Ramadan Message
Ramadan has begun. Ramadan is the Islamic month of fasting. During Ramadan, from dawn to dusk, Muslims “refrain from eating, drinking, smoking, and indulging in anything that is in excess or ill-natured. Fasting is meant to teach the Muslim patience, modesty and spirituality. During Ramadan, Muslims ask forgiveness for past sins, pray for guidance and help in refraining from everyday evils, and try to purify themselves through self-restraint and good deeds” (Wikipedia). Ramadan is the 9th month of the Islamic calendar. The time of Ramadan is set by moons rather than a fixed date so it moves about 10 days forward each year. Because Jakarta is so close to the equator, the length between dawn and dusk does not vary much; dawn to dusk is always about 12 hours. In other parts of the world, however, the variance in the length of days varies greatly—from a few hours when Ramadan falls in winter up to 20 in summer. It is one thing to not eat or drink for 12 hours—many of us have done that—But 15? 18? 20? While working? And in the middle of summer????
“Refrain… from indulging in anything” includes thoughts, and here in predominately Muslim Jakarta, everyone is encouraged to do everything they can to help keep everyone else’s mind pure. This means do not speak, wear, or behave in anyway that might induce inappropriate thoughts in another; don’t let anyone see you eating or drinking because they might be tempted, or think about being tempted; don’t play music or programs that might stimulate inappropriate thoughts. This is a difficult task to charge anyone with—let alone an entire population.
The Indonesian Government takes charge of making sure everyone is “thinking right". Restaurants and night clubs—any place serving alcohol or encouraging “non-modest” activities such as drinking, dancing and karaoke are shut down for the first few days when “slips” might happen because people aren't used to being good, yet; hours of operation are restricted, too. Restaurants are not supposed to serve alcohol at all during Ramadan. Others, following the adage what you don’t see can’t hurt you, “sneak it” by serving wine and spirits in coffee cups. (As a concession to visitors/tourists after the first couple of days, hotels are excluded from this “no alcohol” policy.)
I can’t say how Ramadan is observed in other places; I can only speak for Jakarta. Each day, around 2 am, woman all over Jakarta wake up to prepare a meal. When it is ready, they rouse their families so they can eat before dawn prayers. Those with time before work and school, return to bed for a little extra shut eye. Everyone from the age of around 7 and up (excepting the ill and very old) try to fast. Exceptions are made for those who are traveling, fall ill, and women who are in their moon or pregnant.
Each evening at dusk, is buka puasa “break fast.” The day-long fast is usually broken by drinking fruit-flavored syrup mixed with water, or for some, real fruit juice, coconut juice, sweet tea, etc. Carts filled with bags of blue, red, pink, and orange sweet drinks and fruit line the busy streets ready to serve those who find themselves stuck in traffic at buka puasa. After dark, everyone celebrates. Families and friends hold buka puasa parties; they shoot off fireworks, dance, sing, make merry. As you might imagine, these festivities coupled with dehydration, fasting followed by bingeing, little and at best interrupted sleep, takes a toll. Everything: work, activities, production, expectations slow…gradually…comes…to…a…halt by Idul Fitri, when everyone who can returns to their villages for the end of Ramadan celebration.
What I admire about Ramadan is that at its heart, its core, Ramadan is about seeking forgiveness. It is a time of reflection, reconnection, recommitment to living mindfully. Prior to Ramadan, families gather at cemeteries to honor their ancestors, clean the graves and ask forgiveness. Co-workers seek out one another. “Mahon dan Maaf” they say, “forgive me and I’m sorry”— For anything I may have done or said to you, both know and unknown, “forgive me and I’m sorry.”
Whether we fast or not, whether we are Muslim or not, taking time to consider our actions, what effect they may have had and how they may have affected others seems like a worthwhile endeavor.
Mahon dan Maaf.
Dance Y'all, Dance is On Its Way!
"Some one gave me a wonderful present... " I felt like singing when I opened my e-mail Saturday morning. The Galley's for Dance Y'all Dance, my soon to be released picture book from Bright Sky Press had arrived. It is a lively, two-steppin', swingin' and twirlin' dance hall romp. Illustrator Terri Murphy created lively art with fun characters, every page dances. She did a wonderful job of bring the story to life. Dance Y'all, Dance will be released this fall. Here is a peek at the cover.
I Wrote That?
I just received a note from my publisher's publicity department (my publisher, I love typing that). They want me to send them my website info and to update my bio and photo. It is wonderful that they asked. I’m delighted that they want their authors’ and illustrators’ info to be current. But that is not the truly thrilling and part. The list of people on the group e-mail is what is amazing. Candlewick Press publishes fabulous books by brilliant authors, with art by amazingly talented illustrators—check the list for yourself! I don't want to check the list again, it makes nervous. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For someone to say, “gotcha” Kelly and strip me of my “Author” title the way Jason McCord had his stripes ripped off at the beginning of every episode of Branded.
That’s the way it is for lots of us writer types. (I know, I’ve asked around.) Often we really don’t know where our best writing comes from and when. And more often than not it turns out that the “author” has not created the story as much as he or she “channeled it” that is, stepped aside and allowed it room to happen. We all have our ways of letting the creative spirit bubble up. I tend to circle the process like a cat, getting close, but not too close, until I’m ready to pounce. By pounce I mean write it…yep, no matter how the story comes to us, in the end we all have to spend the time in the chair writing it (That’s why they call us writers.) And while I may not remember where the ideas for my stories come from, or how I thought up that magnificent, fabulous, incredible Title/last line: Not Norman, I do remember all the time I spent BIC (Butt in Chair as Robyn Weaver, the Book Doctor, says www.robynweaver.com.) writing, writing, writing.
I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to challenge this notice from Candlewick. I’m going to take full credit as “author” and update my photo, bio, and website info as requested...even if I don’t recall writing those wonderful words I said I did.
Birthday Wishes
Birthdays are a mixed bag. When we are young our birthdays are an event—we can’t wait for the big day to come. When Max started school, the first day was the day before his birthday so he thought everyone was there just for him. Lexi used to count down the days on her calendar. She just turned 26 and still believes her birthday should be an International holiday. Beginning weeks before she reminds us “do you know what day two weeks from tomorrow is?” As we age, we begin back pedaling as birthdays approach. “Thirty-nine again,” my friend, John, answers when asked his age. I prefer no one mention my birthday at all—but then, I am royally miffed if anyone important to me misses it. Of course I enjoy cards and gifts, love receiving them, love looking at them, but often don’t open them until after the big day has passed, after I have spent my birthday my way—in agonizing reappraisal. For me, each birthday is reckoning day. I think back over goals I had set for myself and evaluate whether I met them, how well, or why not. I make new goals, I feel the years racing and long to dig in my heels and slow the passage, I agonize, moan, regret… And yes, as you might expect, I am usually, absolutely miserable on my birthday. I used to say “give me two Valium and wake me when it’s over” and I wasn’t kidding. But this year, maybe because I have, as my friend Dick wrote, “fully crossed over” something is different.
I am in Indonesia for my birthday this year. This may have something to do with this strange sense of wellness bubbling inside. Since Indonesia is over the International Date Line, my birthday here came a day early and so it really didn’t feel like my birthday, and then, when my birthday time arrived in California, at 8 am on the 8th day of the 8th month, it felt like it was already behind me. So, on one hand it was like my birthday was two days long, and on the other it was like it was over before it started. This is not to say the day (days) were not emotionally charged:
- I woke to an e-mail from my agent that a story I had high hopes for was rejected in committee.
- Curtis came home early so we could do something fun.
- I couldn’t think of anything “fun” to do that didn’t involve traffic or spending, so we went to work out.
- While I was working out, news reported that the terrorist Noordin Top, the villain responsible for the Ritz and Marriott bombings, the man responsible for recruiting countless suicide bombers had been killed in an 18-hour long shoot-out with police.
- Came home, checked my e-mail. Birthday greetings and e-cards were popping into my mailbox.
- Baked myself a birthday cobbler and an antipasto platter for tonight.
- Checked my e-mail a few more time—many more than usual—and my face book “Wall” because now, thanks to Max and Chelsie, I know what it is and how to find it.
- The galley of my new picture book, Dance Y’all, Dance arrived via e-mail. It was my first peek at the illustrations.
- The friends we invited to dinner arrived, we went to dinner, had a delightful time, but one didn’t feel well so we didn't pop the bubbly.
- We came home early from dinner, changed into our jammies, then Curtis and I sang “happy birthday to me” and shared the birthday cobbler and I fell asleep in the middle of the movie I had chosen, Duplicity.
- Woke up this morning and because it is still my birthday but not really, I could enjoy it. Curtis made coffee, I opened cards and gifts. Especially touched because Rusnati had given me a lovely stone and silver fish with a tiny note in Indonesian.
- Lexi called at 8 pm her time and she and Curtis sang to me. Then she put Ryan, her beau, on the phone and we tried to get him to sing. He started to, then caught himself and said no, “no matter how many trips we take, Kelly, I am not going to sing…” Which might have been the best birthday gift of all because it prompted this memory of our last trip.
It all goes back to Lexi’s birthday (as it rightfully should, she believes.) She and I always do something together for our birthdays. This year we spent a long weekend in Montauk, Long Island. It was a kind of beach holiday/birthday/ongoing search for a place for Curtis and I to retire trip. Ryan went with us. We took the train and he drove his car and met us at the station in Hicksville (not Lexi’s preferred stop—she is not the type of girl one “picks up in Hicksville.)
We had booked a room at Sole’ East a resort in Montauk. One of many we researched. It was well reviewed and seemed like the better of the not-so-expensive lodging options. Most were either way over our budget or looked like by-the-side-of the highway motels. Ryan had scoped out the best places to eat, watch sunset, drink bloody marys, have oysters, etc. and one by one we checked them off our list—great fun! As it turned out Sole’ East is not some quiet little motel, although the rooms are tiny, circa 1950 motel rooms. It is a happening spot, where singles (mostly groups of 30ish women) and hipster families, with hipster tots in tow, weekend in summers.
Most nights the three of us would go out, eat, enjoy a nightcap and then I’d turn in while Lexi and Ryan went out. But one night, Lexi crashed with me, leaving Ryan on his own. As he does, he went out to see what was up. About three in the morning, Ryan woke me. He tried to wake Lexi, too, but she wasn’t moving. It was Saturday night and Sole’ East was hopping. A bunch of bongo buddies had started jamming and Ryan wanted to share the experience. “Come on, Kel, you gotta see this," he told me. So I got dressed and we went out to enjoy the show.
Just as I arrived the group ripped off their shirts and really got into it. The bongo players ranged in age from dreadlock front boy of about 23 to Jack Lalanne. They pounded out the rhythm and women and men of all types danced and sang. As the room got hotter, we all moved outside to a lounge area beside the pool. Around 5 Lexi showed up. She had woken, found us gone “I wasn’t worried that Ryan was gone,” she told us, “but Mom, too?” So she came out to find us.
By then, a red-haired lawyer/stock broker-used-to-wanna-be-Cat Stevens-and-maybe still-does picked up his guitar and began playing and singing. He had a great voice—and knew all the words Dire Straits to Bob Dylan. Earlier, a blonde back-side-of 30 came over to ask Ryan if he had a light, then whispered to me that it had been way too long and she was long overdue. After catching Lexi up on the what was what, we three sat back, watching the action, wondering if she was going to get lucky, wondering if guitar man was going to get lucky, cheering when they both did.
Throughout the evening people had been asking “Where’s Winston? Where’s Winston?” Around 5, Winston showed up. He was an older Rasta guy who picked up the guitar, said yes to a drink, and busted into reggae Thank you Mama blues. Sitting there, in the velvet night with Lexi and Ryan, sipping a cocktail, listening to the music, I wasn’t “crossed over or crossed out,” I was the "short white hair chick", Winston asked Ryan about--
--still young enough and interested enough to jump out of bed when adventure calls.
Happy Birthday to me—and many more!
Peer Presure
I have succumbed to peer pressure and signed up for Face book. I really, truly, honestly didn’t want to, but they made me... Everyone else is doing it… Especially all the really cool folks…
Now, suddenly, I feel so popular. My mailbox is stuffed with notes from people asking to be my friend. People I haven’t seen for ages are writing on my “wall”! Dang, people I don’t even know are asking to be my friend. I’ve never had anyone ask to be my friend before….it’s exciting!
But now what? There seems to be so much to Face book. All sorts of information to fill out (and the temptation to lie is so strong…) It feels sort of like a dating service crossed with a job application. It asks for photos…references…wants me to identify my relatives…and then search my contact list for others who might be on Face book…It all feels a little scary and weird. On one hand it’s great to connect with friends and family, to see their photos, to read what they and theirs are doing; but on the other hand, I have a feeling that all of us are just helping whoever is behind the Face book Curtain find out all of our business. Somewhere, someone is compiling a massive database of everything you ever wanted to know about anyone list…and I don’t know that I want all my biz on that list.
All that deep stuff aside, right now I have one major, major problem. Notes are piling up in my e-mail box, notices that Face book friends have “left a comment on my wall”…But what the heck is my “wall” and how do I find it?
Angels on Watch-Reno Fire
Shortly after 1:00 this morning, a soft voice in my ear woke me. It wasn’t a familiar I love you voice, or my conscience telling me I forgot something. It was the night aide at the Retirement Home where my mother lives. I squinted at her, trying to gain recognition. “Are you serious?”
Had she really sneaked into my room to check on me? Or ask for my credentials? Or why…
“Yes, I’m serious,” she whispered. “There is a fire…”
I was thinking “fire drill,” marveling that they could have scheduled a fire drill in the retirement home and incredulous that the drill could be scheduled for the one night—first night—I was in Reno, sleeping on the pull out love seat in my mom’s studio apartment.
The aide is obviously accustomed to having to repeat herself. “It’s a fire, across the freeway—“
“Fire?”
“In the buildings across the freeway. And we might have to evacuate everyone. I don’t want to wake your mom and scare you, but I wanted to let you know.”
“Oh my gosh, okay….okay….thank you…,” I stammered.
“See,” she pointed to the patio door.
The sky blazed orange. Flames roared, shooting into the blackness. On the highway, squad car lights flashed on the highway stopping traffic from both directions. On the other side of the highway, the fire crackled and roared like thunder and raging water. My eyes and thoughts were glued to the blaze. I peered into the darkness, into the bright billowing smoke, searching for glimpse of the fire fighters, of ambulances, of evidence of life.
The aide was watching from the neighboring balcony. I asked her what was burning.
"New apartments.”
“Is anyone living there?”
“Not yet,” she told me. “They just started leasing them.
We have had our home catch fire before—twice. I know what it’s like to dress in the middle of the night and rush out of the house, heart pounding, as the windows crack and pop behind me. I know what it’s like to take inventory in the charred remains afterwards. Thankfully I don't know what it is like to lose loved ones to fire. I was grateful to know that kind of horror was not happening across the freeway.
Security personnel from the retirement home and the adjoining hospital circled the parking lot, watching for burning ember. A super truck pulled into the lot. I assumed it was another employee until a woman in a tank-top and a guy in jeans and a t-shirt climbed down from the truck and stood swilling beer and watching the show. Security guards shooed them away.
Maureen, the director of the facility, and another aide came out of the lobby. “We are ready to evacuate,” Maureen explained in hush tones. “We’ll take everyone out through the double doors on the hospital side. The shuttle buses and ambulances are waiting there.”
The blaze devoured one apartment building and lept to another at the same time it spread north across a field lining the highway.
“The medication cart is by the door; the patient files are there, too…” Maureen was directing this to me, but she wasn’t actually talking to me. She was reciting her emergency check list of all she had to do if the fire wasn’t controllable, if the wind blew up, if instead of racing north through the scrub lining the highway, the fire spread south, if the glowing embers landed wrong…
Standing there, watching the blaze, I wondered what I would do, could do, if the fire did spread. In that moment the enormous weight of the load Maureen, the aides, security people, and the hospital personnel next door carried beared down on me. I had never before contemplated just how much responsibility they and others who work in hospitals and care facilities assume when they take on the job. I had a car, I was strong and healthy; I could get my mother out of the building and drive clear of harm. But what about all the others inside?
Fortunately, we didn’t have to experience an evacuation. As I watched, water arched up and onto the diminishing flames and the billowing smoke gradually turned from black to gray to white. The firefighters won this battle.
Around three, I crawled back into my cozy sleeper love seat. The fire wasn't completely out yet; across the highway, firefighters still battled. But I wasn't worried any more; the Angels of Monaco Ridge were standing guard. I joined my mother and the other sleeping residents.
Time Management
Today, I was trying so hard not to waste time that I almost lost it. As I do before every trip, I spent the time before my flight busily taking care of business. My bags were packed. My travel bag with travel documents was sitting by the door along with my travel shoes. The plan was for Curtis to come home at 3:30 so I could leave for the airport at 4:00.
Leaving at 4:00 was not my idea. It is only an hour’s drive to the airport (45 minutes on a good day) which meant that I would arrive at the airport by 5 pm for my 7:15 flight. Why should I get their so early? I didn’t want to “waste my time” waiting at the airport when I could be using it “wisely” here at home.
I have a good friend who likewise doesn’t like wasting time. And so she fills every second—over fills them. She is usually so busy getting things done that she is late to everything. And so while she “uses” her time, those of us she has arranged to meet wait—some might call it “waste” our time waiting. My mother calls the “Hurry Up and Wait Syndrome,” we hurry up to be on time and then wait and wait and wait…
This notion of time—wasting it, spending it wisely, using or losing it—baffles me. We start with a set amount of time: minutes in an hour, in a day, days in a week and so on. So how can we waste it? No matter what we do, time will pass, we will use it. If we pass time doing what we want to do rather than what we should do, are we “wasting it”? Conversely, if we spend our time always doing what we are “supposed to do” or “need to do” when the tally is taken at the end of our days of time, will we better for it? Do we get a prize?
What does it mean to spend time “wisely”? If I watch out the window while Jakarta passes outside rather than read or text message or talk on the phone am I spending time wisely or wasting it? If I pass that car ride “doing something productive” at the end of the ride, I’ll have stuff done, however I will have missed the glimpse of life whizzing past; the jamu lady pouring green elixir for an old man, the baso seller stirring up a bowl of soup, the toddlers sitting on the bench, the beggars strumming guitar on the street corner, the trees sprouting from a wall…
Today, I chose to use my time getting everything that I wanted done before traveling done. As a result, I left at 4:20 rather than at 4:00. And in the car on the way to the airport, I spent the first hour wisely—reading. I spent the next hour of what should have been no more than an hour’s ride watching out the window. The scenery was wasted on me though because I spent it glaring at the heavy traffic, willing cars to move, worrying, fretting, hoping I’d get to the airport before the gate closed, because if I didn’t get to the airport on time I’d miss my flight, and so my connection and then I’d miss the Vermont College Alumni workshop I planned to attend.
In the end, who decides what exactly using our time “wisely” means?
Every moment we need to weigh how best to use the time we have, to determine what is wasting time and what is using it wisely. But that takes time…
Velveteen Rabbitish
A clay wok sits on top of my kitchen cupboard. I bought it in the Mount Ijen region of East Java. It was during a Remote Destinations trip. It had taken a full day of travel over a long, curious route— by air to Bali, by bus to the far tip of Bali, and back across to Java by Ferry, then a long, bumpy ride inland, up windy, narrow roads to reach Mount Ijen. The area is lush and beautiful, sharply graded, deep terraces planted with rice, potatoes and other crops. Fields are plowed and furrowed by water buffalo and hand planted by wizened women in sarongs. We visited during Chinese New Years', February 2008. It was still the rainy season so the hills, roads, fields were slippy, sloshy, muddy. The air was heavy and hot. but bright blue.
We were at the beginning of a walk through the terraces when I bought the wok. All five of the “girls” on the trip bought one. We also bought clay placenta pots—pots in which the after birth and placenta are buried after a birth. The toko, "shop" where we made our purchases was in the tiny village lining the road to our hotel. Aside from individual packets of laundry soap or shampoo, instant coffee, chips, cookies and individual wrapped candies, these clay items were pretty much all there was to buy in that slap-board, grass-roofed toko. Definitely the most interesting items, well made and decorative. Delighted to make those sales (at a rich profit, I am sure) the shopkeeper cheerfully wrapped each wok and pot and delivered them to our hotel.
On the way home from Ijen, the round, clay ring made to steady my wok, crumbled. But the wok came through fine. A happy reminder of that trip, that day, that toko.
On a more recent trip to the island of Flores, Curtis bought a big bag of coffee beans. Once home, I put them into the refrigerator. Rusnati and I had chatted about them: about how the beans needed to be cooked; about how Curtis loved his coffee.
Last night we arrived home from a long weekend in Lombok. A spicy coffee deliciousness greeted us. I went into the kitchen to see Rusnati. Smiling wide, she pointed out the bag of coffee resting, waiting on the counter.
“I cooked Mister’s coffee,” Rusnati offered. She pointed up to the cupboard, to the wok.
The wok rested in its usual spot on the cupboard. But something wasn’t right. Its lovely terra cotta color looked dirty, the design blackened, faded. It took me a minute to comprehend what had happened.
“You used the wok?” I asked.
“Yes,” Rusnati smiled and nodded. She opened the bag so I could smell the coffee beans. Gleaming with roasted oils the beans roasted richness filled my head.
“Oohh,” I sniffed. “So good,” I said, to make Rusnati happy. But inside leaden weight dampened my spirits. Sure, it was nice that she cooked the beans, but why did she have to use my wok? Why would she even think to use it? Now my lovely terra cotta wok, my Ijen souvenir, was ruined. How long will I have to leave it up there on the cupboard, all grayed and dirty-looking, before I could hide it in a cupboard or toss it out back to a shelf in the servant’s area? Why hadn’t Rusnati used her big old metal wok? The one she used to cook everything else?
Hours later, after Rusnati left, I went back into the kitchen where the scent of roasted coffee lingered, thick, rich, warm and a long ago memory of Rusnati and I talking about how her parents grew coffee back in their village wafted up. How her mother picked coffee berries off the bushes and dried them in the sun, then stored them in baskets until she had enough to roast. How she only picked the ripest berries, so at most collected a handful or so at a time. How her mother roasted the dried beans in a terra cotta wok over a wood fire, stirring slowly, tending them until the beans released their oils. How good her coffee tasted.
A sense of shame washed over me, then, mixed with a sense of being loved and cared for richer than any roasted coffee. To think that one day, while we were off lazing at the beach, leaving Rusnati to mind our home, she had looked up at that wok and remembered. And so, short, little Rusnati had climbed up onto the cupboard, carried down that wok—so like those back in her village—taken out that bag of Flores coffee beans, and lovingly stirred and tended and roasted those beans as a welcome home gift.
I had been so wrong. The wok wasn’t less beautiful now that its terra cotta coloring was grayed from use. It was velveteen rabbitish: grayed and burnished, worn from being well-used by loving hands.
That wok is going to stay right were it is, on top of the cupboard— unless Rusnati needs it to roast Curtis more beans—the first thing I see each time I walk in the kitchen.