Literary Safari

Take heart, those of you who feel guilty about not blogging enough or at too leisurely a pace. Per a recent NYT article titled “Blogging at Snail’s Pace,”  there’s a “small, quirky movement” out there called slow blogging:

… inspired by the slow food movement, which says that fast food is destroying local traditions and healthy eating habits. Slow food advocates, like the chef Alice Waters of Chez Panisse in Berkeley, Calif., believe that food should be local, organic and seasonal; slow bloggers believe that news-driven blogs like TechCrunch and Gawker are the equivalent of fast food restaurants — great for occasional consumption, but not enough to guarantee human sustenance over the longer haul.

It’s official. I am a slow blogger. The fact that it has taken me a whole week to sit down and even try to write about last week’s events in Mumbai is proof, if nothing else.

Like everyone else I know, I’ve been following the news about the Mumbai blasts last week constantly, keeping track of essays, listening to podcasts, and reading analyses [ [here» ... here» ... here» ... here» ... here»]. I’m repeatedly wowed by all the writers out there who have managed to convey their thoughts and emotions so eloquently both during and in the days since the events.

So far, I haven’t been able to do it.

I ran into a neighbor in the elevator earlier today. “I’ve been thinking about you,” Libby said. “I was wondering whether you have any family in Mumbai and I went onto your blog to see whether you had written anything about it.”

“No, I haven’t,” I replied. “It’s just taking me a while to absorb it all.” I felt embarrassed, like I was somewhat less of a writer for not having put pen to paper right away … or, at the very least, participated in the phenomenon of self-button publishing and citizen journalism via Twitter, Facebook, and the like.

Like so many of my friends, it’s becoming a habit to chirp about my state of mind and the goings-on in my life on Facebook. But, during this frightening, disturbing terrorist and hostage crisis, while the rest of the world has been busy talking, all I was  able to do was listen and take it all in.

My Facebook statuses during the Mumbai crisis:

November 26, 9:48 pm (not too long after the news broke): “Sandhya is watching NDTV live and so sad about the unfolding events in Mumbai.”

November 28, 11:04 am (the standoff continues): “Sandhya is still watching NDTV live.”

November 28, 11:15 am (the standoff continues as does my feeling of helplessness): “Sandhya just signed the awaaz.org’s call for unity.”

November 29, 9:34 am (the faceoff ends): “Sandhya is thankful and relieved.”

Changing my status so infrequently is unusual for me.

The thing is, though, I was overcome with the same kind of numbness that overcame me on 9/11 when I was glued to the news and every source of information I could lay my hands on. Back then, I wanted to know and understand what was happening, but I didn’t have the desire or werewithal to process the events for anyone else.

Back then, we didn’t have Facebook statuses to help us examine our state of mind. Now, all I have to do is look at my minimal Facebook status updates during the three day standoff between the terrorists and the Indian forces to see my mental paralysis reflected.

In this world of instant response, constant tweeting, and simultaneous analysis, I’ve only just started writing about last week’s events and *my* Bombay. I suppose I’m still getting used to the idea that all this has happened; still processing it; still asking “why?” And, I keep reading, taking in all the information out there, hoping to find a clue, a better understanding. Finally, there’s also a part of me that says: What else can I truly add to the ongoing conversation? All I have are my memories of my Bombay to add to the mix. Why do they matter?

But, today, I finally started writing and I realized that my memories of my Bombay matter because they will help me to finally start making sense of this mayhem, this puzzle, this sadness I’m feeling. They will help me to remember the bruised city on the Arabian Sea as it was when I first got to know it. They will help me to break through the numbness. …

All of this is a long-winded way of explaining why this blog has been quiet for the past several days. I didn’t feel right about writing about anything other than Mumbai—and I wasn’t ready to write about my Bombay just yet.

Slowly, at snail’s pace, I’m getting there. Stay tuned …

Last night, inside the Manhattan Center on W. 34th Street, several thousand people received hugs from the 54 year old Mata Amritanandamayi, better known as Amma.

She began hugging strangers in her teens, first on the streets of her village in Kerala, India, then later in living rooms in Madison, Wis., and Dallas. Word spread about her message of unconditional love and, as many of her followers believe, the healing power of her embrace [see full story in yesterday's NYT]

I was there watching. She sat on a stage, the hugging mother guru running a marathon of embraces. Countless hours, countless whispers, countless smiles doled out to young and old, black and white and brown and yellow. Never tiring. As long as 12 hours, into the wee hours of the night.

At about 9:30, I, on the other hand, was tired and decided to go home. I still carry with me the hug that I recieved six years ago at Amritapuri, Amma’s ashram in the backwaters of Kerala. My mom and sister and I had traveled to India a year after my father’s death, carrying an urn full of his ashes with us. While on a relaxing backwater cruise in Kerala’s waterways, the boatmen had told us that we were just outside Amma’s ashram. How could we not go?

When we got off our houseboat, Mom somehow figured out a way for us to finagle our way into the front of a very long line. Oh no, we weren’t cutting. “We’re only passing through for an hour. It’s very important that we meet Amma,” she said to everyone who stood in her way, until one of the very kind volunteers came forward and led us to the stage.

Standing in a mad rush of people, my mom pushed my sister and me forward and pressed us into Amma’s chest. Leaning forward, she whispered conspiratorially to Amma, “Bless my girls. Find husbands for my two daughters. ” (more…)

Author Haruki Murakami spoke to me today through the  (June 9 &16) “The Fiction Issue” of The New Yorker, where he describes his decision to trade his life as the owner of a small jazz club in Tokyo for that of a full-time writer. He was 33 at the time. I turned 34 today.

In “The Running Novelist” he writes:

It was the season opener, and the Swallows were taking on the Hiroshipma Carp. … The lead-off batter for the swallows was Dave Hilton, a young American player who was new to the team. Hilton got a hit down the left-field line. The crack of bat meeting ball echoed through the stadium. Hilton easily rounded first and pulled up to second. And it was at just that moment that a thought struck me: You know what? I could try writing a novel. I still remember the wide-open sky, the fel of the new grass, the satisfying crack of the bat. Something flew down from the sky at that instant, and whatever it was, I accepted it.

I didn’t have any ambition to be a “novelist.” I just had the strong desire to write a novel. I had no concrete image of what I wanted to write about–just the conviction that I could come up with something that I’d find convincing. …

Is there a word for that feeling that overcomes you when a piece of writing so distinctly, so personally speaks to you? I want to know that word and I so wish I could use it today.

It may just be a coincidence that I read this piece on the morning of my 34th birthday, or maybe it’s what Carl Jung called ‘synchronicity.’ I’m just about the age that Murakami was when he decided to walk his different road, and I’ve just started walking mine. I officially went “freelance” a few weeks ago to make official room (and no more excuses) for my own writing.

Ever since I made my decision, people have been asking me, “Are you working on a novel?”

“No,” I answer, not sure how much to elaborate. It’s been scary to say that you don’t have one particular project in mind. Until I read Mr. Murukami’s words. Though I don’t yet possess that single “concrete image” of what I will write yet, I have arrived at the moment where I know that I must make the time to find it. That conviction has come alive in me.

There was another aspect to Murukami’s piece which also spoke to me: his reflection on the place of physical activity, namely running, in his writing life. (He is the author of a memoir What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, forthcoming this August from Random House. The book details his journey to becoming a marathon runner.) (more…)

It’s snowing in NYC this morning. Big, fat, wet flakes that make the sky look as though somebody shook it fast and hard. This is my favorite kind of snow. Makes me want to open my mouth and catch the miniature white clouds; feel them melt on my tongue.

As I watched all the people pull out their umbrellas this morning, I was reminded of Jocko Weyland’s little essay in the New York Times “Urban Studies” column some months ago: The Mystery of the Umbrellas.

In his essay, Weyland, a newcomer to New York, aptly observes:

THE first time it happens, the neophyte will probably think it’s an aberration, maybe one oddball’s bizarre pathology. Then there will be another, and another, and it turns out everyone’s doing it. What a funny bunch, these New Yorkers.

Autumn has faded, the cold has descended, and then the first snowfall of the year arrives. The flakes start falling, and to the transplant from the snowy provinces, they will be a nostalgic reminder of home. Ah, the snow! So lovely, and what a hush and lulling contrast to the usual hustle and bustle.

Then the transplant sees that first person walking down the street nonchalantly holding an umbrella overhead … [read the complete essay]

As for me, I never carry an umbrella in the snow. Even if it’s coming down hard and strong, I’d rather get wet than keep it from turning my black coat into a polka dotted blanket.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, always a time of year when gratitude and giving take center stage (before quickly giving way to shopping frenzies, my cynical half adds). Every year, around this time, I stop to take stock of how I have managed to give and share my gifts of life with the world – whether that be through time, material things, or merely a sympathetic ear.

I also perk up and take notice of the giving that takes place all around me every day.

Who says New Yorkers aren’t giving, generous, and kindly souls capable of random acts of kindness?

On Monday, just as I alighted the final step at the bottom of the subway entrance the number 1 train pulled into the station. I made it through the turnstile, but missed the train. That was when I realized I had dropped my new, pink cashmere glove! I was despondent – I had really hoped that this year, I wouldn’t lose my gloves.

I turned back and glanced past the turnstile and saw my solitary glove at the bottom of the staircase. If you think New Yorkers don’t pay attention, think again. A woman my age saw the look on my face and noticed the lonely glove in my hand. “I’ll get it for you,” she said, then walked back to pick it up.

The glove, by this point, was no pretty thing. Many feet had trod upon it; it was wet and dirty. But, she didn’t care. She swiped her Metrocard and handed it to me with a smile, then walked to the end of the platform to her chosen waiting spot.

My ‘thank you’ reached her ears, but this is my official thank you note to her.

To the stranger on the subway – Thank you for rescuing my pretty pink glove. It and I – we are both happy to be reunited, and to be warm again. You made our day.

While we’re on the theme of giving thanks, I was inspired by this piece in Sunday’s NYT New York Observer column: “Needle and Thread and the Chinatown Night,” by Kelly Kingman.

She left her friend’s wedding banquet in search of a safety pin to fix the torn strap of her dress. Then the woman from the Golden Unicorn appeared.

It’s a lovely pre-Thanksgiving read. And, if it puts you in the mood for giving, you won’t be alone. If you want ideas, both local and global, for getting started, the following sites provide opportunities and ideas:

The Random Acts of Kindness Foundation features reader stories in its regular newsletter, classroom activity guides, and a community corner.

Global Giving is the companion website to Bill Clinton’s Giving, which is features people and organizations that have made a difference on both small and large scales. It also features a brand new blog called “Global Goodness.”

Kiva allows you to give small loans to entrepreneurs in the developing world, empowering them to lift themselves out of poverty.

One Laptop Per Child. There are only six days (cut off Nov. 26th) left to participate in this promotion where for every ‘revolutionary XO lowcost laptop you buy for a a child in a developing nation, you’ll also also receive one for the child in your life in recognition of your contribution (of $399).

And, without any segue and before I rush off to work, I will use this occasion to ask you: What random act of kindness have you experienced lately?

I was switching subways at 42nd St. yesterday and noticed a huge trash can that was literally overflowing with newspapers. Not the NY Times, but dailies such as AM New York and Metro that are distributed for free in the following ways:

The first being by workers (“hawkers,” who sport a red AM New York vest) paid to station themselves near and around NYC transportation points, who offer the free paper to anyone who passes by; The second being distributed in enclosed newspaper holders (“honor boxes”) located on the sidewalks and corners near areas of high pedestrian traffic. (source: wikipedia)

Did you know that 38.2 percent of our total waste is from paper and paperboard? Plus, if Americans recycled just half of the 62 million newspapers read every day, we’d need 3200 fewer garbage trucks to collect our trash.

I wish I had a camera to take a picture of the dozens of papers scattered all over the floor that I saw today. It made me so angry. It also made me wonder why the companies that publish these free dailies (AM New York calls itself “Manhattan’s largest circulation daily”) and can probably afford to have newspaper holders all over the city do not deem it worthwhile to strategically place paper recycling bins “around NYC transportation points” as well. They could get advertisers to sponsor these bins, couldn’t they?

After all, it is no mystery that these papers are intended for an audience of harried commuters; short news blurbs are written to be read along one’s journey from home to work. When people are done with them, they unload them in the nearest trash can.

I decided to do some research, and learned that Metro NY actually launched a recycling program last October at Grand Central Station:

For riders whose commute ends at Grand Central, Metro promoters are available to collect the read copies, clean them and redistribute them to new readers during the lunchtime hours. [more]

I don’t really know whether this is still effective, and I couldn’t find any information about a recycling program from AM New York. But, I do know that at this time last year, The Sun had published a special report about the effects of free newspapers on subway flooding:

Free newspapers distributed to subway commuters are a major cause of subway track flooding, a Metropolitan Transportation Authority investigative task force has found. Leftover stacks of papers such as AM New York and Metro that blew onto the tracks and clogged drains were partially responsible for the crippling subway flood of September 8, 2004, which affected 15 subway lines, according to the task force’s findings. [more]

I never heard anything about this problem during the latest floods in June 07. But knowing that this has been true in the past makes me wish even more to see my daily path to work interrupted by blue plastic bins. We could even have the Blue Man Group inaugurate this project., and that would be great publicity for these papers.

Cities like Washington DC and Chicago already have newspaper recycling bins. Why can’t NYC? I’d propose that free dailies partner with each other to provide them. When the task is shared, it perhaps will not seem like such a burden. And, maybe it will make the City of NY look bad – and that can prompt it to get its act together and start a city recycling program. It’s about time.

And, for the commuting masses like myself, I have one last word: Until companies start wearing the cloak of social entrepreneurship, if we are interested enough in reading the news, can we not carry our newspapers to a recycling bin at our offices, and throw them out there, instead of littering the subway platform, leaving them on our subway seats, and/or dumping them in overflowing dustbins?

Sometimes a day in New York City can really get to you. That’s when Allan Ishac’s book New York’s 50 Places to Find Peace and Quietcan come in handy. I have been flipping through this book for a couple of weeks now – chalk it up to my true belief that travel is possible through osmosis. The book is a permanent fixture on my nightstand, and as I’ve been reading it, I’ve discovered that a few of the places are actually within walking distance of my office. Score! This maybe the first in my series of explorations of quiet places in NYC.

So, today, I decided to go check one out: The NY Open Center’s meditation room.

I went during my lunch break. After picking up a sandwich from the corner deli whose name I will never learn, I walked over to the Open Center. You have to hit the buzzer to be let in (it only took a second for them to respond) and once I was in the lobby, I just walked over to the receptionist and told her I wanted to go to the meditation room. I signed the register, and got one of those shirt clips (like they give you at the Met) and was directed toward a long flight of stairs.

In India, some of the most popular pilgrimage spots are arrived at after a bit of a climb (Tirupati, Vaishno Devi; I’ve never been to either, but I’ve done the small temples in Mumbai and Pune), so I enjoyed the climb up. Made me feel like I was headed somewhere significant.

And, then – the meditation room welcomed me. High ceilings, adjustable light fixtures, paper lanterns, and carpeted floors. A trace of incense that soothed my nerves. Complete silence. Ahh. I could touch the peace and quiet. There are two hangings on the wall – one is a Tibetan mandala and the other some sort of depiction of Christian saints – the kind with gold halos around them that remind me of medieval art and the Cloisters museum (I could be way wrong on this). In the corner was a pile of cushions.

I grabbed one and placed it on the center of a rectangular woven rug in the middle of the room. Then, I just tried to sit for 15 minutes.

I’ve taken various meditation classes. There are so many approaches: focus on a light in the center of your forehead, stay with your breath, or just watch your thoughts come and go like a movie on a screen. Today, I chose the last technique.

This mind really is like a silver screen. Scenes play themselves out, ideas float around like bubbles, loved ones smile and frown, work calls. I remember a teacher saying, “Just send each one away and say ‘I am here now’ to yourself.” That’s what I did—or, at least, tried to do!

A little over 10 minutes later, my eyes opened. I was breathing so much easier now. The pile of stuff back at my desk didn’t seem so important anymore. It’s not so often that I can say that feeling takes over me.

I walked back down the stairs, and now all the sounds around me were crystal clear – the music playing in the bookstore, the click-clack of my shoes; outside, I expected to feel accosted by the din of construction and traffic, but I found … silence and a piece of peace instead.

I was ready to go back to life. And, all it took was a 15 minute retreat. Reaching into my lunch bag for my drink, I discovered a bag of potato chips. It must have come with my sandwich. A delight, a surprise. Crunch. I broke the silence  (and my week-long blogging fast!) with my first chip.

The Open Center Meditation Room
83 Spring Street bet. Broadway & Lafayette
NYC
212.219.2527
Open to public; free

Stay tuned: I’ll try to check out another peaceful destination next week.

You know those lazy Sunday mornings where you get to sit around and read the paper, drink a hot chocoloate (or a cafe au lait) and eat a croissant … and come upon a piece of writing that makes you go, “Yes, this is what the personal essay is all about?” Well, those exhilarating moments that I long for … I just had one when I read novelist Roxana Robinson’s essay “The Novelist and the Curious Cabbie” in today’s New York Times.

A writer hops into a taxi, headed to a Midtown literary festival. But the book talk starts earlier than she expects.

She meets a Bangladeshi cab driver and her mental image of him is blown up when he begins to speak to her about Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Virginia Woolf, and of all things that she would never expect … literature.

I’m guessing she was on her way to the PEN World Voices Festival when this incident happened. Her epiphany:

We were headed west. It was dark now, and all the lights of the city were on. I was going to walk into the great radiant space of Town Hall, and I was going to listen to writers I admired speaking their own words into the golden air. And now this driver had revealed his own connection to that world, and it felt as if the entire planet were connected by tiny, invisible filaments that would glow if only you could see them.

This is a must-read.

Natalie Angier has a piece in the Science section of today’s New York Times: “How Do We See Red? Count the Ways.”

First it was the title (clever play on Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnet # 43) that caught my eye. Then, the illustration, which is by Serge Bloch, one of my favorite illustrators (who I also had the pleasure of working with for an issue of Writing). So I started reading and learned many interesting things about the power of red in biology and cultural history. (If you want a summary, you’re not going to get one. The article is worth reading, hence this second link!)

So, we all know that there are all these universal cultural references that hinge on red: the STOP sign, traffic signals, and red roses for LOVE, for example. But, this quote in particular caught my eye:

“Our visual system was shaped by colors already in use among many plants and animals, and red in particular stands out against the green backdrop of nature … If you want to make a point, you make it in red. … In the evolution of language, red is without exception the first color word to enter the vocabulary. ”
~ Dr. Nicholas Humphrey, a philosopher at LSE and the author of “Seeing Red: A Study in Consciousness”

The above remark made me sit up and wonder whether if we were to trace the origins of red marginal comments made by legions of teachers, professors, and editors throughout various cultures and time periods, would it lead back to our primal connection with the color red? (I wish I had the time to research this

I’ve always been a non-fan of the use of red pen to mark up students papers and friends’ writing – I personally find it harsh, loud, jarring, and painful to read comments in red ink. But, if so many people do it, does that mean that they believe that it is the strongest way to make a point and get a reader’s attention -or has it been proven to be so?

I’ll admit that after having worked in a magazine setting for the past 3 years, I’ve also taken to using a red Sharpie now and then, not because I find it to be the most effective way, but because some people look for the red pen marks as signals of areas of proofs that need the most attention. Plus, when you use the ‘comment’ feature in MSWord, it automatically plunks in your comments in red. There’s no getting around it in the digital medium. Last week, when I taught a writing workshop, I also used it to teach revision on screen because that was the most striking color my software provided me with on my Tablet.

I’m not saying anything new here, really. I’m just wondering: If we had to choose another color to make a point in written feedback, what color would we choose? Would purple or green ever have a chance of becoming the new red, at least when it came to the tools of editing and marking?

—————

Somewhat unrelated/related (depending on your perspective): Here’s the great cover Serge Bloch did for Writing last year!

It was for our research issue, and please do go ahead and notice that the grade “A” is in … red pen … as is our logo! (I know, I know …)

For a long time, I’ve wanted to keep a journal of books that I’m reading, that are on my night stand, or in my purse. I have scattered lists in all my notebooks, and consolidation has been a challenge. Here’s my solution!

I’ve added a new category to the blog – Books 2006. This is a list of books I’ve read (or mostly read) this year. A lovely companion piece about the magic of books can be found here. It’s by Debbie Nevins, my managing editor at the Weekly Reader.

Of course, other books that I haven’t yet included in that list will continue coming to mind. The nice thing is that I can keep adding (pretty easily) to this list — and that I won’t feel guilty for not posting a review of each one!

Enjoy!

Every day, something or the other happens to me or comes along and I make a note to myself, “Must blog about this.” The words note to myself remind me of Hugh Prather’s Notes to Myself, which I haven’t yet read but which sits on the shelf in my room at my mother’s house.

This last week was full of exciting and inspiring discoveries and I kept making notes to myself. It’s too late to try and catch up with all my thoughts, but I have to share these few things:

Monday – I heard Marjane Satrapi speak at SUNY-Purchase. Her new book Chicken with Plums was released in its English translation on the same day. Satrapi was a breath of fresh air – candid, unafraid, opinionated, and eloquent. I am halfway through Chicken with Plums and it’s a charming, moving work. More on that in a separate post (I hope!).

[I also just noticed that Satrapi just published a children's book last month - Monsters Are Afraid of the Moon. I can't wait to read it.]

Tuesday – I am on the board of my co-op and we had our monthly meeting, where I discovered that I am the Secretary. This means that I must take/keep minutes. Ah that brings back memories of when I was a minutes-taker for the Columbia Univeristy Seminar on South Asia back in graduate school. I would attend a very interesting lecture on some esoteric South Asian topic once a month, eat a free dinner, and then, write up my notes. I felt erudite and special. I don’t quite feel the same way at the Board meetings, but I do feel useful – last week we debated whether or not to lock our gas rates, how “beautiful” our building is looking these days, and the neighbor’s loud and poopy dogs. One of these days, I have to type up those minutes.

Wednesday – I finished reading Looking for Bapu, by Anjali Banerjee. This middle-grade novel is one of my favorite reads for that age group in a long time. It’s reflective, moving, intelligent, and humorous. I couldn’t put it down and highly recommend it for the age 10 and up audience. It was really refreshing to read a work of fiction about a South Asian boy for a change. The main character’s grandfather dies and he must come to terms with death for the first time. The parts I found most poignant were where the main character shaves his head and decides he is going to imitate the sadhus of ancient India. He’s going to roll his way to school. I’ve read other novels by Banerjee and have to say that this is her best yet. It’s not easy to write about mortality. Kudos to her for such an ambitious effort.

Thursday – I went to my yoga class at the Whitehall after aeons. We did the breath of fire for 3 minutes – that’s where you hold your hands up at a 60 degree angle and breathe through your nose deeply and quickly. It’s an energizing movement that strengthens your core and taps into your power. I was exhausted while doing it, but felt incredible afterward. Resolution: yoga this week too!

Friday – The best day of my week. I taught a writing workshop for City Year, a partner project of AmeriCorps. The audience: 125 Corps members between the ages of 17-24. The topic: Make a Statement (with your personal essay). The writing model we studied: Mike Miller’s This I Believe essay “My Home is New Orleans.” The response to the workshop was really heartening and positive, and I hope I will have a chance to work with this amazing organization again. Further, I’m excited about the possibility of conducting this workshop again – in a different setting.

Saturday – Diwali! Happy New Year. Lots of food, sweets, and family. A perfect day.