I read this morning that three million bees in one South Carolina bee farm died this week due to the Zika spraying. When I read the article, I remembered the post I wrote two years ago, We Need the Bees. In it, I included the link to an article where Whole Foods showed what their produce department would look like in a world without bees.
Such a tragic situation the Zika crisis is- for humans, bees and many other creatures. May a solution be found soon.
I was a bit surprised when I discovered that the theme for this week’s Song Lyric Sunday was sex. I thought that would be a tough one for me to participate in as I didn’t think I knew any songs about sex, but that belief quickly turned out to be wrong.
Yesterday, I posted two songs about hair, my own (Sixty-eight Years of Hair) and a reblog of my son’s (Nearly Forty-two Years of Hair.) My friend Kathie from ChosenPerspectives used a video clip from Hair in her comment to my post. The songs from that musical are an important part of my history and I love them. I had no doubt I could find a song fitting for this week’s challenge in that play.
Hair: the American Tribal Love-Rock is a musical about the 1960’s hippie counterculture and sexual revolution. It was controversial for it’s depiction of drug use, irreverence for the American flag, profane language, racially integrated cast and ending nude scene. It opened off-Broadway in 1967 and on-Broadway in 1969. That version ran for 1750 performances. There have been many other productions of the Hair musical in the U.S. and Europe since then.
I attended the Atlanta International Pop Festival in 1970 and the cast from Hair performed there. I also thoroughly enjoyed watching a production of Hair with a friend in Seattle 8-10 years ago. I had forgotten about the nude scene at the end so that was quite a surprise!
The songs I have chosen for this Song Lyric Sunday are Black Boys and White Boys.
On August 13, my friend Kathie from ChosenPerspectives wrote a post about her hair. (Kathie was responding to a post by Marilyn Armstrong from Serendipity.) I related to many of Kathie’s experiences and decided it would be fun to take a look at the 68 year journey I have had with my own hair. It has been fascinating to pour through all of my old photograph albums.
My hair in its natural state may have a touch of wave but is mainly straight. You can see that in these early photos of me.
In those days, though, curls were in fashion. Even though I have no memory of it, I believe that at bedtime my mother rolled small clusters of my hair into loops and pinned them to my head using bobby pins. The result- curly hair!
2 years
3 years
(Click on the gallery to enlarge the photos.)
At some point, my mother started giving me perms. The hairdo below looks like it could have been during that time but it is hard to say.
Around 8 years
My hair has always been very thick. My mother thinned it out a lot when I was young. I have always wondered if all the thinning caused it to become even thicker. Probably not. Later in my life a beautician told me I had enough hair for 10 heads… or was it 20…. I don’t remember for sure.
Eventually, my mother started using rollers like these on my hair. It is even possible those rollers were the curling method used to create my curls in some of the photos above.
These pictures were taken when I was 12-17. I imagine I was using both perms and the big rollers in those days. I cringe when I look at a lot of the photos from this period.
I remember a particular beauty parlor appointment during my teenage years. The beautician was excited by how thick my hair was so she teased it, making puff way out. When I got home I combed out all of the teasing. My mother was furious since I had completely wasted the money that she had spent on having my hair done.
There was no picture of my hair after it was teased but I found a YouTube video that shows the process at high speed! I found it fascinating to watch. (I turned off the music; wasn’t in the mood for that part of it!)
My hair was medium length when I left for college.
I found two photos from my first two years of college. As I looked at them I was struck by how thin I was back then. It seemed even more strange since I remember being ridiculed during high school about my large hips and my protruding stomach. In high school someone actually thought I was pregnant.
I started letting my hair grow long as my hippie days began. The picture below is from 1970, the summer I spent doing migrant farm labor across the country. (To learn more about that experience click here.)
On my wedding day in 1971 (22 years) my hair was even longer.
It was still long when Sreejit (1974) and Chaitanya (1977) were born.
There was a time right before my husband and I separated in 1978 when I knew he preferred my hair to be long and my mother vehemently wanted me to cut it off. In those days, I was very angry with both of them and I didn’t want to do anything that would please either one of them. What a double bind that was! I decided to please myself and kept it long.
Around 1984, I finally cut it. That phase lasted for ten years or so.
Playing around
I started growing it out again in the mid 90’s.
My hair has always had many colors in it. It was mostly blondish but there were also brown, gray and even occasional reddish strands. A beautician once suggested I highlight my hair. I could see no reason for doing that. As far as I was concerned, I had “natural” highlights.
At some point, maybe around 1998 (50 years of age), I cut my hair short once again. During the years that followed, the beautician seemed to cut it shorter every time I went to see her. This photo of me with a friend’s newborn is the only photo I have from that time period.
Somewhere around 2006 (58 years), I began longing to have my hair long again, but I told myself old people don’t wear their hair long. I was also concerned that having it long would accentuate the fact that my face was beginning to sag.
After several years of holding that attitude, it became clear to me that my face was going to look saggy regardless of my hair length so I decided it was time to once again make a decision based solely on what I wanted to do with my hair… so I let it grow.
In my early sixties, a young man walked up to me in a parking lot, said “Thank you SO much for not dying your hair,” and then walked away. It was such a surprise. I had never seen him before, or since. It was a fun experience and validated my long held belief that I shouldn’t use dyes or any other product, other than shampoo, on my hair.
I love this photo a friend took of me six or seven years ago.
And here is one with my blogging friend Cheryl-Lynn from Quebec.
And last but not least one, that was taken a few weeks ago!
Karuna, Kathie, Dean and Lenore
While my hair has never been as long as it was in the 70’s, I still keep it at a length that I consider long. I don’t plan to change that until I am too old to take care of it. Of course, I could make a different decision at any time.
I imagine those of you reading this post have hair stories of your own. Consider sharing them in the comments section.
I enjoy looking at the work of new bloggers. Today I discovered Rajaraman and his “Raja’s Short Stories” blog. The two short stories of his that I read today were well written and really held my interest. They also contained meaningful lessons about life. I decided to reblog this one so you can all get a sense of his work. Join me in welcoming Rajaraman to the WordPress blogging community!
“Enough of all this. Shut up, this is not working out.” Rishi said.
“Yeah, I knew this would never work out.” said Naina.
Their marriage had become strained over the past few years. They weren’t spending enough time with each other. The sweet talks had vanished. Their relationship had become more or less like a chore. The passion was missing.
But they did fight with passion. They loved themselves more than the other person. They didn’t care for each other’s opinion or point of view.
They finally felt that they were nearing their end.
“Oh God. Why did I marry her? Please relieve me of this pain.” he thought.
For several years in the mid to late 1990’s and early 2000’s, I wrote articles about my experiences with Amma for “The New Times,” a free newspaper that was, at that time, available in Washington and Oregon. I have started sharing some of those articles on my blog. I am choosing the articles to post based on their topic, therefore they are not being shared chronologically. The article below was published in May of 1995.
~
As a psychotherapist and a consciously evolving human being, I have a strong interest in examining the emotional pain in my own and others’ lives. This year (1995), during my annual visit to the ashram of my spiritual teacher, Mata Amritanandamayi, also known as Amma, I had an experience that helped me put my own pain into perspective.
This year’s trip was different from my previous trips in that most of my two month visit was spent traveling with Amma as she conducted programs throughout India. (Amma’s public programs include lectures, devotional singing, and darshan, which means to be in the company of a great soul. Amma’s style of darshan is to hug each individual who comes to her.) My time in India was to end with a program in Pune, a city southeast of Mumbai.
Four days before I was to leave India, I found myself filled with grief. While I was excited to be returning to Caesar salads, Western toilets, hot showers, and American efficiency, I felt enormous grief about leaving my teacher, the devotional singing and the bliss of the divine energy that I access so easily when in Amma’s presence. I noticed that my sadness was mixed with a measure of rage which I knew was rooted in my childhood. I sat close to Amma and allowed the sadness and rage to wash away and the peace and stillness to come.
Two days later, during an evening program, I was watching Amma give darshan to the large crowd who had assembled. While I was watching, a man came to her carrying a large teenage boy who had no use of his arms or legs. His legs appeared to be no larger than the diameter of a fifty-cent coin. I thought he might also suffer from cerebral palsy. Moments later, another man carried in a boy who was in a similar condition. Then another pair presented themselves to Amma, and then another, and another.
Soon it became obvious that a bus load of severely handicapped teenagers had been brought to receive Amma’s touch. As the children kept coming, my body flooded with grief. Other images then started coming into my mind’s eye, images of the pain and suffering I had witnessed during the last few weeks.
Miles and miles of shanty-town shacks built mostly of corrugated tin; tin in a country where the temperatures may be 90 degrees in the winter and 120 degrees in the summer. I had seen people preparing food in the huts over open fires. I had imagined the nightmare those huts would be at night when the rats roamed.
In the middle of busy railroad yards, wherever there was 20 feet between the crisscrossed tracks, families had erected tents. Children were growing up on the tracks. The tracks served as their playgrounds and their toilets.
A tall blind man had stepped into the railroad car in which I was traveling. The pupils of his eyes were shiny, bright silver. He was carrying a six-month-old baby. Once he had come to the center of the car, he started singing. People came forward and put money in his hand. When everyone had donated, he stepped down and found his way to the next car.
A woman, legs totally useless and crossed stiffly in front of her, inched her way down the sidewalk on her buttocks, moving so slowly that you couldn’t even tell she was moving unless you watched her intently.
Each of these scenes had moved me to tears. As the memories flickered through my mind’s eye, I imagined what it would be like to be trapped inside a body that I had no ability to operate; a body that even robbed me of my ability to communicate. I also imagined what it would be like to be born into extreme poverty, where I had little or no way to improve my situation. As I compared what I believed I would feel in those circumstances to the pain I was now feeling about leaving India, I was able to put my own pain into perspective.
I saw that the pain I was experiencing was temporary. Even though I hurt, I knew the grief would pass. Amma would be coming to the U.S. in a few months. In addition, I knew how to connect with divine energy whether I was in India or in Seattle, I just needed to be willing to make the effort.
I remembered that a portion of my pain was energy I was still holding onto from my childhood. I knew that as I continued to access and release this old rage, I would experience more and more peace and freedom from pain.
Next, I reminded myself that I had consciously chosen to put myself into a situation that would cause me pain. I know it is difficult for me to leave India. Going to India is a choice I make freely and willingly understanding that pain will be one of the many feelings I will experience on the journey.
I wondered briefly if I should feel ashamed of myself for feeling grief about my situation. I let that go, realizing that self-criticism was not the purpose of the lesson I was receiving. My grief and pain were real. My job was not to deny the pain or to judge it but rather to be active in releasing it.
As I pondered this newest thought, yet another came. I noted that as I progress in my own healing, I experience my heart opening more and more to those around me. It is as if my eyes are opening and I can more clearly see the needs of others from a place of deep compassion as opposed to guilt-ridden caretaking. I then thought of the others in my life who are equally committed to their personal growth. I recognized they are undergoing a similar progression.
As these insights flooded into my mind, I experienced a renewal of my commitment to continue this process. In my mind’s eye I could see the ripple effect that will occur as each one of us, completing our own healing, create a world where there is enough food, shelter and love for everyone. A world where no one is left alone in their pain.
We cannot eliminate pain from the earth; that is part of the human experience. We can, however, significantly change the way we relate to pain. I hope that my experiences will give you insights that help you to put your own pain into perspective.
~
“The New Times” articles that I’ve already shared:
Helen’s prompt for this week’s Song Lyric Sunday is to post a song about missing someone you love. I thought of my adult children who live in Amma’s ashram in Amritapuri, India.
Carole King’s song So Far Away definitely meets the criteria. While I wouldn’t want Sreejit and Chaitanya to live anywhere else, I can sure relate to these lines of the song: “So far away” and “It would be so fine to see your face at my door.”
So Far Away, written by Carole King, was released March 1971 on her album Tapestry.
So far away
Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn’t help to know you’re just time away
Long ago I reached for you and there you stood
Holding you again could only do me good
Oh, how I wish I could
But you’re so far away
One more song about moving along the highway
Can’t say much of anything that’s new
If I could only work this life out my way
I’d rather spend it being close to you
But you’re so far away
Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn’t help to know you’re so far away
Traveling around sure gets me down and lonely
Nothing else to do but close my mind
I sure hope the road don’t come to own me
There’s so many dreams I’ve yet to find
But you’re so far away
Doesn’t anybody stay in one place anymore
It would be so fine to see your face at my door
Doesn’t help to know you’re so far away
A friend just sent me this video and I can’t resist sharing it with you. I imagine I’m not the only one needing inspiration… or a laugh… right now. Enjoy!
Yesterday was the first day I’ve had nothing scheduled in a long time. I decided to make it a catch-up day. I started that process by jotting down as complete a to-do list as I could think of on the white board I keep on my refrigerator door. I composed quite a list even though I knew I couldn’t do all of it that day.
Throughout the day, I added more items to the list.
At the end of the day, I viewed my accomplishments with satisfaction.
Today I will complete some more of the list, add a few more, including clean the white board :), and recover from yesterday!
A friend shared the link to this beautiful piece by Chani Nicholas with me. Chani has given me permission to reprint her words on my blog.
“I want to live in a world where old ladies can afford to buy a cup of coffee.
And healthcare, because it’s free.
A world where folks are allowed to dress as they desire to and call themselves as they need to be called. Love who they love. Live how they live.
I want to live in a world where folks are allowed to live.
With dignity. In diversity. In a world that honors our differences and celebrate our connections.
I want to live in a world that apologizes when it’s wrong. A world that makes amends and reparations for what it has taken. A world that does not look away from its own horror. A world that builds monuments to resilience and resistance. A world that listens to the stories of the survivors. And believes them. A world that seeks to understand rather than to be understood. A world that listens to the stories of the past and a world that refuses to repeat its mistakes.
I want to live in a world where pain is transformed in the present, not passed down to future generations. A world that is organized around protecting the rights of each being, including every creature on the earth and the earth itself. A world where the hungry get fed first, the wounded receive remedies right away and the heart-broken know where to go to get a hug.
I want to live in a world where everyone is afforded the ability to take care of their own needs. And the needs of their loved ones. A world where The System prioritizes self-care. A world where self-determination is possible. A world where feeling competent, autonomous and related to folks that love you is the measure of a good life.
I want to live in a world that knows that hurt people hurt people and healed people heal people so we focus on helping folks heal. A world where mean-spirited violence and intolerance are not an option so they get interrupted immediately before they are allowed to take root. I want to live in a world full of self-correcting communities. A world full of folks that hold themselves and each other accountable. And close. A world where no pain goes unprocessed, no fear gets to fester, no greed goes unchecked. A world that understands its own imperfection. A world full of grown folks that know how to get down and children that feel safe enough to discover who they are. A world where creativity is the currency, where prisons are replaced with healing centers and no human potential is pissed away.
I want to live in a world where it is known that to go against any life would be to go against our own. Where it is known that to cause harm to another is to harm ourselves.
How free would we be if we cared that deeply?”
Thank you Chani for putting your prayer/vision/desires into words that we can all benefit from.
“The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.” “Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.” “Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”-William Shakespeare
Living, Learning and Letting Go 
