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| writing down names Sunday morning that didn't get down the night before |
The labyrinth took another
sudden turn yesterday evening, bringing me from the trip’s somewhat let-down
ending into the center of so much connection, heart overflowing, and gratitude
in these last hours with the ethnic and orphan children (with whom actually I
had begun my week at Phuang Daw Oo, on my arrival last Sunday afternoon), as
wonderful as the most brilliant fireworks grand finale.
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| mohinga lady |
And I called IBEC to say I
was free to get picked up today rather than wait until Sunday. But in the end
it was better for them to pick me up on Sunday—for which I am so thankful. So another night of deep, peaceful sleep, and,
before that. . . . :
The Afternoon
The
new young German volunteer was feeling a little adrift, so we went on a walk
together that afternoon to see if the local internet café had a better
connection than the office (it didn’t).
But, miracle of miracles, I was actually later able at the office to do
the kindle download I had settled on from among the kindle samples I’d earlier
finally succeeded in downloading after many failed attempts. The one I
downloaded was called Leaving Time: not only were its opening paragraphs
about elephants, but it was also about the loss of a missing mother whose name
was Alice (the name of my mother) Metcalf (one letter different from Medcalf), names
bridging from my own earliest to most recent loss. The next in line if I finish this one before
I leave Bangkok
is a best-selling book whose intriguing title is All the Light We Cannot See. (I also have downloaded a sample of Roni’s book on Julian, which is
substantive enough in itself to get me home where I can transfer to a real
book version which I still prefer….)
We
then took a walk down the back lanes which turned out very muddy from the
night's rain and quite challenging to navigate, and at supper time we went to a
teashop on the main street for rice and vegetables, which was very good, and
the owner very sweet (so wish I had been more adventurous all week in terms of
going on my own, and less daunted by the language gap and the motorcycle/car
traffic and exhaust—it would have been more interesting than fruit and the
occasional boiled egg. Though even two of the times I crossed yesterday, I was
nearly run into by a motorcycle zooming from the wrong direction while I was looking
to the traffic direction. So maybe I fortuitously missed an accident along with
the missed meals.)
The Evening
After
supper, getting back before the main gates closed at 7, I went to the library
to give some of my “S” exercise papers to a monk who was going to be giving a
class for the primary ethnic children that evening (he’d been in the library the
night before when the children were practicing and had expressed interest in
it). While there I found out that my own
group of ethnic/orphan dozen children had come at 6 to meet with me (I guess it
hadn’t been clear that our morning meeting was instead of the evening time).
So I walked to the end of the school compound to where the ethnic and
orphan hostels were to see if they were free to come then, and soon was
surrounded by a bevy of the children greeting me, taking my hand and holding to
my arms, and some of them got the others from the orphan hostel, and we went to
the library, where we met for the next couple hours. We played the spelling game; then, sitting in a circle on the floor, a charades game (“What am I doing?—“You are……”); followed by their going around the circle singing Myanmar songs. (They wanted me to sing too, but I couldn’t remember anything at the moment except Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, and Kumbaya (even though they say music is one of the last aspects of memory to go!), so I sang those.
It was exquisite, their
singing beautiful, my heart so touched and melted open, and such loving
connectedness filling the circle’s sharing, no one seemingly wanting to end.
Finally, shortly before 10, when my hostel dorm closes, they all accompanied me
back, carrying my pack, holding my hand, arms linked in mine.
Like
an unexpected bright meteor streaking through the sky, the gift of this evening in and of
itself alone has made the extra three weeks so worthwhile, exploding the fading
out T. S. Eliot wimper of these last gray days into an exquisite grand finale.
(Please excuse the improper stumbling sentences
and double metaphors, my mind is a bit tired ….
And just as my camera cannot capture the essence and full sparkle/beauty
of the scenes I take, so my words sadly so fail to communicate at all the
resonance and experience of this evening.]
The Morning
And this morning the same dozen children met me
outside the office where I’d told them I was getting picked up between 8 and
9—in their comings and goings they are like those flocks of little shorebirds
that swerve and turn in their flight as one, catching the sunlight on their
wings. I took a photo of all of them and
pulled out the names they had written down for me in my little notebook outside
the hostel door last night and they helped me match name to face so I could
remember each when I went home.
The library was locked so we sat on the canal
bridge under the pavilion safe from the sometimes pouring rain. After some hanging out and rafter-hanging
play, and then a charades game, one of the "games" enthusiastically
suggested was the standing in front of the group and introducing themselves:
"I am ____. I am __ years old. I have ___ members in my family. My
favorite hobby is _____ and my ambition
is to become a _____." 
A few of them mentioned drawing or becoming an
artist, so I had asked those to draw me a picture, and then found pens and
paper to extended the invitation to everyone, and all avidly applied themselves
to drawing. _______ went back to the orphan hostel to bring me some he'd
painted earlier. (I had asked him earlier what he did during the two month school
recess when he stayed at the school while others went back to a parent or
relative, he'd said he spent time drawing. Pinky also has no family, both of
them at PDO since about age five, and there seems a close bond between
them. They all actually are like family to each other, the caring, playfulness
and supportiveness among them so palpable.)
At some point two or three of the girls said good-bye and drifted off;
the others hung around until finally at nearly 10 the driver and Lin Kyu arrived
from IBEC.
I bring with me pictures they drew. I bring with
me their names, and their faces, and their wonderful spirit.
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