Doing the Dishes

My post about my time in Wat Bak Nam (The Temple at the River Mouth) as a Buddhist nun, and Helen’s post about a meditation retreat, brought back memories.

In the early nineties, when I was back in Thailand as a diplomat, a good Thai friend gave me Thich Nhat Hanh’s book, “The Miracle of Being Awake.” It is a beautiful little book, about the benefits of mindfulness, of appreciating the moment, living in the moment. I think everyone can do with a reminder that this is important. It’s one of the reasons I read the blogs I do. They are all particularly good at appreciating the moment, about celebrating the simple things in life. I put the book away for a long time, but I realise now that much of it stayed with me. During a particularly difficult time in my life, as I struggled to take pleasure in my life as a whole and the direction it was going, I found that I took great pleasure in the little moments. Being able to stop and enjoy the “now” when the future seemed bleak gave me much hope. I think TNH would have approved.

So when Helen wrote about “working meditation” when doing the dishes, I remembered this little book. I remembered the chapter on “washing the dishes to wash the dishes.” This particular chore has never been my favourite, and washing the dishes to wash the dishes (the journey is important, rather than the aim simply to get them done), was a foreign concept to me. Now I understand it better, but back in the temple, at 18, when one of my fellow AFS nuns volunteered to do the dishes after lunch, I remember being extremely peeved. I could have used some mindfulness.

The temple fed hundreds of monks, nuns and followers. The piles of dishes were mind-boggling. It was hot, and we were tired after rising at 4 am. It took the four of us hours to complete. I’m not sure I took pleasure in washing the dishes simply to wash the dishes.

Washing the dishes - we'd only just begun!

Life as a Buddhist Nun

We woke early at 4 am. It was quiet and dark, but we could hear the nuns around us getting ready to go to morning prayers, moving and talking softly, before they made their way to the temple room where the nuns worshipped. The temple was very segregated – the monks worshipped separately, in a larger but, I thought, uglier room. The women had a more intimate space down by the canal.

Some mornings we sneaked in late, kneeling on the mats at the back of the room. Louise was always hard to wake at that hour of the morning, and the others took their time. Despite the fact that I love my bed and am definitely not a morning person, then and still now I tend to be a rule-follower, and wanted to be there on time. Besides, once we got there it was worth it.

The room was decorated in classic Thai temple style, with an altar type arrangement of Buddhas at the front. The temple was dimly lit, candles surrounding the Buddhas cast a golden glow, silhouetted in front of us were the lines of nuns in their white, flowing robes and shaven heads. All was quiet, until the eerie chanting began. We joined in when we could, as we had had to learn the basic chants before we were permitted to join the temple and wear the robes. The chants echoed around the temple:

Namo tassa
bhagavato
arahato
sammā-sambuddhassa

Homage to
the Blessed One,
the Worthy One,
the Rightly Self-awakened One

Towards the end of prayers, we would hear the occasional long-tail boat on the klong (canal) alongside the temple, its motor sounding softer than usual, moving slowly, more cautiously in the dark of the early morning. But it was the first sign that the early morning tranquillity, with its serene magic, was about to be broken; the day was beginning, the city starting to wake, and dawn was not far away.

Thank you

Over the weekend, I received two thank you notes, from the son and daughter of a good friend. They were written in their own hands, and their own words, though I suspect Madeline might have been given a hint to use the word “genre.” I had visited them recently, and delivered some rather overdue birthday presents – Ollie’s birthday is in January! – and so they had thanked me in person. I was very touched by the notes, particularly Ollie’s, which was addressed simply to “Aunty (Mali).”

For the last 29 years, I have been sending various nieces and nephews birthday and Christmas presents. I’m not always on time, but as one of my now-grown nieces once said, “we always know we’ll get something from you, we’re just never quite sure when.” I usually enjoy shopping for the presents, indulging the child in me as I don’t have any of my own to indulge. But I have very rarely been sent thank you notes, and rarely too do I even receive acknowledgement from the parent that I sent the gift. And I won’t say it hasn’t irritated me over the years. I get tired of asking the mothers of these children if they have received the gift. As most of my nieces and nephews live overseas, the cost of posting these parcels isn’t cheap, and so at the very least I like to know they have arrived. If I’m lucky I will get a response saying yes they arrived. I have never received thank you notes (or emails), even from children who a) are extremely articulate and intelligent (according to their parents), and b) are adept at emailing (because their parents have boasted of an email correspondence with another relative), and c) receive the gifts in the midst of the school holidays, and so have time to write a paragraph or two. I write them notes, and ask them questions, and receive a deafening silence in return. I often send clothes to the girls, and frequently ask for photos of them in the clothes. I have seen one photograph of the Californians in some clothes I sent them, even though they’re now nine going on nineteen.

Am I a relic of the distant past, expecting the occasional thank you from children I remember every year? (I guess that makes my friend, the mother of Madeline and Ollie a relic too! She will not be pleased to hear that!) I try so hard not to begrudge the time, effort, and yes, money, that goes to these children, when I have none of my own. I don’t expect lavish gifts in return, and I certainly don’t want the children or the parents to feel indebted to me. A simple acknowledgement, a smile (in an email or on a note), would be sufficient. Thankfully, Ollie gave me one, drawing a huge smile on his note as he said thank you for his signed Hurricane’s shirt that he “really, really, really, likes.”

Addendum: My friend informs me that the children decided to write the notes themselves, and that “she didn’t have anything to do with it other than to have been told off for leaving the notes sitting on the bench for a week!!”
Apologies then to Madeline who obviously came up with “genre” completely on her own.

Roast duck and gravy

As May arrived, and the cold winter night fell, the mist would hover over the damp grass not yet frosted, and my father would arrive home from his evening duck-shooting. We would run out to see how he did that day, and look at the different feathers on the ducks, as Dad explained whether they were ducks or drakes, and what type of ducks they were. Then we would retreat inside, to the warm kitchen where a hearty meal of roast wild duck with its gamey delicious meat, a rich dark gravy, roast potatoes (crispy in duck fat) and pumpkin and parsnips, awaited. If we were lucky, it would be followed by a fluffy ginger steamed pudding. With custard. Duck shooting season was all about the food.

Dinner

Silvery delicious indulgence

A few years ago my sister and I received one of our best Christmas presents ever. Our older sister had given us some frozen whitebait, which we cooked up for lunch a few days after Christmas. The whitebait fritters, with a little lemon juice and salt, were a real treat, and our partners looked on, amused, as we demolished the pile of fritters we had cooked up.

Whitebait are the babies of about 6 different species of native New Zealand fish, and are only about 3-4 cms long, tiny, silvery, and transparent (turning white when cooked). People who haven’t eaten them before get squeamish over their eyes. They are caught at river mouths in spring each year, and whitebaiting takes on almost a religious fervour in some communities, and particularly on the West coast of New Zealand. Whitebaiters suddenly become everyone’s best friend, as we all hope against hope that we will be offered some to buy, or even better, given some for ourselves. These delicacies grace restaurants all over New Zealand during the seasons. As much of a fan of whitebait as I am, I usually find only disappointment when I order whitebait. Expensive little morsels, the amount of whitebait in each fritter is often minimal, and I find their subtle taste overwhelmed by too much eggy batter. Once, however, I was presented with a dish of pure deliciousness. The whitebait had been lightly tossed in flour, then flash-fried, individually. With a squeeze of lemon juice their taste was pure, delicate, delicious.

My father used to go whitebaiting, down at the mouth of the river. He took his net, early in the morning, and when he would return we would excitedly gather round to see how much he had caught. Some days he would come back with just ten or twenty, tantalising but insufficient for a meal. Other days he’d come back with a couple of pounds, and we would eat well that night. Until I left home, I just assumed that everyone had access to whitebait. But when Dad left me some whitebait when I was at university, and I invited a friend to share it with me, her sheer delight and gratitude made me realise that this was something special. Her subsequent awe at the whitebait fritters I made – packed full of whitebait bound with just a little batter – confirmed to me how lucky I was.

No longer, sadly. So when I was at the supermarket yesterday, standing at the fish counter about to buy some salmon, I couldn’t help but notice the long trough full of “Fresh New Zealand Whitebait.” I salivated. We often see frozen squares labelled as Chinese whitebait, but it is not the same. I looked cautiously at the price. $135/kilo sounded outrageous. “But,” I thought, “I probably only need 100 gms. I can afford that for a one-off indulgent Friday lunch. So I duly purchased it, and as soon as I got home, I made my lunch. I tossed the whitebait in about a tablespoon of flour, until each one was individually coated. Then I fried some of them individually, squeezed lemon juice over them, and snacked on them while I mixed an egg with the rest, and made myself some fritters, chock full of whitebait. I smacked my lips, licking off the salty, lemony, fishy taste. Indulgent. Delicious. Reminiscent.

Moments of Zen

A friend’s Facebook page recently had a link to a Jon Stewart item. I watched it, feeling pretty appalled at the reality of what he was saying and the clips he was showing. I’m a big fan of Jon Stewart, but before we were able to get The Daily Show in New Zealand, I remember being shocked to hear that a surprisingly large percentage of young people in America got their news from The Daily Show. I couldn’t believe that a comedy/satire show would be considered a valid news source. Then I started watching him. Now I figure they could do worse. Actually – I’ve watched Fox News – I know they could do worse.

This reminded me of a discussion at Ulusaba in South Africa over the dinner table. There were two American couples, at opposite ends of the political spectrum, a young German couple on their honeymoon, an Austrian hotelier (who looked exactly like McDreamy) and his family, and a kiwi couple (us), in a lodge owned by an Englishman. We got talking about what we know of America. I jokingly said that everything I know about the US comes from either The Daily Show or The Simpsons. Wolfgang and his wife (the Germans) laughed. “We love The Simpsons,” they said. McDreamy agreed. Claire and Stuart were appalled that anyone would form judgements on the US based on The Simpsons. Turned out though, they’d never watched the programme. They were however big Jon Stewart fans. The Californians kept quiet. Obviously they were not.

Small world isn’t it? Whether it is on Facebook, sharing clips and comments across the world with friends we’ve never met, or in the middle of the African bush, people are united by Homer, Marge, Bart, Lisa, and Jon Stewart.

Nature, nurture or just ego?

Over the last few months, I’ve found myself frustrated over comments from people about members of their family. They have used family with quotation marks – “family” because they have included people in it who have been adopted. (Spouses were also not included as “family” but that in itself has not bothered me). Every conversation about the wider family has included a variation on the phrase “but of course don’t forget that J and D are adopted.” I know that these people have strong feelings about this, and have included provision in their will for grandchildren “of natural issue” only.

It brought me to that age old question, what makes a family? Is it the years spent together, the shared experiences, love, arguments, traditions? Remembering the Christmases when Uncle Robin drank too much, or Auntie Evelyn’s beautifully-iced Christmas cake, or Yvonne and James wrestling, or the games of French Cricket on the lawn? Or is it simply the shared blood, the shared DNA, that ties us? The fact that we can look around and see that we share the Rose hips, or the R noses, or that I see my mouth on my nieces’ faces.

And how important is that blood? It is only important in consciousness. If you know that someone doesn’t share your DNA, do you look at them differently, in that awareness? If you are not aware of the lack of any genetic connections, wouldn’t you love them as deeply? Don’t people manage to find or imagine physical or emotional similarities to ensure they’re included in the family? Aren’t family trees full of children who don’t have the fathers that are recorded or assumed, coming from different blood? Or these days, family trees will include children from donor eggs or sperm, whose genetic links are to another family tree entirely, but who have been loved and raised through this one, whether the wider family is aware or not that they don’t share DNA? Aren’t too, family trees empty of those who should be there, the children who are lost to that branch, unacknowledged because of indiscretions, shame and stigma, or simply lack of knowledge of their existence?
So why should these blood connections seem to be so important? And why do I mind so much that they are?

I suspect that this has hit me hard on a personal level, because our particular branch of the family tree ends with us. Adoption or other alternatives were always a possibility for us, not having any children of “natural issue.” I am furious at the thought that if I had adopted, people would view my children differently to those of my sisters, or of my husband’s brothers. The fact that they would be seen as second class citizens, not true members of the family. Would they feel the difference? Would it scar them? It makes me wonder whether child J and D, mentioned in the first paragraph, are aware of how some members of their family see them. I hope upon hope that they are not.

So why is it that I still flinch when I think of the bare, lonely branch on a family tree that ends with my husband and I? Why should it matter? Whilst I mostly feel accepting of my life without children, of my death and beyond, it does annoy me that this still has emotional power over me. Is it the desire for some form of immortality that makes blood so important? And isn’t that based on a deep-seated fear of being forgotten, a fear of ending? And isn’t that based on a feeling that you have not been enough in this life? Done enough? Been loved enough and loved enough right back? Is it based on a fear that we have not made a difference in someone’s life? Or that we have not changed the world after all?

Perhaps I just need to get over myself. We all need to get over ourselves. Simply being here has changed the world, and made it a better place. A kind word can make all the difference to the right person on the right day. Delight in someone’s writing, their work, their smile, their garden. Loving and being loved, whether by family or friends, near or far. These are not unimportant things. They should be, and are, enough.

By my hand

Writing by hand is more therapeutic than typing. Why is that? Why, when I feel that I need to ask questions of myself, or explore my emotions or thoughts or plans, do I crave the feel of paper beneath my hand, of pencil (or favourite pen, I’m quite fussy about that) between my fingers? Why do I take such pleasure in the formation of the letters then the words on the page, cursive, even, well-spaced? Is it because only then, with the sight of my unique “g’s” or “th’s” or “l’s” do I recognise that this is me speaking? That these are words flowing from my head and my heart, through my nerves, synapses, muscles and tendons to my fingers and the page? And now when my muscles, unfamiliar with the action of writing in this day of the computer keyboard, begin to ache, do I recognise that in writing, as in life, there is a need to slow down, stop, rest and reflect on what has already been written, and what is to come?

A wonderful indulgence

A few years ago, a few weeks before Christmas, I had my first email read out on New Zealand’s National Radio. I had heard a panel discussion about what to buy as Christmas presents. Members of the panel felt that gifts of vouchers were the domain of the unimaginative, that they required little thought and therefore could be considered an insult. There was a general consensus that only a very lazy, uncaring person would give book vouchers as a Christmas gift.

I was appalled. A new book is a special thing; the smooth, untouched cover, the awareness that there are hidden delights and perhaps horrors in the pages to follow, the prospect of new knowledge and new worlds and new ideas. A book voucher to a book lover is a wonderful gift – the knowledge that you can go into a bookstore and select a beautiful new book, perhaps one that you have had on your list of “things-to-read” for months or years, perhaps one that simply caught your eye on the shelves, perhaps one by a favourite author, or one that was too expensive to purchase with real money. The possibilities are endless. That’s what special. And the best part of this is that you can do it all guilt-free. No recriminations necessary over whether I should have gone to the library instead.

I dashed off a brief email saying as much, and the host (a very well-read man) read it out. I was pleased, hoping that no-one had been deterred from giving the gift of books by the distinctly “un-bookish” and opinionated panel, and feeling perhaps I’d done a little bit to help. So when my mother rang and asked what we wanted for Christmas, I had no hesitation in saying “book vouchers.”

Today, after threats from my husband that he would use the book vouchers I have received over the last year or so if I didn’t, I gathered them up, and printed off my “to-read” list from Goodreads.com. I started at Borders. It didn’t have two of the particular books I wanted, although a number of others I’ve long wanted to read caught my eye (The Road by Cormac McCarthy, and Night by Elie Wiesel, for example), so I went and had a delicious lunch with my husband at La Bella Italia. The book selection process must not be rushed, after all.

Afterwards I merged with the hordes of Wellington workers marching briskly up Lambton Quay on their lunch break, and headed to Whitcoulls, New Zealand’s largest booksellers’ chain. I was unimpressed with their selection so walked past the now-empty premises formerly occupied by Dymocks (before Borders arrived in town), and made my way confidently to Unity Books, a wonderful, independent bookstore that is owned and staffed by knowledgeable and enthusiastic booklovers (and previously, one of my favourite authors) and has survived the arrival and departure of the large international bookstore chains. Half an hour later, after drooling over only a fraction of their selection, I emerged with their distinctive brown paper bag (it asks, conspiratorially, in large printed letters, “What’s In Here?”). It was filled with books. I felt very satisfied and, of course, guilt-free. My only regret was leaving so many other wonderful books on the shelves. But they’re there, quietly waiting to thrill me on my next visit.

PS. Thanks for the books, Mum.

A Friday morning coffee

This morning, after the gym and before a meeting, I sat in a cafe with a good book and a cappuccino. It was a typical cafe in central Wellington at 10.30 on a Friday morning. To my right were two business colleagues (an older woman and younger man) clad in corporate black, enjoying coffees, a date scone and a caramel oat slice. To their right were two women catching up on office gossip and complaining about the boss, wearing silky shirts and boots. To my left was a middle-aged couple, speaking intently over their empty coffee cups, gazing into each others’ eyes, sighing about whatever problem was worrying them this sunny warm, almost spring-like Friday morning.

Directly in front of me were two middle-aged men, dressed in casual Friday jeans and business shoes, sipping on coffee and chatting quietly. I barely noticed them until a cellphone rang, and was answered. The bigger guy, loud and with an accent from the old country, proceeded to inform the caller that he had missed a meeting that morning and was too busy to do whatever was needed. He looked conspiratorily at his companion, grinning smugly. A casual observer (ie me) would have expected him to hang up then. I am sure his companion expected this. But five minutes later he was still on the phone, by this stage laughing uproariously, and sharing anecdotes about what else so-and-so had done, what a good bloke he was, and what would happen on Sunday at the game. His companion had by now finished his coffee, his empty cup pointedly pushed to the centre of the table. His smile had waned, and he had that awkward look that always afflicts the party not included in a cellphone conversation. He looked away, around the cafe, and shifted uneasily. A few minutes later his body language spoke volumes. He sat at a 90 degree angle to the table and his still-talking-loudly companion. His elbows and back were his defence to his embarrassment.

Finally, his companion snapped his phone shut, after unnecessarily stretching out the “goodbye” phase of the conversation, and added insult to injury by giving him a high five and proceeding to explain why there was cause for celebration, forcing him to listen (once again) to this torturous conversation which had already taken up too much of his day.