful time of the year’ [aka october] and into the constant state of cold in the winter. we’re now in ‘sprall’…a spring, summer, fall time. it’s weird. i miss spring. monsoon is around the corner, and i’m glad i’ll miss the mold!

the hillside community here is transient…constantly coming and going. but while i was here, they welcomed and accepted me. there isn’t history to our relationship, but there is depth of understanding and common purpose. that seems to be enough. for a season, we walked this path together, enduring all of life’s ups and downs. i’ve had a lot of ‘lasts’ with them recently…i haven’t been home before 10pm in the last week and for a girl who’s usually in bed by this time, that’s quite a social life. people take goodbyes [and hello's] in stride because they’ve had so many. sometimes its easy to wonder if you’ll be missed or remembered. but i’ll remember them.

this strange house became home. i got used to the 3″ foam mattress and now prefer the simplicity of a bucket bath. i learned to rest and enjoy the silence. my list of ‘titles read’ has grown to almost 20 and the ‘ones to read’ has exponentially multiplied. i like plants more and cars less. a different pace of life here, a 40-hour work week now seems busy. living and working in the same building is a beautiful thing. i could get used to this. i wake at 6 am, though i don’t have to begin work on the other side of the wall until 8:30. the reason for the earliness? i like mornings; i really like mornings. i want to be up to enjoy them.

i have more confidence now than when i arrived. perhaps removing myself from the things i usually let define me has allowed me to let them go and not just ignore them…i like the freedom this living brings…you should try it. there’s less desire to conform to a standard set for me but a greater hunger to step into the unique one created for me. i think i’m more me than i was before and i’m pretty sure that is a good thing.

so three weeks from today, i’ll step back into a world that has always been familiar, the only thing i had ever known. i didn’t learn the way of the ocean until i was twenty…five years later i’ve set my feet in more major bodies of water than i can count. all of my memories growing up are set in the plains of kansas, now my mind also holds experiences from living on three continents. it’s hard to think of adjusting back to a place i came from, a culture that brought me up. will i fit the same way i did before? will i forget how i lived here? what i saw? who they are? why i came?

is there a way to turn the questions off? or at least delay them for a few weeks? argh. the curse of the ever-processing mind…three volumes full now tell this indian story. in architecture school, we learn, it’s all about process…the end result isn’t as important as the process of getting there. i think life is the same way. it’s less about the finish line, the climax, the apex of what you accomplish on earth and more about the race you run while you’re here. but oh, sometimes it can be exhausting.

see photos from my last days here.

i didn’t think it was humanly possible for one million people to live in one square mile or that a country’s average income could be 0.7% of my own.

i used to think colorado’s rocky mountains were pretty big.

i only thought the water/power went out during storms, not because there wasn’t enough.

i used to think education and sanitation were a given, not a luxury

i once thought freedom was a right, not a gift.

i didn’t think 48hr train rides were even possible, much less that i would take one.

i used to think culture shock was a linear experience you eventually got over, not a cyclical process that rarely ends.

i thought a ten foot wide road could only hold traffic in one direction and monkeys were only found in cages.

i used to think architecture was just something i did.

i didn’t think miracles were very common anymore.

i used to think poverty was the people i served biscuits and gravy to on sunday mornings and the homeless were the people sitting by the steps at the library.

i thought hinduism was just another religion, not a way of life for one billion people.

i used to think chrch was something you went to, not something you are.

i used to think a lot of things…and then i lived in india.