The Garden

I have a vegetable garden. A very humble garden. A triangle on the side of the house that doesn't have the best sunlight.

God is there. God, of course has a history of walking in gardens. And the god that walks in gardens is not the ugly vengeful guy that is portrayed in the rest of old testament. I'm glad.

I saw the divine in a tomato seed. Dry, small, kind of misshapen. But there it was. This seed evolved from the moment of the first bang when the elements began their march into existence. This seed was made of star dust. Dust that took billions of years develop its present form. The astounding process of life evolution took billions more.

For all that time each of the ancestors of this unassuming little seed had managed to survive long enough to reproduce before being eaten or burned, or washed away or otherwise eliminated from the life journey. Considering that the vast majority of living creatures die long before they reproduce, this was a remarkable representative of God that I had in my hand.

And, this little seed was inexorably linked to the future. If the conditions are right, it will give birth dto a plant that will bear copious quantities of fruit each producing untold numbers of seeds, just like itself. And of those, perhaps one will survive to move life forward.

God is remarkably generous. And yet, we are always demanding more.

Why we have so little gratitude toward the sacredness of the earth that has given us everything - toward the generosity of the divine? Why are we so willing to slash, burn, pave over and destroy that which as been so graciously given? Why do we then stand as petulant two-year-olds and expect some anthropomorphic god to swoop down and fix things for us? Why do we have much difficulty expressing responsibility and gratitude?


Perhaps it is explained by a beautiful myth from the desert religious traditions. In this myth, humans exist connected to the sacred and the earth - not surprisingly referred to as a garden - the garden of Eden.

Inevitably these humans do what humans do - they become conscious, in an immature way. They move away from their natural roots, develop an ego which is more important to them than God, and begin dividing the world into good and evil. Even the divine is divided into angels and demons. Human egos reject what they have and always want more.
Of course all humans go through this process. Young children are delightful because they are still in the garden - in innocence. They still have a natural connection to what is. They still see the world as wonder. They are still connected to the divine. If we opened our eyes we could learn from them, but our egos don't usually allow that.

And then the children inevitably take a bite of from the fruit of that tree and find themselves doubting, and full of shame, and judging themselves and others and, wanting more from mother earth. Tkhey thin they will fill better if they just have more. More of what? Doesn't matter - they just need more. A better seat, more praise, more "favor" with the divine, more money, more "truth", more stuff than the next person, And in the pursuit of more they learn fear, and hatred, and cruelty. And they suffer and they cause others to suffer and they besmirch the earth, and the sacred.

Maturity, enlightenment, is the next step. When we finally stop seeing the earth as evil and god as a reflection or our own prejudices (pretty insulting to the divine if you think about it) we can open ourselves up to all. This is being reconnected to reality.

Many have reached that state of maturity. The Buddha, Muhammad, Gandhi, Jesus of Nazareth etc. Countless that have been lost to history have reached it. But, alas, most of us do not.

I did - for a moment. Staring at a tomatoes seed I saw beauty, wisdom and the staggering nature of ultimate reality. I felt honest humility, and gratitude - for a brief moment.

What hasn’t worked

What hasn’t worked is “willpower”. What hasn’t worked is self denegation, self hatred, ongoing self chastisement for lack of. Shame, occasionally meted out by others hasn’t worked. Pep talks, “commitments”, resolutions – no go.

I have a long and sordid history in this regard.

One of my earliest memories as a child was taking 16 cookies as a snack to my Brownie Scout meeting for snacks. I dutifully passed out one to each girl and sat under the table and consumed the remaining 8 myself. I still shudder at that one.

By Junior High School I had moved into dieting including several efforts with the popular “Metrical” which was a bad tasting Slim Fast. You could replace the “milkshake” with metrical Biscuits. Nine square biscuits that had the consistency of dog treats and came in two flavors – chalky chocolate and gritty cinnamon (adjectives, mine). This stuff was my only food for various periods of time. My, but what a desperate 12 year old will do in search of goddess-hood.

Interestingly, as I look back on it, I was not overweight in high school. I weighed between 110 and 130, which, for a 5’2” frame, is not exactly twiggy. But I think was actually pretty close to appropriate and healthy weight for my body type. My desperation to evolve into a Miss America type figure (unlikely in the best of circumstances) had me constantly dieting and forever miserable with my body and with who I was.

So determined was I to become the thin lovely thing of my dreams (and thereby receive membership to the club of the eternal happy) that I chose to major in “Nutrition and Dietetics” when I entered University.

Convinced that enough knowledge about nutrition was really the cure, I continued to graduate school and earned a masters degree in Public Health Nutrition. I became a hospital dietitian, who, among other things, had the special privilege of telling other people how to eat and acting self-righteous when they didn’t toe the line. (Yeah, a bit of a disconnect here). I went on to teach nutrition at a community college for a time.

Education didn’t work. Professional self-righteousness didn’t either.

In my freshman year of college I became Bulimic. Of course at that time there was no name to put on the condition, and, as far as I knew, I was the only one in the world caught in the terrible grip of that behavior pattern. That didn’t work, and neither did the overwhelming sense of shame that dominated my life until my forties when I was finally able to recover from it.

Bulimia didn’t work either.

I prayed, I promised, I promised (and really meant it this time), I dieted. I swam, I tried to run. I got up early and walked

The net result was a gain of weight from about 125 when I was in high school to about 246 five years ago. I am currently down from my high – about 226 right now. That small loss came not from something I did, but from not doing anything. I gave up, stopped obsessing, And the weight came off over about a year. And then I plateaued. Been here about 4 years.

I’m truly an expert in what doesn’t work. What I really want to know is what does work.

Parking Lot Wisdom

I think the guy must have been having a bad day; perhaps he was just a grouch.
“Eat less and get off your butt!” he shouted at my daughter and me as we loaded purchases into our car at our local Costco. We were discussing some latest diet fad. We certainly hadn’t requested his input.

He trudged by us with no further acknowledgement of our presence despite our open-mouthed stares.

I suspect he was not directing his comments toward my marathon running, thin, athletic daughter. Rather, his suggestions were probably aimed at me, carrying an extra hundred pounds and unlikely to be mistaken for anything resembling hyperactive.

He was, of course, rude, inappropriate, a jerk and – alas – right. Ever so right. Upon recovering from the indignity of an unacceptably honest stranger, I was forced to acknowledge the accuracy of his sentiments.

There is no question that the route to weight loss, as well as avoidance or reduction in other modern chronic ailments including diabetes, heart disease, cancers, arthritis, and Alzheimer’s (my personal favorite), is eating less and moving more.

There is no magic, no secret. There most certainly is not a government conspiracy waiting to be revealed in Roswell New Mexico. One doesn’t need a college degree. The answer is as available to us dummies as to anyone else. It is simplicity in itself.

In my heart of hearts, I have known this all along. Others may express frustration and sometimes anger with me – because the answer is so simple. My worst detractor is none other than myself – because the answer is so simple. My self-hatred, my tears, and my disappointments run my life and can put me in a continual state of emotional pain - because it is so simple.

I can be forgiven for searching for more complicate mysteries, but there are none. The fact that I have spent the better part of 6 decades in a search that at my core I've known is doomed to failure, is wrenching - but is also very human.

But how does one change this mindset? How does one finally seek reality when systematically rejecting it for so long? Its trite but true that all great journeys begin with one step. What is that step?

I am an expert in what doesn't work. To find something that does work I am looking to those who have been studying the mind for thousands of years. I am looking to the suggestions of Siddhartha Gautama based on his life and his enlightenment. Specifically, I am looking to those teachings as interpreted by modern Tibetan Buddhists. Siddhartha, taught that one must try out his teachings, as see if they apply. That is what I intend to do.

Zimbabwe - the Beauty and the Tragedy May 7-9, 2008

We were driven to a tiny but well recommended lodge just upstream from the falls. ‘Clever’, was to serve as our guide during our stay. His expertise of the African fauna and flora, as well as his political astuteness, proved remarkable.

The tall, broad faced lodge manager enthusiastically greeted us and promised we would be cared for like royalty. He personally showed us our “chalet” which was tucked away in the trees and about 100 feet from the Zambezi River. To describe these accommodations as “luxurious” does not do them justice.

Our days were filled with the typical “African Safari” activities. In the mornings we would be taken on “game drives” where Clever skillfully sought out wildlife and exposed us to the drama and tranquility of the African bush. Evenings were spent cruising the Zambezi, drinking wine, eating hors d'oeuvres, photographing native water life, and watching breathtaking sunsets on the African horizon.

People might be starving in Zimbabwe – but we weren’t . Someone described the modern African Safari as “one long meal interrupted by game drives”. That's about right. We ate on the banks of the river with numerous servers catering to our every need, efficiently, politely, and, in a state of quiet desperation.

In the past, this beautiful lodge was usually fully booked. Now, due to cancellations, it was only half full and reservations were drying up. One could sense the foreboding behind the “professional cheerfulness” of the staff. In a country with 80% unemployment and inflation in the millions of percent, losing one’s employment is no casual concern.

Midway on game drives we would have drinks and snacks. On occasion, Clever would cautiously delve into politics shaking his head at the harm done by “the old man in Harare”. This big proud man would look away as he expressed his fears for the future of his lodge “family” and beloved country.

One morning we traveled to the predictably magnificent Victoria Falls. Nearby, thin people strolled the streets hawking all manner of African crafts. Concerned, I paid too much for a small soapstone carving that I didn’t really want. Suddenly, we were surrounded by groups of distressed people literally begging us to buy their wares.

A teen age boy walked a mile with us trying to convince us of the value of a small stone elephant. His clothes were clean but old and ill fitting. His eyes were dark, sunken and pleading. Fearful of being mobbed, we tried to ignore him. He began to beg for money “for food, so I can buy food”. I am haunted by this young man today. Five dollars would have been nothing to me but a windfall beyond belief for him. Giving into fear, I put my humanity on hold.

The morning of our departure, the lodge manager let his practiced facade slip. As we made our final good-byes he surrounded my hands with his big black ones and, smile gone, eyes pleading, said “pray for us, please, pray for us.” And we do.

Travel to Zimbabwe May 7, 2008

It was with some trepidation that we got on a British Airways flight to Zimbabwe. Arrangements were made and money traded hands, or at least went from one electronic tally collection to another. All was in readiness, we were assured. But in this strange new cyber world, we realized we had not spoken to a soul. Could the Cape town travel agency website with a nice picture of agent “Robyn” really be Cape a front for a clever scam artist name Bruto?

The other concern was Zimbabwe itself. There had been problems there for some time; circumstances were increasing dreadful for the poor Zimbabweans. The economy was suffered inflation of 1000’s percent – some said millions. It was not our intent to travel in a politically unstable country. We just wanted to get the best view of Victoria Falls which, we were told, was on the Zimbabwe side. Our arrangements were made in March; by the time we arrived in May, there had been an election gone bad and tension was palpable. As it turned out, the hostilities did not interfere with our trip. We were quite safe. At the same time, we found ourselves witness to personal tragedy in the making, and no longer have the luxury of classifying Zimbabwean people as anonymous “others”.

We traveled with a lot of American dollars, about $1000 dollars between us, in small bills. As a practical matter, the Zimbabwe currency was next to useless. Our son, a frequent traveler in Zim assured us that US dollars would work everywhere. He encouraged us to have enough on us uncase of unforeseen circumstances which I assumed included a bribe if necessary. Use of credit cards was not recommended since you had no idea what exchange rate you would be getting. Just to get in the spirit of things, I put two hundred dollars in my shoes. James Bond has nothing on me. OK. Maybe a little silly but it was reassuring to me.

The flight from Jo Berg to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe was pretty much like any other. We could see the falls in the distance as we approached the airport. They looked a little like a small cloud sitting on the African plain. It was the mist from the power of huge amounts of water falling long distances.

Our customs declaration had asked us, among other things, how much cash we were carrying. Conspiracy theorist that I am, I wanted to lie. Our travel agent informed us that entrance to the country would probably cost 30 USD per person, but that this could change. We of little faith were concerned that that amount might “change” to just what we were carrying. Burt, the ever-wise legal mind, pointed to the word “perjury” on the form and we decided that the truth would set us free. Maybe broke, but free.

The airport was small and, perhaps more to the point, quiet. A single airstrip and a single building that had seen better days. We were rounded up and led into a large room with two desks up in front. Then things got confusing. It was necessary to go to the first desk and present your passport and pay your “Visa Fee” which did indeed turn out to be USD 30. There a man wrote out a receipt, by hand, stamped a bunch of things and referred you to the second person. Again a form was laboriously filled out, a rather fancy looking visa was issued and attached to the passport and some more stamping took place. Finally, you could go to the back part of the room to sort through piles of luggage, hopefully finding your own.

To say this process was slow would not do justice to the experience. We were about 6th in line; there were perhaps 80 people behind us. It was almost half an hour by the time we obtained our visas and “entered” the country. I have no idea how long it took the people and the end of the line.

After retrieving our bags, and seeing nowhere else to go, we passed through a door into another equally dismal room – but this opened to the outside where various forms of transport waited. Now was the moment of truth. Were we to be met, or were we abandoned? Glancing to our right we saw a tall, dark, smiling man, wearing the khaki uniform of a tour service holding up a white board with our name on it. His greeting was pleasant and enthusiastic – so was ours as we tried to hide our relief.

It turns out we had nothing to worry about. Our experiences with all the lodges we stayed at, all the game drives, boat trips and transport among lodges were flawless, in both Zimbabwe and Botswana. We met nothing but delightful people anxious (too anxious?) to serve and see that we were comfortable.

We were loaded onto a van with, as our driver cheerfully pointed out “African air conditioning”. The windows were open. Our trip took about an hour on a tree lined two-lane road, which we shared with a few other cars, a lot of pedestrians, and donkey carts. We drove through the town of Victoria Falls and to a transfer point.

There we were met by a Toyota 4 wheel drive truck and transported by a man who introduced himself as “Clever, but I’m not clever”. The last several miles to the lodge were on a bumpy, dusty dirt road through the trees and underbrush. Other than birds, we didn’t see animals on this short trip, but we knew for sure we were no longer in Sacramento. We were in the bush of Africa, or, as Burt put it, a million miles from nowhere

Domestic Help

We all think what we are used to is "normal". In South Africa domestic help is “normal” and, indeed, expected. To those of us suddenly dropped into this culture it requires an adjustment and not just a little soul searching.

My son and daughter-in-law have a full time (5 days a week, 8 hours a day) housekeeper, Penelope, as well as a one day a week gardener/handyman, Body. They pay the housekeeper 140 R or about $20 dollars a day. This is more than the going rate. The gardener earns 100 R a day in addition to housing in the small separate room in their back yard. As a trusted individual, his duties also include simply being available for my daughter-in-law and her children as extra security when my son is traveling on business.

Everyone is pleased with this arrangement. Penelope and Body have fair and reasonable employment at easily afforded rate. If, however, they required the kind of wages paid in the U.S. there would be no employment. As a The ambivalence of this situation is bewildering to a diehard liberal in favor of “living wages” such as myself. Penelope is supporting an ailing husband and living in a tiny hut in a township some distance away. She spends 25 Rand (and 2 to 4 hours) a day on taxi transportation. By U.S. standards, this is dreadful. She is pleased.

The upside of this for my son’s family is that the house is never dirty. Really. I don’t remember seeing any dust, anywhere. Cobwebs, truly you are joking. The white marble floors would not be my first choice with two very small children but not to worry, they are mopped practically every day. Rugs are vacuumed daily – not that once around the center of the room I tend to do, but the move the furniture kind. Bathrooms glisten and windows shine. Dirty clothes unfailingly find themselves washed, sun dried, ironed, and replaced in drawers and closets. Beds look lovely with ironed sheets and my grandson goes to school with pleats in his jeans.

The relatively small garden and floral areas around the patio are weeded and constantly cared for; cars are washed regularly and if the latch on the patio door is stuck, or switch needs to be replaced Body is there with his screw driver.

The other side, of course, is that there are often people in the house when you would like to be alone. Want to pick up an afternoon T.V. show? The living room is getting daily clean up. The kitchen is being polished when you’d like to make a snack. And, when you leave a pair of shoes at the base of the stairs, they won’t be there when you get back. I’ve have many a panicky moment searching for something that I need right now only to find it in the one place I know I would never put it – where it belongs.

It does bring people together. Sometimes this isn’t so good. I have seen domestic servants treated with remarkable condescension and callousness. On the other hand, it has helped us to see the magnitude of the problems of the poor more clearly. They had a wonderful live-in-maid last year. “Greta” was in her mid-forties but looked younger. She showed up on their doorstep fleeing very difficult situation and desperately in need of work. She was reliable, hard working, non-complaining and the only one who could coax my little granddaughter down for a much needed nap in the afternoon.

When my son returned from Christmas in the U.S. they were informed that Thembie had died – from Pneumonia. Just like that. She had not been feeling well when the left, but all assumed with a little rest she would be better. The magnitude of her illness, or the consequences of no affordable medical care hadn’t occurred to them. This kind, pleasant woman had taken a long taxi trip to Durban, where she had family, and simply died.

This year we have been concerned for Penelope and her family. Xenophobia took over the townships as poor unemployed people looked for a scapegoat and zeroed in on “foreigners” who they felt took their jobs and their homes. It isn’t true, but all of us when we are down and out have a tendency to go after the weakest among us.

It turns out Penelope and her family are Zimbabwean, and had good reason to fear for their lives. Despite the fact that Penelope has resided in South Africa for decades Jeff insisted that if she and her husband were identified as “foreign” and harassed, they were to claim sanctuary in Jeff’s home. Things have calmed down, but we all still worry. When you live with those whom poverty affects so dramatically, you are touched and frustrated and sometimes afraid. But you can’t pretend these things only happen to those ubiquitous anonymous beings – “Someone else.”

This is how it is here. A lot of cheap labor. In homes, malls, stores, wherever you go you always see people, invariably black, sweeping, mopping, polishing. The country is remarkably clean and tidy. If you raised wages, unemployment would be even more crushing than it is. But it still rankles to realize that grown adults are supporting themselves cleaning luxurious large homes while earning two to three dollars and hour. It is difficult to see so many people living their lives so close to the edge.

Driving

Driving, after you have done it for awhile, is a combination of habitual patterns. What way to look, how to turn, what to expect of other drivers, which way to maneuver the shift. It is almost effortless, automatic. Unless everything is changed and our habitual patterns work against us instead of for us.

Thus has been the case for me when traveling the roadways of South Africa. Driving on the other side of the road is one thing, but there is a whole different culture and feel to the process that throws habitual patterns on their head.

I do not have a good reputation for driving in this country. My first experience last year was not impressive. My son had admonished me keep the doors locked, stay on the left side of the road and not hit any pedestrians. Being an obedient mother, I followed all instructions carefully. I burned out the clutch instead.

Something about diesel engines having less torque and therefore it is inadvisable to start on a hill in third gear. Who knew?

So far this year I have made several trips to my son's preschool and to the local shopping center with no incidents - at least none that would be visible to anyone outside the car. I find the experience, shall we say, less than relaxing. It probably isn't good for my blood pressure.

The streets are relatively narrow and other drivers cross over the center line routinely not just for passing but to avoid double parked cars, people in the street -there are a lot - and occasionally, I'm convinced, just to confuse those of us who go into spasms of confusion upon seeing the headlights of another vehicle come toward us.

While in general the traffic rules are the same, there is a different rhythm, a different feel to how situations are handled - a different culture if you will. Among other things, you do not wave another driver ahead of you - you blink your lights. Waving is likely to be viewed as strange if not cause for arrest.

My son's concern about hitting people is no small issue. There are people in the streets continuously. Rarely is there a sidewalk and those without cars who can't afford taxis - and that is a lot - walk on the side of the road. Not just in rural areas, but in the high traffic urban areas. To avoid them one frequently finds it necessary to cross over the center line. In addition, at most traffic lights there are all sorts of entrepreneurs trading goods for a few Rand. Practically anything can be had - clothing, produce, newspapers, toys, flags, chargers, you name it. Often there is a person who, for a Rand or two will allow you to dump all of your car trash into his big plastic bag.

If these people knew just who was in the driver's seat of my daughter-in-laws Renault,they would show a healthier caution.

"Oo wee, oo wee, How are you today" a man calls to me as I wait for the light to change. That's South African for "Hey lady, want to buy some oranges?" "Not Today", I call back. American for "Its all I can do to maintain a semblance of control of this mechanical beast - there is no way I can simultaneously do my grocery shopping".

An added wrinkle is the "robots". That is South African for traffic lights. They are pretty similar to ours - red, yellow, green and all that. But not infrequently they are out of order. And, because the capacity for power generation has not kept up with the need there is frequent scheduled "load sharing" which is a euphemism for "power outages". Everyone in a specific is without power - homes, businesses and, yes, robots. Not so hard on the smaller two lane streets but on major intersections (think Watt and Fair Oaks) no lights would seem to give rise to chaos.

Everyone says that when this started it was quite confusing - but people do adapt and it is interesting to watch how people find ways to be quite civil and somehow keep track of who's turn it is. Occasionally a car gets stranded out in the middle of the mess with no one giving way, but the process actually works reasonably well. Naturally I avoid driving during load sharing because I know exactly who would be in that car helplessly stranded in the middle of the intersection.

When my husband arrives in two days, I will gladly relinquish the driver's seat and take up the shotgun (and chief backseat driver)position.