Identity Part 2: More Geographical Perspectives

Identity Part 2: More Geographical Perspectives

Dear reader, thank you for coming by again. If you’d like to read the first part to this post, please read Identity: A Geographical Perspective.

Sophia in the United States of America

My first home away from home was Santa Monica, California. It was beautiful. I would walk everywhere. Once I saw Keanu Reeves casually walking to an apartment three doors down from me, like he wasn’t Neo from the Matrix. Hahaha!

A lot of people looked at me. It is only recently that I noticed that people usually look at me, and I figure it’s because I’m tall. That is where the Brazilian and Moroccan guesses started rolling in: in Los Angeles County. That’s when I started wondering about my identity on a whole new level, slowly but surely.

My identity crisis culminated eighteen years into my life in the U.S. This is when it became something I had to seriously look at, and decide what kind of action to take. In the early 2000s, I noticed some girls look at me in a strange way (strange to me), when they knew I was with a Black guy. I brushed it off as me seeing things, and it might have been so. I never got the same looks when I dated a White guy or one with my skin color.

In the early 2010s I went to the bank in a predominantly White neighborhood, and was helped by a really nice White man banker. I came back two times later with my husband, who’s Black mixed with Black. I noticed my husband’s whole posture and energy change. He was making himself smaller. He is 6’5″ or so, but it wasn’t just his height he was minimizing. He was making himself non-threatening. 

I looked at him curiously, but when I sat with him across from the same White man who had helped me so nicely twice before, I began to understand. The whole thing infuriated me on a level where I couldn’t even say anything. The banker talked to us like we weren’t account holders, like we didn’t belong, like he didn’t have time, and like he forgot how to be as nice as he was earlier that week. It was completely new to me. I couldn’t understand it. Apparently it was the way my husband’s world worked, and I (being …Other and a woman) had never been exposed to it first-hand.

I decided then to open myself up to understanding this world my husband was living in, and that our children might come to live in as well. 

The United States Through The Eyes Of A Foreigner

As a foreigner living in the U.S. I feel like an outsider looking in on a very personal family situation. There is so much love, and fear-based hate, and fear-based actions all around. The love should not be ignored, but lately I notice that it is becoming an aspect of the Black/White relationship that isn’t being talked about as much. There is a whole other thing too: I, as a woman with African identity and mixed ethnic heritage, find it super strange when Black women here see me as a disappointment or as a threat. Let me explain. It has taken me SO long to come to face this possibility, and I only bring it up because it has nothing to do with me, I believe, but with an idea.

I have had the pleasure and blessing to be around a lot of people from different cultures and backgrounds. Here in the United States I have been around Black women who have either come to, or are working on coming to a place of self-appreciation and self-worth, and a place where they feel freer to express their African identity and cultures. I don’t seem to get along with the majority of these Black queens. At least not for long-lasting relationships. There has been a small group of them, but by and large, I have remained this Other girl who says she is from Africa but doesn’t look like the African stereotype.

I was MC of this Afrofuturistic event in Columbia, South Carolina once, because this Black King saw my worth before I could even see it. His name is THE Dubber. He’s a rather dope human and musician.

Most people at the event didn’t know who I was, but if you know me, you know I will come say hi with a smile on my face (and in my heart). I will introduce myself and ask you about yourself. I walked into the main room and one of the evening’s artists was there, sitting in a row of chairs. She was a Black girl who was evidently on her journey of finding her magic. I think that’s awesome! Low natural haircut, beautifully moisturized skin, funky outfit, African jewelry, coffee-brown skin. It fit the image of Africa that many people in the United States have. My husband was in front of me so he walked into the room first. She got up, smiled big at him, greeted him and shook his hand, and sat back down. I was right next to him by this point, getting ready to look up again from my planner at the right time, and greet her when she was done greeting my husband, but I guess she didn’t see me. She didn’t even make eye contact with me.

Did you say I could have cut her out of the evening’s schedule? Oh my! You’re such a naughty reader! Haha!

At least she behaved like that to my face, which I appreciate.

I do not pretend to understand the distress of the descendants of enslaved Africans in America. Distress, injustice, disgust, hurt, pain, frustration, trauma, etc…

Yet, I would like to share a perspective from outside the box, and I thank you for lending me your ear.

Power

Power comes with responsibility. A part of that responsibility is to ask what kind of world one wants to live in and what they can do to make it become a reality (if it isn’t already so). With the power that Black people and Brown people, and BIPOC and all marginalized people are sloo-o-o-o-wly gaining, we must ask ourselves this question: what kind of world do we want to live in, and what are we doing about it? I have heard Black friends say they hate White people. Some have said they would never date a White person (some for the sole fact that they would be White, not to do with culture and understanding), some say they won’t teach their kids about anything other than Black excellence and identity. I want to ask…. isn’t that the same kind of biased reality that we are working to get away from? If we start teaching our kids only a part of history, isn’t that history as skewed, but from another viewpoint?

Please consider this: would it be possible for us minorities to not only empower ourselves, but also be empowered by others (if they choose to do so) AND also not disempower others? I understand that if those without power gain it, those with it would have had to relinquish it. That’s fine. But do we have to exclude them entirely like they have done?

If that’s the case, do we know when and how to stop so that we don’t tilt the scales all the way to the other side and miss the point of balance?

We Just Want To Be Understood

I know you don’t know me and can’t verify my intention in saying any of this. I am truly coming from a place of mind and heart in which you and me are the same thing. Whether you believe in a Biblical Adam and Eve, or a scientifically founded story of a set of Eves, or whether you subscribe to the Big Bang theory, or evolution with a different beginning… I don’t know. What I believe is that, scientifically, we are all the outcome of the death of a star, a supernova. The only difference between you, and I, and that tree over there, is how energy and matter is collected (collected: has changed through time to become what it currently is). In truth, we are one.

I also believe we are spiritually connected. So when I ask these questions it is not because I am for any group or identity in particular. It is because I am for all people as one group. One group with varying stories to tell, cultures and traditions to live and share. We will likely always war and fight. We will have defeats and triumphs. In this seemingly pivotal moment in which history is swiftly changing through the use of newer and newer technology, can we decide that we all want to operate based on love? Can we empower ourselves to love ourselves fully? Then we can empower others to love themselves fully.

Can we at least attempt to tell history as factually as it occurred? So that all children of the world know about world history from all viewpoints? The good and the bad, and the understanding that sometimes the (good and bad) sides change. Personally, I am (learning to be) done with proving I belong. I don’t want to assimilate to become American or Black or anything else. I would like to be me. I am African. I have an African nose, and African hair, and African skin. Anything I do is African. LOL. I can’t prove it, you see? It’s kind of a ridiculous notion, now that I think about it after doing that for 22 years of living in the U.S.!

This is a scary post to write, but God knows my intention is to unite people – not take away anyone’s culture or identity – and to make progress without creating an unintended monster on the other side. I hope you understand.

Do you grapple with your identity living in a foreign country? Is this something you are concerned about for your children?

This is an original post for World Moms Network by Sophia.

ThinkSayBe

I am a mom amongst some other titles life has fortunately given me. I love photography & the reward of someone being really happy about a photo I took of her/him. I work, I study, I try to pay attention to life. I like writing. I don't understand many things...especially why humans treat each other & other living & inanimate things so vilely sometimes. I like to be an idealist, but when most fails, I do my best to not be a pessimist: Life itself is entirely too beautiful, amazing & inspiring to forget that it is!

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Identity: A Geographical Perspective

Identity: A Geographical Perspective

“Where are you from?”

“What is your ethnicity?”

Do you ever get asked questions about your identity?

How about me? Could you guess my ethnic background or identity? In fact, you could put your answer in the comment section and see if you aren’t alone!

There is going to be some humor in this post. Beware!

My name is Sophia. Like Sophia Loren with the big eyes, or Sofia Vergara with the big breasts. I haven’t called myself these names; I am only (vainly) conveying what people have said since childhood and in later years.

I have consistently been asked these questions: where are you from? What is your ethnicity? At some point I decided to ask the curious person what they thought. The guesses across U.S. state lines varied only slightly: Brazilian, Moroccan, and Indian were the top three guesses. Less than a handful of times someone guessed Italian, Eritrean, and Afghani (I wondered if they had been stalking me, but they just had a good eye for phenotypes).

I am a Mhaya from the Haya tribe of northwest Tanzania, west of Lake Victoria. This is the tribe of my mother and my grandmother, while my great-grandmother was from the Kingdom of Buganda. I am also Punjabi, Afghani, Eritrean, and Italian; and that only covers up to 4 grandparents & my great-grandmother Nshashwoi – I think her name is so awesome! I consider myself all those things, and I am aware of being all of them to some, and one of them to most. At this point in my life I wonder, more than anything else when it comes to this, how I feel about it all and how I identify. 

It’s an ongoing question, but I know I am not alone in answering it. I think there are others who are going through the same thing, so I hope this post can help someone with today’s set of… wonderings about their identity.

Sophia in Italia

When I lived in Italy as a kid, I honestly had the best time! We played outside; I ran and ran and ran; we shouted; we had spit contests; we did our homework; we played palla a calcio, aka football or soccer; we hid from the Carabinieri driving by, as if we had done something wrong. I am still in touch with most of my neighbors and elementary school friends; they hold a special and beautiful place in my heart. There were parts of childhood that were tough and in retrospect uncertain, but overall, I think it was pretty great!

The grocers across the narrow street from our house were super nice and let me learn how to do things around the shop when I asked. I never thought anything really deep, when the husband would tease and say “O! Are you getting bananas today? You guys like them where you’re from!” with a big smile on his face. I just thought that was a stupid comment and that he was only making a joke. So I took it as that.

It wasn’t until 20 years later that it dawned on me that in our class, there were just two of us who were not “olive-skin white Italians”. I mean… our olive skin is there, but you know, mixed with some other things like… cardamom and Thai basil. 

We tanned really well! No one pointed any of that out, though, and childhood went on as I wish it would for all children.

Sophia in Tanzania

When we moved back to Tanzania I learned Kiswahili and English as quickly as I could. I jumped straight into 6th grade with two-weeks’ worth of English classes, and let me tell you… it was quite the experience! From a class of 18-24 students, all speaking Italian, all friends since yay high, to a class of 90+ students, speaking in languages I didn’t understand, and looking at me like only a part of what I am ethnicity-wise. How dare they!

One girl in particular was really cool. She was African (color omission is intentional) and she knew all these cool English hip-hop songs that I heard in 6th and 7th grade. Our Cameroonian teacher would let us sing them in class. Her English sounded perfect, even though I didn’t know the meaning of all the words we were singing (now that I speak English I can say she does speak it excellently.)

As time passed and I learned to speak the local languages, people started asking me about my ethnic identity; guessing that I was Baluch, Omani, Arab, or Indian. The Somali girls would befriend me and we’d hang out quite a bit. I remember being in Form II (think sophomore year in U.S. high school) and a group of Indian girls asked if I wanted to be friends, to which I said yes. The next morning at school, the group of Indian girls and I waved from across the courtyard.

During that same morning, I met some more friends in class, and during class changes I walked with them to our next destination. Three of the Indian girls from that morning saw me with my new friends, looked at me, hugged their books tightly to their chests, and walked past us like they didn’t know me.

During recess I went to say hi to the Indian girls, and sure enough they had changed their minds about hanging out with me. The only difference that I could think of is that the friends they had seen me with looked pretty coffee-skinned.

It’s so strange to me to say Black, as Black is not a word anyone used to describe our identity; not even the darkest-looking person… unless they were really, really dark… like beautiful moon-lit nights. In this case, someone might have called them ‘of the night‘ or ‘of blackness‘, which was sometimes done in a collective jest that included the person being discussed, and at times it was used to be hurtful.. The more I say, the more wrong it sounds, but I am not here to lie to you or paint a picture that isn’t so. Back to my point, though. Africa is home to so many skin colors, physical features, and hair textures!

So it was, that from that day I chose to not say I was Indian; that included Afghani. I was Tanzanian, Eritrean, and Italian. I didn’t watch Indian movies if I could help it, I didn’t seek out anything to do with my Indian heritage at all. I still ate Indian sweets like gulam jamun because, well… it’s gulam jamun.

I came back to appreciating and happily embracing my Asiatic identity in my 20s. Of course that small group of girls was not a complete representation of all Indians, just as most small groups aren’t a complete representation of a group or an ideology or belief.

This brings us to Sophia In the United States of America, but see, that is an entirely different experience, that requires its own post.

Before I go, I would like to ask you: Did any of this resonate with you? How does it feel? You don’t have to answer that publicly, but you are free to do so.

I hope it feels reassuring or that it helps in some way.

This is an original post for World Moms Network by Sophia.

ThinkSayBe

I am a mom amongst some other titles life has fortunately given me. I love photography & the reward of someone being really happy about a photo I took of her/him. I work, I study, I try to pay attention to life. I like writing. I don't understand many things...especially why humans treat each other & other living & inanimate things so vilely sometimes. I like to be an idealist, but when most fails, I do my best to not be a pessimist: Life itself is entirely too beautiful, amazing & inspiring to forget that it is!

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Wonder Basket: Sustainable Cooking From The Heart Of Africa

Wonder Basket: Sustainable Cooking From The Heart Of Africa

Food.

No matter what is going on all around us, we need food. Too often lack of food is what is going on in certain parts of the world, while where there is plenty, we might enjoy a morsel on our own or with our neighbors, family, or friends.

I would like to ask you: what tools do you use to cook? Is it a kerosene or gas stove? Charcoal or electricity? A combination? If there was a way to cook your food using less energy, would you want to know about it? This post is all about that, so you are in the right place!

Bibi Saleha (Sally) Qazi is a Tanzanian woman who came up with a brilliant idea. We call her Bibi, a title of respect that means “grandmother”. Bibi Sally is my mother, which might make one question whether I am biased, but once you read on I believe you will see that it makes good sense.

Bibi Sally
The author’s mother, Bibi Sally

The idea is the Wonder Basket.

So what is it?

The Wonder Basket is a cooking tool that is made with all* recycled materials. Use of the Wonder Basket helps with busy and lazy schedules, as you can use your stove of choice for a short time and turn it off (or use it for other foods). You then transfer your pot to the Wonder Basket to continue cooking without additional energy, using only the heat it has already gathered. The Wonder Basket saves energy, which is good for the planet, people, and the pocket.

Where may one find one of these amazing Baskets, and is the answer Africa? Well, as much as you are welcome to visit Tanzania (as you should) and attend a training session with Mama Sally, you can make a Wonder Basket on your own!

Speaking of bias, I’ll be honest… as her daughter and a woman who has always wanted to be financially independent, the fact that my mom freely shares this information sometimes bothers me Why? Because through this knowledge she could provide for herself, which is something that is needed. However, as a human being I am so thankful, humbled, and proud that she does freely share, and I hope that this universe will continue to provide for her all that she needs and more. My mom rocks as a human, as a woman and as a mom!

How Bibi Sally makes the Wonder Basket

The Wonder Basket is made using ten items:
1) A basket or large wooden box
2) Nylon sheeting large enough for two linings
3) Thin sponge mattress for insulation or enough large wood shavings for lining
4) A piece of sturdy cotton cloth to cover the nylon
5) A nylon bag for a cushion lid
6) Sponge for the lid
7) A pillow slip for cushion lid
8) Some string and big needle
9) A pair of scissors
10) A small square of cardboard to put under the pot in the basket

How to make it

Take a large basket or box (around 50cm x 50cm x 50cm).
Line it with the nylon sheet to insulate it.
Create a base 3–4 cm wide at the bottom.
Apply the second sheet of nylon to cover the base , and fill in the space between two nylon sheets to create a wall inside the basket or box, either with wood shavings or the sponge mattress.
Seal the wall which is 3-4 cm wide by folding the nylon sheet overlap.
Cover with the strong cotton cloth. I used a large pair of skintight pants as the elastic waist band covers the nylon wall perfectly and the legs can be folded into the central well.
The cloth can be arranged to cover the inside of the basket and overlap over the basket walls.
Give it a shape with the scissors or tuck it in and stitch with the string to hold it all together.
The pillow must not be rigid.
Fill the nylon bag with wood shavings or sponge; give it a shape to fit snugly into the well in the basket.
Cover it with the pillow or cushion slip and stitch it shut.

How to use the Wonder Basket

All cereals/grains and most foods cooked in water can be cooked in the basket!

Measure and clean the cereal/grain to be used, soak it until saturated.
Put it in a pot without salt and with enough water to cover it completely with 1 cm of water above it.
Bring it to a boil and stir. Cover and boil for one minute. Then transfer the pot to the insulated basket and cover it immediately with the cushion lid.
Make sure no hot air comes out or cold air goes into the covered basket.
The cooking time is the same as when you use the stove.

Wonder Basket in use
The Wonder Basket in use

A note about rice

One cup of rice absorbs about two cups of water, sometimes a bit more for mature grains. Soak the clean rice for a few minutes. Then heat the necessary amount of water, salt it and bring to boil; you can put in some oil and spices if desired. When it boils, put in the strained rice, and stir. When it starts boiling properly, cover it and move the pan to the basket, and immediately put the cushion lid on.

Meat, potatoes, and cassava can be cut into inch-long pieces and cooked as desired. Then add a little boiling water, put the lidded pot in the basket, and cover instantly.

The basket will cook the food and keep it hot for a long time. You don’t need to watch it for fear that it may get burnt, as there is no flame or live fire. Don’t open the basket to check the food before passing the minimum cooking time has elapsed.

You cannot fry, grill or bake with this method. You can sterilize juice, food, and bottles in the basket. Take it on safari or picnic, or the office or the farm.

Food made in the Wonder Basket
Here is some delicious food, some of which was made in an original Wonder Basket made by Bibi Sally herself

Bibi Sally has been an advocate for nutrition and nutrition education in her community for decades. She has always been passionate about women’s rights, human rights, children in poverty, self-reliance, and having a good hearty laugh! She is also a phenomenal translator, having translated many of the Baha’i Holy Writings from English to Kiswahili, as well as other independent translation assignments.

If you have any questions about the Wonder Basket, please do ask.

*all recycled materials: Sometimes you might have to buy the basket, box, or other materials.

This is an original post for World Moms Network by ThinkSayBe. Photo credit to the author.

ThinkSayBe

I am a mom amongst some other titles life has fortunately given me. I love photography & the reward of someone being really happy about a photo I took of her/him. I work, I study, I try to pay attention to life. I like writing. I don't understand many things...especially why humans treat each other & other living & inanimate things so vilely sometimes. I like to be an idealist, but when most fails, I do my best to not be a pessimist: Life itself is entirely too beautiful, amazing & inspiring to forget that it is!

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USA: Love in the Rubble of Life

USA: Love in the Rubble of Life

February 18, 2021

Yesterday, February 17, 2021, our daughter Sophia and son Wesley (& their grandpa) planned a surprise date for my husband Don and me. I left at around 10 am to go clean an office. On my way, I made a couple of stops and did a prayer recording for TikTok. It took a little more time than intended. I got to the office, cleaned it, it took the expected 3 hours, after which I waited for Don to get off the phone with a patient (took 10 minutes), and I went to the store. It hadn’t happened in a while, but I thought about Wesley’s heart and how miraculous it was that he didn’t have to go through a second surgery 3 days after his first one, (as the patch they made for him had opened, but miraculously closed). What would life be like, if he had? I don’t want to know. 

I went to Trader Joe’s; which is unusual as it’s a bit farther away from us than other grocery shops. As soon as I got in, I was met with an abundance of flowers. I remembered how Wesley brings me flowers from the backyard and thought to get him and Sophia some flowers. I got her tulips and I got him sunflowers. I got fruits, juices, sparkling water & cherry juice, some frozen meals, and “homeschool” snacks & desserts. I got home shortly before 5 pm. Don got off at 5 pm. 

I was met at the door by Wesley, dressed in a shark T-shirt and a proper tuxedo! He greeted me with “Hello, mother, and welcome to the Johnson Cafe” 

???? Complete heart melt.

Sophia was dressed in a beautiful cream gown. Grandpa was just chillin’ like he hadn’t been involved ????

They forbade me to look in the dining room and asked me to go put on a dress. I did so, and also undid my hair which I happened to have braided in the morning, in anticipation of the cleaning job I had. The kids and Grandpa started getting the groceries. They asked me to put some of them away, but I couldn’t look at the table in the dining room, still.  While I changed, though, they got out the fruit I had just purchased and set out the sparkling water and cherry juice (I saw this later).

A short while after I was done, Don came back from work. They told him to go get dressed too. 

Meanwhile grandpa put out the flowers I had just gotten. 

Then when we both were allowed to come out, we saw how they had set up the table with plates and everything – candles too! Sophia said, “This is your Valentine’s date because I was sick on Valentine’s and you couldn’t go on your date.” 

???? Another complete heart melt! 

We were advised to self-serve because of COVID compliance ???? 

It was super sweet and an occasion full of love; even more than Valentine’s Day could have ever offered. 

I kept feeling amazed about how it all worked out. Don & I had zero ideas of their plan. Outside of a new orchid tradition, Don started last year, we usually get flowers around birthdays or some such occasions. We otherwise get plants that can grow. So the fact that I bought the kids these flowers, on the day they were doing all this for us, was just beyond serendipitous! It was like a thank you to them from the universe itself! 

My hair, my timing, Don’s timing, the groceries – everything was serendipitous and perfect! Even me fitting in the dress I picked after the holidays is amazing! ???? 

All this happened at a time when one of my closest friends and her co-denizens are stuck without power, in freezing cold Texas, with at least one politician telling them to go fend for themselves. At a time when death tolls are rising in Tanzania because of a renewed wave of Covid-19. At a time when many other saddening & maddening things are happening around the world. 

In the midst of it all, though, I would be remised if I didn’t mention this beautiful occasion. No matter how long we’ve been home as stay-home-moms (or dads) before the pandemic – homeschooling & virtual schooling and staying at home, going in circles or keeping busy with work and electronic devices, and books, and and and – it gets so exhausting sometimes and I want an open field to run on, where somehow none of our responsibilities follow me there. Where I can run and lay in the grass and look at the pretty blue sky and fluffy clouds shielding me from the sun here & there. 

The beauty in what happened yesterday, in my view, is in our children surprising us, in Wesley being here with his miracle heart, in them having a grandpa and the kind of grandpa who would take the time to help them organize it all, in them putting on clothing they don’t really like to wear that often, in all the details I mentioned above about the flowers and fruits and the timing and my hair – It was like that open field with the pretty sky and fluffy clouds. 
I know I am not the only person going through this feeling. I imagine the mercies shown to our fellow humans living in war zones everywhere, or a brief moment of love my brothers & sisters in Libya might feel in the midst of the modern-day human enslavement and trafficking.

I imagine all of us get a split second of Love that gives us just enough hope to keep pushing forward, until, hopefully, the next split second.

So, in short, here is a shout out to the universe, and to the Creator, for allowing small (and huge) mercies, for sparking laughter and acts of love in the middle of chaos, and for allowing us to see it all. 

ThinkSayBe

I am a mom amongst some other titles life has fortunately given me. I love photography & the reward of someone being really happy about a photo I took of her/him. I work, I study, I try to pay attention to life. I like writing. I don't understand many things...especially why humans treat each other & other living & inanimate things so vilely sometimes. I like to be an idealist, but when most fails, I do my best to not be a pessimist: Life itself is entirely too beautiful, amazing & inspiring to forget that it is!

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WORLD VOICE: “Listen,” Said the Heart, “The Trees are Talking”

WORLD VOICE: “Listen,” Said the Heart, “The Trees are Talking”

Sometimes, when the breeze passes through the trees, I ask my children if they hear the wind and the leaves make music and if they see them dancing. Have you ever heard this music? Have you ever seen this dance? I hope you have. It’s quite beautiful. This past July I went to India for a few days. My first stop was in Hyderabad; specifically an ashram called Kanha Shanti Vanam (Kanha). I had seen photographs of the place, and the plant life looked beautiful, but you know… it looked just as beautiful as I have seen and felt plant life thus far. I was not at all prepared for what I would experience in Kanha, but I heard my heart and it said: “Listen. The trees are talking”.

It was around 11 pm when I arrived at the dormitories in Kanha. There was a very light drizzle and the grounds were quiet… sort of still and calm. I was shown to a dorm where I quickly set my things down on a bunk bed, took a shower, brushed my teeth & went to sleep to be ready for morning Satsangh (a type of group meditation). The next morning, as I was walking to get chai from the cafeteria, I heard that familiar song made by the breeze and leaves. I looked at all the trees lining up the roads, and they were gently moving with the wind. Monsoon season was upon us, but we only had a light drizzle that would just begin and end now and again, and a consistent cool breeze in the 80(F) degree weather.

It’s interesting writing about this now, after going through the experience, because I have had time to contemplate on it and understand my feelings. A month later, it still is hard to put it all into words.

See, in Kanha there are so many things going on. There are volunteers who live there, those of us who visit and volunteer, construction workers who sometimes work through the night, there are people taking care of plant nurseries, people planting trees, there is a school for children, seminars, workshops, apartments and houses being built, ponds being created, meditation halls being constructed. However, the one thing I noticed as I walked around is that plant life seems to be the priority in Kanha. Not to devalue other priorities, but I don’t know how else to say it. Plants seemed to be valued so highly that it looked like construction was planned around them. And while walking on the tree-lined streets, I could not help but feel like the trees were not only dancing and singing with the wind, but like they were actually talking.

Let me back up just a tad. Kanha is a place in Hyderabad. It is the Headquarters of the Heartfulness Institute. In 2015 this land was barren. There was nothing there. To experience it today, it’s just completely amazing! I mean, there are all sorts of trees, from various places of the world! The majority of the food eaten at Kanha is grown on property. The pictures don’t do this place any justice, and the feeling that you get while there, is one that stays with you and makes the outside world feel…different.

Let me say, I didn’t hear the trees say anything in particular. It was like how you know that the Earth is a living thing, right? That, so is the grass and the flowers we see, and the bushes and trees we see. We know they are alive. I have never felt them as alive as I did in Kanha; nor as respected. It felt like the plants’ level of spirituality was higher than of the humans walking among them.

Now being back in the outside world, there is both a feeling of longing for that experience, as well as a reminder to respect and value plant life in our own back yard (so to speak). The heart keeps talking, trying to communicate and help us lead a beautiful life with experiences currently beyond our comprehension. All we need to do is listen. The more we listen, the clearer the heart is heard, and the voice grows louder. This is something I have learned from practicing Heartfulness meditation. As I am finishing up this article, it seems apparent that what I felt at Kanha with the plant life there was an expression of love.

The way that nature is incorporated in the planning of the development of the land in Kanha, makes total sense. It’s something that is doable and would be functional in other places too; cities and rural areas alike.

Although the language of the trees felt like one I hadn’t heard before, the feeling I got from it is that they definitely are our ally; if we would just listen.

ThinkSayBe

I am a mom amongst some other titles life has fortunately given me. I love photography & the reward of someone being really happy about a photo I took of her/him. I work, I study, I try to pay attention to life. I like writing. I don't understand many things...especially why humans treat each other & other living & inanimate things so vilely sometimes. I like to be an idealist, but when most fails, I do my best to not be a pessimist: Life itself is entirely too beautiful, amazing & inspiring to forget that it is!

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