Another Bunch of Memories

In this memory,
I was probably sixteen?  
What a wishy-washy-way to start a blog.

More definitively, let me say:
I was sixteen.
I had cramps.
Remember cramps, dear sisters?

Menstrual cramps, a real thing.
A Thing.
I was uncomfortable enough to stay home from school.

Relieved to be liberated from that place of unending stressors,
That high school,
Where talking in class was my ultimate of terrors, 
The abyss into which I would slide
Disappearing
Even
More
Deeply,
Even
More 
Fully
From
Myself.

Spanish class?
7th period?

Time after time,
Day after day,
I would write a bathroom pass, right when Mr. Mano, (I swear that was his name), started our oral exercises, up and down the rows, reciting language phrases aloud.
I would shakily write my bathroom pass,
Trying to assess when my row—we sat alphabetically—
Would have to recite.

Sometimes he went one way,
Sometimes?
The other.

It fully freaked me out, 
Not just having to speak aloud,
Not just having to speak aloud in Spanish,
But not knowing what direction
The exercise would take.

Any illusion of control,
My shield,
Shattered
Yet again.

Willing myself into invisibility,
I would shakily make my way to his desk.

Keeping his focus on the class,
He would ignore me,
While signing the pass,
Both a relief and a further embarrassment.

He would always sign the pass 
Without comment
Or question.

What did he think I was doing, day after day?  
Gastric urgency at the same time daily?
At sixteen?

He could have talked to me.  
I could have talked to my parents.
But it was 1964.  
Nobody talked about anything real
To anybody.

I remember sitting in a bathroom stall,
Stall door latched firmly,
Curled up in an almost-ball on the toilet seat,  
Bent over myself,   
Protecting my heart.
Trying to imagine time.

How much longer should I stay?
How could I time my return
To miss the oral exercises?

Como te llamas?
Que hora tienes?

Como te llamas?
Que hora tienes?

Whispering the phrases to myself,
Stuttering on the initial “t” sound,
Stuttering
And
Shuddering
In the silence of my own
Bathroom stall.

Ahhhh, high school nostalgia.

Nope, not that day.
That day, I was home.
On my parents’ bed 
Cuddled in a blankie and heating pad,
Watching tv.

Mom and Dad?
They were working, 
Always and forever, working.

It was black and white program that captivated me, of course.
Color hadn’t made it to the world of televisions,
At least not in my family.

And it was about JFK and the Peace Corps.
It was the New Frontier.
Those words chilled me.
The New Frontier.

I sat upright, 
Realigning the heating pad 
On my womanly disturbed parts.

It got me; I was riveted by the images,
By the promises the words offered.

It showed a tribe—people—not me, not my people,
Not Jews, 
People in Africa?
South America?
Other people.

Somewhere.

It talked about volunteering.
It talked about making a difference.

And I knew in that moment,
Not in my mind but in my body,
Louder than my cramps,
Louder than my 16-year-old raging insecurity,

I knew I would go.
To the Peace Corps.  
To help.
To help people.
Somewhere.

I hoped maybe,
Just maybe
It would be easier there,
Maybe, just maybe,
I might fit in there.

Living in a tribe
With people that were
Different.

Maybe my differences
Could rest more quietly there.
They were different, 
These others,
Like me.

They needed help.
Like me,

They needed something else.
Like me.

That was my dream,
From that moment forward,
To join the Peace Corps.

And I did go to the Peace Corps,
To the Philippine Islands,
To the Island of Mindanao
To the city of Butuan.

It wasn’t a tribe.
It wasn’t any of that, 
Of course,
Not really.
But it was not Scranton, Pa.,
My hometown. 

It was my next, post-college step
And it took me forward, 
Flowing,
Into the unfoldment
Of my dharma.
~~~
I always wanted to help.
I always wanted to make a difference.

Peace Corps led me to Malcolm X Shabazz High School
In Newark, N.J.,
Where I taught English.
For 100 years.
Or 18.
Either.

I always hoped that
Another culture,
Another place,
Might hold me.

Ah!  Cosmic joke—
What life needed of me
Was to be exactly
Where I was.  

A long, unfolding, never-ending
Lesson.

And Malcolm X led me, 
Of all places,
To Kripalu,
Leading me
To the further unfoldment
Of my dharma.

The Kripalu ashram.
Where I lived from 1989
Until the ashram ended in 1995.

And here I still sit,
Still here,
Still practicing
Being here,
In so many
Endless and forever ways.
~~~
I wanted to help.
Always.

The suffering I felt
Throughout my childhood
And young adult life—
Strangely steered me 
Eventually and inevitably
Toward others.

Finding a doorway 
Into the suffering of others
Somehow softened mine?

Being able to almost bear my own pain
Strengthens my capacity to be there for others?

The value of the pain 
In
My
Life
Has
Been
Immense
And
Life-changing.

And I declare:

It has not
Been wasted.

It is not
Being wasted.
~~~
Dear Friends,

How do you walk justly now?
Love mercy now?
Walk humbly now?

What does it look like, in your world,
Now, right now?
~~~
Check out this video.

Here is an amazing woman.
She is 96.  Alive and humble and present.

Please enjoy her company. The video is 12 minutes.
I’ve been checking in, listening to a segment.

Taking a break, integrating her thoughts, coming back.

Let it be fluid.  Enjoy:

~~~
Dear Friends, 

With patience,
With possibility,
With hope,

Patience.
Possibility.
Hope.

Dear Friends,
May all beings benefit from our shared words.

Blessings—all,
Aruni