It may have been the deep fog that enveloped me.  Or perhaps it was the deep sadness that held my hand and looked into my eyes as I stepped out of the car.  In any other situation, this place would have been no more than a sugar cane plantation.  But having the knowledge I did, the Whitney Plantation was so much more.

Off the beaten path on the banks of the Mississippi River sits the Whitney Plantation.  It is one of many plantations that lines the river.  While most of the plantations offer tours,  I had chosen this guided tour carefully after finding out that it is the only one in the state of Louisiana that focuses on the chains of slavery endured.  Most of the other plantations focus on the perspective of the slave owners and on the history of the architecture and furnishings.  However, I do hear that tours of the other plantations are now beginning to include stories of the harsh lives of the slaves.  The Whitney Plantation is, currently, home to the only museum in the U.S. dedicated to slavery.

While I wasn’t sure if this tour would be a suitable one for an 8 year old and a 12 year old, it was an experience I wanted them to have as I feel that there is no better experience of history (beyond history books) than being on a historical site.

I have not been to a Holocaust museum or site but I would imagine the sensation to be akin to that of being on this plantation.  I learnt that the average length of time any slave lived from the moment they arrived on the plantation was 10 years, no matter how old they were when they arrived.

Arriving early, we had the opportunity to take our time to walk around the small museum and gift shop, soaking in the pictures, artefacts and information.  The soul of this plantation is kept alive through the stories and quotes from the Slave Narratives Collection where former slaves were interviewed between 1936 and 1938.

The tour began with Ali, our passionate tour guide, leading us out of the museum onto the grounds of the plantation.  It was a huge step back in time, the somber silence, palpable in the air.  We were led to the Antioch Baptist Church where we watched an enlightening introductory video.

The next 90 minutes of the tour were spent walking through memorials with thousands of listed slaves’ names and quotes, the slaves’ quarters, a blacksmith shop, a pigeonnier, a mule barn, detached kitchen for the main house and the main house.  The memorials include The Field of Angels (slave memorial dedicated to Louisiana slave children), the Allees Gwendolyn Midlo Hall (memorial dedicated to slaves in Louisiana) and The Wall of Honor (dedicated to the slaves who lived on the Whitney Plantation).  Our tour guide, Ali, was full of information and thought provoking statements that linked the past to what is currently happening in the world.

Walking through the grounds evoked such strong emotions.  Amidst listening, reading and taking photos, there were so many times I had to hold back tears.  The 12 year old was focused on capturing information for her National History Day project. The 8 year old fluctuated between being tired, hot and emotional.  I do not know how much of it she fully understood but there was so much sadness on her face that we had to keep giving her hugs.  She kept saying, “I feel so sad, Amma.”  I believe that a child feels beyond.

After the tour concluded, the whole group went back into the gift store.  I had decided that I wanted to take one more photo before returning and so the 8 year old and I walked to the intended location.  Being the last tour group for the day, the plantation was now void of visitors and staff.  We kept looking at each other, feeling something that we could not put our fingers on.  Hastening our steps on the way back while trying not to slip on the moss, I felt the sorrow and despair grabbing at me and the lump in my throat making it hard to breathe.

After having read so many books and watched movies with themes of slavery on plantations, it is hard for me to put fully into words the surreal experience that the visit to the Whitney plantation was.  It is so hard to comprehend how one human can treat another, and many others, in unthinkable and inhumane ways.  It is perhaps the gift and also the downfall of the human race, the ability to think, but to forget to feel.  It may be a comfort to live in an oblivion using the prefix, “back then”.  But do you know what saddens me to my core?  Slavery and inhumanity are alive and well.  I know this to be true.  And yet, I have to remind myself and teach my children not to judge a whole race by its wrongdoers.  No race is without them.  No race is only them.

And so, you’ve done it again, little Ms D.  You’ve turned a year older.  Happy 11th Birthday, my darling girl.  Welcome to tweenage-hood (a word I can’t stand, “tween”, as you know).

If there is one thing I have done right in my life, it is YOU.  I may have given you life, but I can hardly take credit for the human being you are evolving into.  As cliché as it may sound, I just don’t know where the years have gone.  My memory may be horrible but there are some things one never forgets.  Like the day you gave me the blessing to be your mother.  I remember you being placed next to me.  Highly drugged for the pain, I was all giggles and thrilled about the fact that you were a mini-me.

Every year has been an adventure with you.  Motherhood hasn’t been the only thing you have taught me.  You remind me daily of the person I need to be.  You may be numerically young, but your old soul teaches me constantly what life is all about and what it should be.  Unknown to you, being a child has not stopped you from being your Amma’s strength.  Your love, your smiles and your very existence have resuscitated me more times than you could ever imagine.  I hope you understand that one day.

While I know that this life is your journey to lead, I hope from the very best place in my heart that:

…….you will not just trod on the most popular paths, but travel the roads less travelled when you have a chance.

…….music will fill your life and take you through times, high or low.

……..you choose, every single time, to dance as if nobody is watching.

……..the wonder in your eyes for life will never dim.

……..you will remember that strength and beauty lie in that secret space in your heart.  No one, and I mean NO ONE, can give that to you or take it away from you.  It was there the day you were born and it will be there the day you die.  You just have to remember and remind yourself always.  ONLY you get to define who you are.

……..you will remember that kindness is crucial.  Kindness, not just to others, but to yourself too.

……..you learn that love is what matters most.  Never be afraid to love who you want to love, how you want to love or when you want to love.  You will always be worthy of love.  Love can never be wrong.

And most of all, always remember that even when your faith in God or yourself wavers, and it will, I will have enough faith in you to carry you through until you find your footing again.  No matter how far apart we are, Amma has your back.

Most importantly, remember that I am the very definition of coolness, even when I show up at your school unannounced with your birthday treats.  It is one of the privileges of being your mother.

I love you, my little one.

When does a girl become a woman?

My first born turns 11 in a couple of weeks.  We have been discussing the acceptable age for tweenagehood and have come to an agreement that 11 it is.  This both scares me and amazes me.  If this is the beginning of her journey, then when does womanhood begin?

For me (and many Sri Lankan/Indian, mostly South Indian girls), the entry into womanhood is clearly defined with a huge BANG when we get our period for the first time.  Yup!  That’s right!  It is broadcasted to the world, in my case, to my relatives and friends on the same street, that I was now ready to be a wife, a mother.  There are varying versions of the significance of this week long tradition culminating in a ceremony.  Many state that it signifies giving respect to women and the beginning of setting aside time each month for a woman to rest as each experiences the monthly cycle in different ways.  But in reality, lots of women are separated from the rest of the family and are forbidden from taking part in any spiritual event, being deemed “unclean” during that time.  This makes me roll my eyes deep into my head considering these monthly cycles are what enable women, who choose to, become mothers.  If this logic of “unclean” was to hold, then I would think that men would have to be separated from the family permanently, don’t you think?

Among other parts of the tradition, I was required to consume gingelly oil and 1 raw egg each day.  Thankfully, this part was vetoed by my father and I narrowly escaped daily gagging.  It was also required that I only eat certain types of food and drink a limited amount of water.

At the end of this week, friends and family were invited to a celebration during which I wore a sari for the first time.  Being only 11 myself, I was pretty much in the dark about the meaning of it all.

For a long time, I resented the significance of the ceremony and its implied meaning of readiness for the unplucking.  Even though my parents went through this tradition more for keeping the tradition going rather than actually wanting to marry me off, I swore to myself that I would never put any of my future daughters through this when the day came.

As I grow older, I try to find the positives and the beauty in all that I have experienced, if I can.  When I look back at these photos, for me, it is the memory of having my father present to see me in a sari for the first time.  Unbeknownst to me then, he would never have that opportunity the day I got married.  I also look at myself in these photos and marvel at the immense strength of a woman’s body.  The blessings and the beatings that a woman’s body takes in the course of a lifetime – monthly, yearly, through pregnancies, childbirth, C-sections, health challenges and menopause.  I look at that young body of mine and think, “thank you.  Thank you for having taken me this far.”

Womanhood is challenged daily and it always will be.  From the day we are born, we fight the mantra that is yelled into our ears, “too tall, too short, too fat, too thin, too fair, too dark, long nose, ugly nose, crooked teeth, too tanned, curly hair, straight hair, hairy body, cellulite” and it goes on and on.  In turn, we subscribe to it all and attempt to “fix” ourselves.  We diet, shave, wax, straighten our hair, curl our hair, apply nail polish, thread eyebrows, ‘botox’……and when all of this is not enough, we undergo surgery to alter ourselves to be boxed into the ever changing definition of beauty.

And so, I begin to believe that womanhood begins the day we see the beauty in ourselves.  The day we recognize the majesty within our being.  This doesn’t happen fully in a day or even in a lifetime sometimes.  But I have noticed that the impact a woman’s words has on another woman is lifelong.

I can only hope that some of the lessons I am learning will rub off on my girls.

I watch people.  A LOT.  Yes!  I realize how creepy that sounds even as I type it.  Do you ever have that surreal feeling of being an observer from the outside.  Almost like people are not aware that you are there.  It’s a window into the lives of others.  Sometimes, I find myself imagining the lives they must have.  I have mentioned this before.  Old people are my favorite.  And kids too.  The in-betweens, bah, not so much.  Old people and little kids?  These 2 groups seem to live in their element.  The little ones aren’t aware yet that they are “supposed” to be someone other than themselves.  Society and rules have not totally tainted them yet.  And old people.  They no longer have anything to lose or anyone to please.  I wonder what they were like back in their younger days, whether they have loved and been loved, whether they have travelled beyond imagination, if they were famous.  I can only imagine that the idea of their lives getting shorter is a form of liberation.  From dust to dust.  Or I prefer to see it as from self to self.  A journey of re-discovery of oneself, as ridiculous as that sounds.

This morning, as I sat watching the kids running around and playing after sending the 6-year old into her school playground, I was jealous.  Jealous of the wild abandon of self.  These moments I have as I sit in the car waiting for the bell to ring and the kids to trot into class are priceless.  I saw a couple of boys play-fighting and then a third boy pretend refereeing with “the dab” move.  For some reason, that sent me into a fit of laughter.  Yes!  The crazy lady in the Nissan with her coconut water, a recent craze.

I watched as parents of all types drove up, dropped off their kids, shared their unique “goodbyes” and drove away.  The kisses, the hugs, the smiles……..some lingering knowing these moments would be gone soon, some speeding away relishing with delight the hours they would have to themselves, the working parents attempting to jog back to their cars, late for a meeting I assume, and then today, I was treated to  a teenage looking male with track pants way below his butt line, red silky boxer shorts smiling at the world, dropping a kid off.  And I had to answer the 6-year old’s question of “why are his pants falling off” with “I don’t know darling.  Maybe no one taught him how to wear pants?”  Reply accepted.

The coffeeshop, my 3rd home, is my other favorite place to watch.  Those who come in alone.  I wonder if they are like me, enjoying their solitude and watching.  I shake off that thought.  I want to be the watcher, not the watchee.  The young couples who enjoy their breakfast together, each savoring the view of their respective phones.  The old couples hanging onto each other and the love they share for dear life, sharing a raspberry cream cheese filled scone.  The friends who attempt to argue at the counter, fighting to foot each other’s bill.  Sometimes, I just want to step in and say, “Fight not!  You can foot mine!”  And then there are the parents wrestling with their kids on the floor, having the time-old “you may not have the cookie” battle, the children temporarily distracted as they make eye-contact with me.

People watch.  I never seem to tire of it.

My mind is a continuous traffic of untamed thoughts, uncensored even.  Never quiet long enough for me to take a breath.  And yet, sitting down to pen, in this case, keyboard these gems, my fingers freeze mid-air, awaiting inspiration to strike.  I could blame it on “writer’s block”, maybe “writer’s fuzz” or maybe even my typing speed.  Nope.  I just took a typing test 2 minute ago that tells me that I can type 73 words per minute.  I used to be able to type 90 words per minute.  I was a typing champion (arms flexed) back in the High School day.  I come from the ERA of electronic typewriters.  Maybe age has slowed my fingers down.  But I digress.  I do that a lot.  A symptom of an undiagnosed deficiency of attention.  Where was I?  Ah yes, I was beating myself up for not writing more than I should be.  If I am being truthful, then it really is just a case of brain sloth also known as IBS, Irritable Brain Syndrome, a constipation of the brain.  And now that I have an acceptable excuse…….

I write today about employment.  I have been attempting to jump back into the World of the Working Dead for the past few months, a decision that has been long time coming (more about this in another post).  As I submitted a couple of applications this morning, I fell reminiscent to the first job I ever had.  New Zealand was my home.  13 was my age.  Money was my aim.  Now, I can’t even remember my real motivation for getting a job.  Maybe it was because I had friends who had jobs.  Mostly, babysitting or paper routes.  Having a very traditional and strict father, I was surprised that I was even allowed to pursue this venture.  I am not sure even till this day why he agreed.  Perhaps my mother could fill in this gap __________________________.  I checked the papers diligently, daily.  Called potential employers and finally was called up for an interview for a babysitting job.  My father drove me to the interview.  It was exactly what I wanted!  Back then, I loved little kids.  I have become a teacher and parent since (if I knew how to insert emoticons in a blog post, there’d be one with my teeth showing here).  The mother of the little baby liked 2 candidates.  I was one of them.  So the agreement was that the other babysitter and I would take alternate days after school to go over and play with the baby for a couple of hours.  It turned out eventually that Kieran, the little boy, preferred my engaging company, never mind that he was 10 months old and subject to my endless chatter and confessions of my latest crush knowing that he wasn’t able to repeat them yet.  I only found out much later that he was very intelligent and was probably sharing my deepest secrets when I left for home.

This was the beginning of a 5 year friendship with little Kieran and his wonderful parents.  They were like family to me.  I would go over 3 times a week after school and I even graduated to babysitting in the evening on weekends when his parents had an evening engagement.  However, being the Singaporean Indian girl that I was and having conservative parents fighting to stay conservative, Kieran’s father would pick me up and drop me home for evening babysitting stints.  Yes!  I was a baby, babysitting a baby.

It never occurred to me but that was my first peek into the world of mothering.  I changed nappies (yes, cloth!), gave toddler baths, put him to bed, fed him meals, read him stories, took him for walks around the neighborhood, to the nearby beach, played games, shared in his firsts, worried when he was sick and rejoiced in his accomplishments.

The day came when I was to return to Singapore with my family and leaving Kieran was one of my greatest sadness.  I always wondered how he was and was curious about what he was doing in life.  Fast forward about 15 years.  SOCIAL MEDIA!  Yes!  I found him on Facebook and I now silently follow the progress of his life, happy to see him following his dreams.

So there you go……….a piece of me, contentment at the release of a long overdue brain fart.  I am writing again.

He stands towering next to her. One hand gently stirring the creamer and sugar into her coffee, the other hand, ever so gently stroking her back.  The years show, for her in her curved spine, for him in his snow white beard.  There is a rhythm to their movements.  A perfect symphony.   And only when he receives the nod does he proceed to sit down to his own breakfast.  Minutes pass.  Verbal silence permeates the air.  The visual conversation is palpable.  Depths of love form an impenetrable bubble around them, some of it spilling over to the lucky witnesses, myself included.  Home.  That is what it is.  A sense of home. Nothing more.  Nothing less.  The illusion of body and mind tossed to the wind.  An unexplainable connection of the souls.  The only need, to be in each other’s presence.  Unprepared, a tear escapes from my eye.  She stands, unaware of her surrounding, ready to leave.  Age has erased the norm.  He scrambles to clear the table.  She, already on her way out the door.  He, not even two steps behind her.  Claiming her hand and offering the protection a mother does her child, they walk into the world, aware only of each other.

Reality is often more beautiful than fiction.  This unfolded in front of me in the coffee shop this morning.

“Laughter is the best medicine.”  A cliché?  Perhaps.  Could this really be the cure or is it temporary healing?

Deciding that I needed a night of laughter.  A movie was picked.  “My big fat greek wedding 2”.  If you know me, and there are a few friends and family who do, you know that:

1.  I will make a night happen.  Alone or with company.
2. I love impromptu plans.  I love an impromptu life.

I think I learned the first one when I was in college.  It was the first time a friend backed out of going for a movie.  I did wallow in the irritation and anger for awhile but then the most amazing thing happened.  I went for that movie by myself.  I have never forgotten that movie.  “The Truth about cats and dogs.”  I remember it being a turning point when I learned that the theatre is one of my sanctuaries and I love being there with or without company.  So I thank this friend for this lesson.

Impromptu.  There’s an unexplainable tingling excitement when you do something impromptu.  It goes against all that you expect and is expected of you.  You reject the mundane.  You shut the voices of reason and fear up.  Time is not in your favor to change your mind.  This moment is now or never.

But I digress.  Last night, a friend responded to my request for company for the movie on Facebook.  We found ourselves giggling at our weeknight escape.  In reality, not much of an escape after all.  Having a little time on hand before the start of the movie, we walked the empty streets of Boise, ok, so maybe it was just one street, looking for a coffee shop.  In Boise we trust.  In Boise we trust not for any coffee shop to be open in a decent location past the divine time of 7pm at the latest.  For once, this was indeed a blessing.  If not for this mini bump in the plan, we would not have stumbled into Liquid Laughs for some impromptu “liquid” and “laughs”.  My liquid of choice was Kahlua.  This is my exception being a non-coffee drinker myself.  After all, who am I to refuse the nectar of Mexico.  Kahlua may have been my first drink in my life.  Or perhaps it was Baileys.  It was lifetimes ago.  I shall refrain from stating the age since I know my girls will devour my blog one day in search of evidence to support their arguments.  Either way, it was a drink that was mixed with chocolate milk.  Let me tell you.  NOT A GOOD IDEA.  Chocolate milk gives you that warmth of childhood and the alcohol gives you the status of superheroine.

The laughs were good.  Maybe with the alcohol coursing through my veins, triggering my humour.  What makes a person stand up in front of a bunch of strangers, urging and silently hoping for belly-aching laughs?  It is beyond my comprehension.  I am the perfect example of how NOT to be a public speaker.  My face tomato reddens.  My hands drip like they have a tap of their own.  I become the queen of vibrato.  To give you an idea of how much I dread it.  Recently, I wrote MY 3-line speech to thank my 9-year old’s basketball coach and I got the 9-year old to read it out!  Google stage fright and do not be surprised if you find this!

Can you tell by now that digression is my super power?  Blogging obviously isn’t good for a recovering addict of digression.  My cool mummy friend and I made our way to the theatre.  And because this is beautiful Boise, we were two of the four present for the movie.  This was our ticket to our rambunctious laughter throughout the movie.  There were moments of “awwws” and “oh nos” thinking of our own girls growing up but the theme of the movie was fun and fun we had.  I’m not quite sure what the other 2 patrons thought of us.  I didn’t hear a peep from them.  I guess, either they didn’t have a “funny streak” in them or boisterous, fun-loving Greeks are a turn on and they were making some “OPA” of their own at the back of the theater.  To each his own, I say.

So back to my original questions.  Is laughter the best medicine?  The ultimate cure?  My jury is still out.  But one thing I am sure of.  It heals, one laugh at a time.  Did you know that there is something called laugh therapy?  I have been witness to one such session.  As my father and I walked past a public park in Delhi 16 years ago, we saw a bunch of men standing in a circle, and at intervals breaking out in loud, planned and timed laughter.  I won’t lie.  It scared the living toot out of me.  Fearing that they were possessed, I questioned my dad.  Without flinching, he explained it to me. You see…..my dad was privy to such unique (strange) practices.

If you should feel inclined, watch this YouTube clip and laugh along!  Prescribing 200 mg of laughter, twice a day for as long as you live, it is Dr. Bavani.  Over and out.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=QEZkb97rRtI

“Spring Break.  I walk through the house.  I look into their bedroom.  The beds are made.  The floor is bare.  Squeals of laughter and heavy footsteps echo in the room.  The compromised choice of décor in the form of red and orange painted walls and green curtains remind me of the futile and unnecessary disagreements.  Stepping cautiously into the room, I walk over to the dresser and glance at the last choice of book the previous Christmas that they were home.  Girls after my own heart.  Walking down the stairs, I trace my fingers over the scraped off paint and the little hidden dents on the wall.  Each imperfection triggering a memory of life.  Brewing myself a cup of tea, I look out into the backyard that is beautiful and yet, somehow devoid of life.  The absence of strewn toys and a DIY magic tree house.  Dare I say I crave for one, just one more day of a trail of toys that infuriate me and yet remind me of moments.”

Fortunately, I have more than 10 years before such a scene may confront me.  Spring Break this year has been nothing short of magical.  Was it devoid of the challenges of life?  Definitely not.  But the magic far outweighed the challenges.

I had an epiphany on this trip down to the Oregon Coast.  It is all about the little but big moments.  Every single one of them.  And perhaps, there lies the formula for happiness in life.  Missing these moments or letting them slip by while a perceived bigger picture is being attained.  The purpose lies in embracing each and every moment, good and bad.  However, the key lies in not embracing it long enough to get attached.  If it is a good moment, embrace it and say “Thank you for the joy, you may now move on.”  If it is a bad moment, say “Thank you for the lesson, you may now move on.”

I read this quote in a book, “the dead yesterday and the unborn tomorrow”.  We give too much of our time to the yesterdays and tomorrows and forget about the todays.  My girls are constant reminders that the todays will be gone before you know it.  I have no idea how this is possible but they turn my hair gray just as fast as they love me unconditionally.

Another reminder this trip was the power of recharging oneself by immersing yourself in Nature.  I read about it all the time.  Going technology-free and enjoying all that nature has to offer but I have to admit that despite living in a place surrounded by mountains, I forget this little trick.  The greenery, the moss-hugged trees and the oxygen dense air recharged me.  For some reason, the trees that were filled with moss made me unreasonable childlike happy.  I couldn’t stop taking pictures while giggling and gushing over my love for them.  I could almost feel the fresh air enter my body and flush out the staleness of life from my system.

This is my little promise to myself henceforth.  To engage in more such trips regularly.  I wish for you to experience this wherever you are.

The month.  March.

The season. Spring.

The age. 39.

The crisis.  Mid-life.

The solution.  A blog.

Brene Brown describes it best when she says, “People may call what happens at midlife ‘a crisis’, but it’s not. It’s an unraveling – a time when you feel a desperate pull to live the life you want to live, not the one you’re ‘supposed’ to live. The unraveling is a time when you are challenged by the universe to let go of who you think you are supposed to be and to embrace who you are.”

So…..I am not going to go out and buy a sports car any time soon.  But you may just catch me writing and living a lot more.

Join me on this journey as I move up towards 40, as one would, slowly and surely on a roller coaster ride and then scream and plummet with excitement as I hit 40 and beyond.