Happy Birthday, Roxana ...

Roxana Saberi, an American citizen of Japanese & Iranian descent, has been working in Tehran as a freelance journalist for six years. In January the government arrested her on charges of purchasing a bottle of wine, a crime in the Islamic Republic of Iran. Later, she was charged with working without the proper press credentials, and on April 8, Iran finally charged Ms. Saberi with espionage and sentenced her to eight years in prison.

No evidence was presented against her in court, and the one-day trial occurred behind closed doors. Ms. Saberi is being held in Tehran's notorious Evin Prison and is currently in the sixth day of a hunger strike. Her father describes her as an already frail person.

Today is Ms. Saberi's 32nd birthday. She holds two master's degrees, one in broadcast journalism, the other in international relations. She is working on a third, in Iranian studies. She had planned to return to the United States later this year after completing work on a book about Iranian culture. This is a young woman who was born in the United States and raised in Fargo, North Dakota. In fact, she was crowned Miss North Dakota in 1997, and expressed the desire at that time to work toward promoting cultural awareness.

President Obama has expressed "grave concern" about Ms. Saberi's circumstances, which doesn't seem quite a strong enough response to me. President Ahmadinejad refuses to intervene in what he insists is his country's "independent" judiciary. Right.

Amnesty International is monitoring the situation. Friends & colleagues have set up a website to mobilize support for Ms. Saberi. An email account has been set up at happybirthdayroxana@gmail.com; her parents and/or defense team will print out a selection of emails to bring to Evin Prison today.

Email is fine; we're all well used to its immediacy by now. However, I'm recalling that lovely scene in Miracle on 34th Street in which the functionaries of the United States Postal Service haul in one mailbag after another to turn out onto the judge's desk, as evidence of Kris Kringle's true identity. If everyone reading this blog would take a moment to write a letter, a postcard, or a short note to Ms. Saberi, it would achieve a twofold effect. Provided the mail reaches Ms. Saberi, it would perhaps lift her spirits and let her know that the world is watching; more importantly, in my opinion, a sufficient volume of mail would put the Iranian government on notice that the international community will not tolerate its wrongful incarceration of an innocent woman.

Here is Ms. Saberi's contact information:

Ms. Roxana Saberi
Evin Prison
Section 209
Chamran Highway
Adjacent to Azadi Hotel
Dasht Behesht Street
Tehran
Islamic Republic of Iran

Mail to Iran costs $0.94 for the first ounce.

a matter of perspective ...

Sunday morning. Four am. Sleep is elusive chez Dumbfounded, for both of us. I go out to the garage to root around in some of the storage boxes which are still piled up out there, even three years into our cohabitation. Spotting a black widow and her web in a fairly prominent & inconvenient location, I retreat to the house to consider my options (which mostly involves having a large cup of coffee).

I read about black widows. Among other tasty bits, they eat cockroaches & beetles, a very large one of which was in the garage just yesterday, just where the spider has built her web, clever creature.

A bit later on, I wander into the bedroom and notice ... a certain odor familiar to all cat & dog owners. But ... happily, there's nothing on the floor; I must be mistaken. Then, the dog joins me, hops onto the bed (which she considers her very own), and begins sniffing a huge wet spot with great interest. #@$%#@#~!! This is the second time in as many days that the cat, wretched creature, has ... had an accident (if that's what it was). The dog is delighted with herself not to be in trouble, for a change. We rush to strip the bed.

Drama over, I catalogue the morning's woes to C:

1. Up at 4 o'clock. On a Sunday!
2. Poisonous beast in the garage.
3. Traitorous beast in the house.

His spin on the same events?

1. We'll be absolutely entitled to a delicious nap this afternoon.
2. The spider likely ate the huge beetle.
3. The cat pee didn't soak into the mattress.

It's good to have a balanced perspective ...

memories of Pakistan ...

My dear friend Yousaf, who once served me an exquisite breakfast of bacon, cantaloupe & blueberries (in January!) after my bedraggled arrival in Baltimore on a PIA flight from Islamabad, asked me what I miss from my time (1990 to 1994) in Pakistan. I think of the place (mostly fondly) often, but I’m not sure I’ve ever stopped to consider what exactly I long for from there. So here goes. This is some of what I miss from Pakistan:

1. Jacaranda trees in bloom on either side of Attaturk Avenue near our house.

2. Deliciously scented sweet peas that the mali, or gardener, always produced in the spring, with what appeared to be truly a minimum of effort (just bits of twine dangling from a lateral wire). This year marks something like my dozenth failed attempt to grow similarly luscious sweet peas.

3. The kindness of strangers, with which I was sometimes gifted at the most unexpected (and opportune) of times.

4. A thousand smiling-faced children who turned up, nearly from nowhere, at every single stop on every single jaunt, even when all I was doing was looking for a likely bush by the side of the road.

5. Muezzin-song five times a day. A fellow with a lovely voice did the job at the mosque near our home.

6. The Jumma Bazar, or Friday Market, occupying a huge vacant city block. The center of the market displayed mountains of spices and exotic fruits; the streets on the exterior held side-by-side vendors of carpets, leather goods, artifacts, jewelry ... so many temptations, so much delicious haggling over requisite cups of tea and genuine courtesy.

7. The complicated negotiations (something like a drug deal, I believe) involved in the occasional bacon purchase at the Covered Market in Islamabad.

8. The shock of driving (for arid hours!) through apparently unrelenting desert, only to round a bend suddenly and find the shining wall of Rakaposhi rising above, with a chaikhana, marked by colorful flags & welcoming signs, just there at the curve in the road.

9. The shock of driving (for arid hours!) through apparently unrelenting desert, only to round a bend suddenly and find respite within the verdant, apricot-bearing Hunza Valley.

10. Spending the night at a bougainvillea-covered cottage on the banks of the Indus.

11. Sipping apricot wine beneath the stars with a minor mir (prince) somewhere in the Northern Areas after watching an old reel-to-reel film of his grandfather hosting British dignitaries visiting his princely state in the 1940’s.

12. Visiting a Kalash village in the Bumburet Valley near Chitral. The mythology of the Kalash suggests that they are descended from a few of Alexander’s soldiers; there was enough fair hair and pale eyes during my visit for this tale to be plausible.

13. Stopping en route to Gilgit to pluck garnets from the dust & shale at the side of the road.

14. Dining in Peshawar with a journalist of some repute who kept cranes in his garden and two wives in his home. One wife (a lawyer) stayed in the kitchen to do all the cooking; the other wife (a doctor) played hostess, along with her/their husband, to our party which included my mother. After dinner, the journalist turned to my mother very courteously and asked if she would object to his smoking a little hashish.

15. The Lahore Museum & Zamzama.

16. The scent of wild marijuana, overripe fruit and human bodies that assaulted me during my first few days in Islamabad. I spent my first night in Pakistan sleeping outside on the terrace (to my then-fiancé’s dismay) because I couldn’t get enough of that exotic, unfamiliar smell.

17. Drinking hot chocolate while strolling down the main street in wintertime Murree, a former British hill station above Islamabad.

18. Picnicking with friends in Nathiagali, a green & gorgeous mountain town beyond Murree.

19. The ability to throw a magnificent garden party with colorful shamianas and lights hung in the trees for not a lot of money.

Note that I have omitted those memories … like being able to stumble out of bed, ring a bell and have coffee delivered into my waiting hands … which have nothing at all to do with Pakistan and everything to do with having lived a wretchedly overprivileged expatriate lifestyle for a few short years.

Thank you, Yousaf Sahib, for offering me the opportunity to meander along memory lane this afternoon …

bug sex & bird poop ...

It thrills me to know that I have created a space out back where bugs want to fool around. No, really! It’s a reminder that I also am participating in life, however feebly. In addition to insect intercourse, more birds are visiting the garden this year, more butterflies too. Things were much quieter, more drab last year. It’s a bit shocking that such a small patch of ground can invite so much beauty, offer such possibilities. (And, honestly, with only a small amount of labor on my part.)

Early returns from the dirt patch out back suggest that the Dumbfoundeds will be eating a lot of beets later on this year ... the thin little stalks are such a brilliant shade of red, even right at the beginning! ... but no green beans, at least not yet. A solitary corn plant has … just this morning! … poked its way out of the earth; sap that I am, I couldn’t be prouder if I’d won a prize. Sunflower sprouts are an inch tall already. Many infinitesimal Sweet Annie seedlings are fighting for space in their square inch of special seed starting soil. Such a lovely scent, I wish I could keep them all.

Breck’s cleverly sent me a catalogue which arrived today. It's the perfect time, really, to order big, lush bulbs for next spring: just after you’ve realized what poor performers the cheap, crappy bulbs you thought you could skimp on were. (I’ll be placing my order within the week for *scads* of new Dutch bulbs.) I think even C. agrees that there’s so much more room for bulbs in the naked winter landscape than either of us realized. Scads of new Dutch bulbs … yippee!

Just now I was climbing amongst the wisteria tangles, coaxing them up rather than out, when I came nose to nose with the Tibetan prayer flags strung along the very top of the pergola. Bird poop glistened on the blue “prosperity” flag. I guess we didn't win the lottery. Again.

Boy Child has been impossible lately. People keep telling me, “Well, he’s 16,” as if that would, should, could explain his behavior. I’m pissed off at him more because of the inconsistency of his actions … sometimes, occasionally, in the midst of the teenage terror, he still acts like a decent human being … than the actual ignorance & inconsiderateness of them. Inconsistency really throws me, despite the fact that it seems to be part of the human condition. It’s not a lack of empathy or imagination on my part; I well remember being 16. I was absolutely an asshole adolescent myself, but I was *always* an asshole for a few years there, and therefore consistent. I’m not exactly sure why consistency matters to me, but it does.

Having the Dumbfounded premises all to myself for a few hours, I’m listening to the incomparable Raising Sand at full volume, a CD which won the Grammy, after all. I confess that the “marriage” of Robert Plant & Alison Kraus intrigued me into buying the CD a number of months before the award. The fact that the album (I had to look up whether they’re still called “albums”) won the Grammy did vindicate my musical tastes, however. Sometimes, in this phase of my life, I feel alone in my fondness for bluegrass & banjo, Bruce & Bob Dylan.

the scent of roses ...

How prescient that I got a pedicure yesterday!

Lovely day. I was second in the line of people waiting for individual blessings this morning from Sri Karunamayi, or Amma, so the drudgery of arising so early paid off. And I enjoyed the journey, during which I listened to Prodigal Summer on CD and was very much entertained.

Amma entered the church in radiance, coming slowly down the center aisle, smiling, murmuring words of love, shimmering in saffron. She seated herself cross-legged on a white dais in the center of the stage.

She spoke to us, in English, of selflessness, of service, of unity & compassion. We chanted with her, following Sanskrit words projected onto a huge screen at the side of the stage. She directed us to hold our arms up as we chanted, to feel the energy in the room. It was palpable, powerful.

Amma is involved in many charitable enterprises in India ... hospitals & housing, for example ... and she giggled like a girl as she shared stories with us of the transformations enabled by these projects.

Amma then performed the Abhishekam ritual, a sacred bath (in this case, of milk) honoring a deity. Then we were directed to approach the stage for our individual blessings. Time became skewed. I was second in line, so before I knew it, I was pressed up against the stage in the namaste mudra before this lovely & loving creature. But then, as soon as she put her hand on my head, time slowed way down.

She took the card on which I'd written my blessing requests, read it, smeared a bit of sacred ash on my third eye and placed her hand on my head. I'm sure she only rested it there for a few seconds, but it felt like a lovely long time. Amma's hand was warm. I felt trembly. Tears started to gather behind my closed eyes. She smelled of roses. I felt such love, from her and for her. I could have remained in that position for a long, long time.

Jai Karunamayi!

how far would *you* drive?

My intent for tomorrow is to drive for four hours round trip to (hopefully) receive a blessing from Amma Sri Karunamayi. My toenails are newly painted, and the alarm is set for 4:27 in the hope of getting myself on the road (or at least to the nearest purveyor of caffeine) by 5 am & avoiding the worst of the rush hour traffic. (Is there anything disturbing ... anything at all ... about a society where coffee shops find it profitable to open at such an unholy hour?)

C (formerly known as "George") has a birthday on Friday; we're having a little hoolie on Saturday. (My delight at being reacquainted with this word is large). There is much to do in preparation, so I considered *not* making the drive to see Amma. For about five minutes. But as soon as I looked at her website again this evening, I felt drawn anew to make the journey. I keep telling myself (and others) that I am having a midlife crisis, or an existential moment of being (thanks, Virginia), so I need to walk the talk, or whatever, don't I? So the alarm is set; my white clothing is ready; and, yes, my spirit rouses a little ... after a long, dreary winter ... at the prospect of a jaunt on the morrow.

Until a few days ago, I knew nothing about this woman. There's another Indian female teacher, another Amma, (which is, after all, only the Hindi word for "mother"), aka the hugging saint, who I *had* heard of. Initially I confused the two and felt disappointed that this Amma wasn't the same as that Amma. Such silliness. As my friend J said, " ... the world needs as many manifestations of the Divine Mother as we can get!" And so I am excited to have this manifestation to look forward to.

A joy to me in all of this is the fact that I learned of each of these Ammas from two especially dear friends. Several months ago, J shared information with me about the "first" Amma; and now my friend A has told me about her recent blessing from the "second" Amma. I've "known" A & J for perhaps a year, maybe two; the quotes are because we've never met face-to-face, even though we've shared many cyber conversations of intimacy & hilarity, the three of us. We all participated for a time in a Yahoo! group intended to foster spirituality and sisterhood. Sadly, the experience fell far short of the mark for me, but even in disaster there are gifts.

To me, J & A are delights that I carried with me from a painful experience. And I continue to profit from their association on Facebook, a venue (?!) about which I remain conflicted. I love to play word games and keep up, generally speaking, with my friends, but Facebook is turning out to be a frighteningly efficient time-suck in a life already marked by too many temporal challenges.

Anyway, I am grateful to my friends, past & present, and to all the Ammas in the world. My hopes are high for tomorrow.

quotes ...

Sad when you've been gone from your blog so long that you have to re-enter your password, sadder still when you're too senile to remember that password.

I'm not sure I'm ready to be especially long-winded just yet, but I keep looking at these quotes, and thinking my thoughts, and I thought I'd put the quotes up here for your consideration (I may have done so with one or another of them previously):

It may be that, when we no longer know which way to go, we have come to our real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream is the one that sings.

~ Wendell Berry

... I realized that I had often shortchanged my own creative process. For years I'd been willing to neglect my inner life for a relationship with a man or for drugs or because someone else's needs or theory or work or life seemed somehow more important than mine. But I couldn't do that anymore. The most critical commitment I now had to make was to myself and my writing; everyone and everything else would just have to wait. Oddly enough, what came to sustain me was knitting. I used my knitting to sink down into the deep creative well that was the source of my writing, and I knitted to rise to the surface when I had finished my work for the day.

~ The Knitting Sutra: Craft as a Spiritual Practice, Susan G. Lydon

Because how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.

~ Annie Dillard

My neglected little garden is proving to be surprisingly fertile this early spring; let's hope for fertility of the mind & tongue & heart as well.

Oh, and I acknowledge the intercession of Ganesha in the form of a recent, welcome increase in my work. Jai Ganesha!