Shadow Woman

Melancholia. A jaundice soul. I am reminded of the shadow woman from the Yellow Wallpaper. In the daytime, she is a mere invisible rustle, but at night, she manifests. Rampant, chaotic, distressed. She flees, but from what because, after all, she is at wall and paper, no escape. No escape.

This is what it feels. Tonight, I listened to a podcast by APM: Speaking of Faith with Krista Tippett entitled The Soul in Depression. It confronts the stigma of depression, its poor contextual meaning, and how the voices of those touched by depression seem to go unheard. This is a subject plaguing my mind as of late. For several weeks, I’ve been taking an anti-anxiety medication. After some psychological and emotional episodes and confrontations at work, I felt I had two choices: quit or start seeing a psychiatrist. Though the first option almost was triumphant, as in I removed all personal possessions from my desk, had a serious, emotional conversation with my boss, and then left for a ‘personal’ day, having no backup plan, job, or sufficient savings to quit…I am, for now, stuck and eventually returned to my cubicle. But I haven’t put back up any pictures or returned personal keepsakes. I prefer to leave my desk barren. I have one foot out the door and there is no intention of going back. 

I chose a doctor based on my insurance’s list, and found myself sitting before a tall, lanky man whose shoes somehow seemed too big. But later I determined that wasn’t the case, it’s just the way he positions them, at times turning them towards each other when he begins an impassioned tangent, or how one dangles like a weight is dragging the toe down. He scribbles on yellow paper, and in my mind, I joked privately that he was likely drawing cartoons or sketching out a reverie. Though, I knew he was outlining my family history, my relationships with relatives, and my history with anxiety. At the end of the first meeting he asked if I had any questions. Yes, but not about me…do you ever see a therapist? And he laughed, amused by the query. “On occasion. I wouldn’t trust me if I didn’t.” His candidness and honesty from that one question was the only reason I decided to go back. 

So, for the time being, I’ve chosen to be put on medication. The doctor left it up to me. But the struggle over this decision has raised awareness of my own prejudice against psychological medications, the people who take them, and my skewed yet fully valid reasons for wanting to evade chemical manipulation. I had an intense anxiety about taking an anti-anxiety drug. 

My greatest fear is how this would effect me creatively. If I tamper with how I am innately, then how could that not alter a part of me that seems so heavily rooted in my shifted emotional state, perception of the world, etc. No matter the benefits, I will never sacrifice that. And a part of me feels that the sedation of people through medication is in essence slaughtering thousands of potential artists. This is a heavy bias. I openly admit that, and there are people who oppose this idea as well. Indeed, it isn’t necessarily fair to think that being an artist entails suffering, depression, running the emotional and psychological gambit, but it’s hard not to see a correlation when reading up in the lives of some of the world’s most famous artists regardless of their medium of choice. 

Another issue was that in deciding to take medication, I would undoubtedly have to confront that something is wrong. And I am not comfortable with acknowledging this yet. 

I have had relatively intense anxiety most of my life. The first incidence I can recall was soon after my parents divorced. I was six or seven and suddenly found that I could no longer stay composed in class. One second I was fine, and then an onslaught of feeling overwhelming, separate, anxious, it’d be difficult to breathe, and then I’d be sitting at my desk crying. Teachers had no idea what to do. I’d have to hear my father’s or mother’s voice, or have one of them come up to school just to hold me for several minutes, soothe me. Halfway through the school year, I was moved into a split grade class with several other students. And though I should have been distracted by the challenge of learning material from my grade level and the one above me, I could only stay calm if I looked at a picture of my mother that I kept in my desk. Anytime I’d start to sense those strained emotions, I’d just have to concentrate on her image, and after several minutes, I’d be fine. 

But even at home, my anxiety problems grew worse. I could no longer sleep in my bedroom for fear that if I was away from my parents that something would happen to them. I’d have nightmares of them dying in fires, crying out for help and I could do nothing because I was outside the flames. If left alone in my bedroom, it wouldn’t be long before I was screaming, crying out. And no matter how much they tried to be firm, to keep me in my own bed even with direct orders from our family counselor, I would always find myself at their bedside. The one time my mother locked me out, I pounded on her door for hours, crying, screaming how horrible she was and all I needed was for her to be with me so I’d know she was safe. I don’t remember if I finally fell asleep at her door or the couch, but I know I didn’t return to my bed. And this was how my life was for a few years, until my mother’s death. After she died, I never had problems sleeping in my room or staying at school. But those years of intense anxiety left a deep scar, and though I would fight back anxious feelings if they arose, I always wondered if working through it was enough. 

For the past two years, levels of anxiety equivalent to the magnitude I felt as a child have reemerged. The heart of it stemming from a detrimental relationship that helped propel me into the throws of an existential crisis whose edge I had been teetering on for some time. And the addition of accepting a position at a job I didn’t desire and don’t enjoy just contributed to feelings of shame, failure, anger, struggle, fear, and a great sense of Lost. 

Everything of the person I had been before that critical point seemed to evaporate. And what I was left with was the shadow woman. In the midst of an emotional hurricane, unable to sift through emotions, feel focused in heart, soul, and thought, I was a raw nerve. And all I wanted was to be alone, to cry, to be held. 

But, there is a side of depression and the emotions entailed that goes unnoticed by those never experiencing it. In actuality, this state is often the deluge of emotion, an inability to dam gates to keep it in, and though in a state of such darkness, it is also a period of intense feeling. And for the first time in my life, I was experiencing Feeling, it was so pungent to every sense that it was the overabundance of emotions that crippled me. I had become hypersensitive to not only my emotions, but to others’ as well. 

For that reason, I found myself on the verge of panic attacks in public or at work. To be so acutely in tuned with emotions is difficult to articulate. But to stand in an aisle with several people around and feel simultaneously frustration, joy, confusion, sadness…to be assaulted by an array of feeling at the same time just paralyzed me. It’d be difficult to breathe; I’d start wheezing lightly, and that tightening around my chest like my heart was in a vice, all I could do when this happened was flee. And on a few occasions, I left my cart or items and just left the store as fast as I could. But if this happens at work, I just can’t walkout and come back when I feel balanced or calm again. Instead, I’d have to cry in my car on lunch break or claim to be searching for an old file or document that was held in a locked storage room just so I know no one would seem me in such a state. But then strained work relationships with coworkers, bosses, and the stress of not only doing my job but fixing others’ mistakes, checking behind others was and is the dominant reasons for my dissatisfaction with my job. After my first session, I realized that almost the entire office is on a medication or self medicates through other means. I finally saw that I wasn’t necessarily innately crazy, but this job seems to have that effect on many of the people in it and talking with others outside the store I work at, medication or high levels of alcohol consumption are a bit of the norm for those in my field. 

So, my final decision is to get out. I decided that medication is short term, that I will not have my life be ‘tolerable’ with the help of a pill, but that I must recognize that on a deeper level I am troubled by not doing something I love to the point that it is destructive to me in many ways. But the podcast brought to light the awareness that came through this period of great pain for me, and how now on the other end, I see how beneficial it is to Feel, to be hyperaware of the state of others emotionally. It is that shadow woman that finally came into form, like a veil lifted, to find that in her was a light, a strength. That perhaps what I had perceived as distressed, as chaotic, was not the nature of her at all. Because it seems she is much more free than I had been. Wild and untamed, she feels, she sees, she fights to understand even when it might break her because that is Life, and in that is beauty, in that is spirit and spiritual. 

And I think of the woman, tearing down the yellow wallpaper, trying to free the shadow woman though in reality, she was freeing herself.

Krishnamurti: On Fear

While on holiday, I took along several books, but only managed to break open Krishnamurti’s book On Fear. The book is filled with excerpts from talks and Krishnamurti’s journal entries on the topic of fear. It’s a small read, but I still haven’t finished it. But I did want to post some excerpts that I found poignant. Likely there will be a near future post where I take what I’ve read and apply it to my own personal fears, breaking them down to notice the full extent of their nature, though really all fears are just fear regardless of the manifestations they undertake. 

 

Page 15

So there is in our life this constant state of comparison, competition, and the everlasting struggle to be somebody – or to be nobody, which is the same thing. This, I feel, is the root of all fear, because it breeds envy, jealousy, hatred. Where there is hatred there is obviously no love, and fear is generated more and more.

Page 40

But a word brings fear or pleasure into being through association and remembrance. We are slaves to words and to exasmine anything fully, to look, we must be free of the word. If I’m a Hindu and a Brahmin, a Catholic, a Protestant, an Anglican, or a Presbyterian, to look I have to be free of that word, with all its associations, and that’s extraordinarily difficult. The difficulty disappears when we are passionately inquiring, examining. 

Page 43

Fear ceases only when there is direct contact…To die means that you have to die every day, not just twenty years from now. You die every day to everything that you know, except technologically. You die to the image of your wife; you die every day to the pleasure you have, to the pains, the memories, the experiences. Otherwise you can’t come into contact with them. If you do die to them all, fear comes to an end and there is a renewal. 

Page 45

You know fear is also used to civilize man. Religions throughout the world have used fear as a means of controlling man. Have they not? They say that if you do not do certain things in this life, you will pay for it in the next life. Though all religions preach love, though they preach brotherhood, though they talk about the unity of man, they all subtly, or very brutally, grossly, maintain this sense of fear.

Page 47

Most of us are very conservative. You know what that word means, you know what it is to conserve? To hold, to guard. Most of us want to remain respectable and so we want to do the right thing, we want to follow the right conduct, which, if you go into it very deeply, you will see is an indication of fear. Why not make a mistake, why not find out? But the man who is afraid is always thinking ‘I must do the right thing, I must look respectable, I must not let the public think what I am or not’. Such a man is really, fundamentally, basically, afraid.

Page 48 

But the difficulty is: when there is fear, we do not create. A person who is afraid can never find truth or God. Behind all our worships, all our images, all our rituals, there is fear and, therefore, your gods are not gods, they are stones. 

Page 59

Fear and love cannot exist together. In this country there is no love. There is devotion, reverence, but no love. Devotion to your guru, to your gods, to your ideals, is self-worship. It is self-worship because you have created your guru, your ideals, your gods; you have created them, thought has created them, your grandfather has, and you accept this because it satisfies you, it gives you comfort. So what you are devoted to is yourself. Swallow that pill and live with it! 

Page 71

Thought is responsible for fear; also, thought is responsible for pleasure. One has had a happy experience; thought thinks about it and wants it perpetuated. When that is not possible there is a resistance, anger, despair, and fear. So thought is responsible for fear as well as pleasure, isn’t it? This is not a verbal conclusion; this is not a formula for avoiding fear. That is, where there is pleasure there is pain and fear perpetuated by thought; pleasure goes with pain, the two are indivisible. 

Page 76

What brings this division between you, your wife or your husband, and your children? Division is disorder. Muslim and Hindu, Jew and Arab, Communism, totalitarianism, and freedom. These opposites are the essence of disorder. So what brings about disorder in our relationships, with the most intimate and the not so intimate? Have you ever thought about it?

Page 84

Fear itself, not the various forms of fear. See how we break up fear. That’s part of our tradition, to bring about a fragmentation of fear, and therefore be concerned with only one type of fear. Not with the whole tree of fear, but a particular branch, or a particular leaf of it. The whole nature, the structure, the quality of fear – in observing that very closely, in the very watching there is the revelation of the causation – not you analyzing to find out the cause but the very watching showing the causation, which is time and thought. 

Page 85

So thought and time are the central factors of fear. Thought is not separate from time. They are one. These are the facts. This is the causation of fear. It is a fact – not an idea, not an abstraction – that thought and time is the cause of fear. It is singular. 

Page 86

The self-interest in our life is the cause of fear.

Herstory

I’ll keep this brief…go vote.  

Ok, I should elaborate more. There’s a photography contest called Name Your Dream Assignment, which seems to be legit. And the award is more than any photographer could ask for, $50,000 to pursue your dream project. The top 20 with the most votes will go on to a final judging by professionals, where the winner will be chosen. No matter who is awarded the prize in the end, I hope the images captured and the journey trekked will be a compelling visual narrative for all communities. Below is the link to my idea, but I also suggest perusing others as you can vote for multiple people (just not more than once for the same idea). 

Herstory

Bangladesh

Many friends know I’ve been in quite the limbo these past months. Frantic like a mouse in a maze trying to find a way out of so much I’m unhappy with in life. Or perhaps unhappy is the wrong word…continuing to live a lifestyle, a career, making choices that go against my creative nature, my innate need for a sense of freedom and flexibility, and my desire to help, teach, inspire, participate in culture, community, life, in a way that enriches lives spiritually, artistically, epistemologically, and so on. 

And now I am at a crossing. I’ve been accepted into WorldTeach’s program to volunteer in Bangladesh. I would be teaching English and possibly photography or creative writing at an all women’s university in Dhaka for a year. Most of my expenses would be absolved because I’d be living in faculty apartments on campus and be permitted two free meals a day in the cafeteria. Along with this, I would receive a $350 monthly stipend (yes, in our country that seems abhorrently insufficient. I agree it isn’t much, but it’s enough). This is all fine, except for finding a way to cover my financial obligations while I’d be away.

The program requires a $2000 deposit that I’ll be reimbursed upon completion of my year of teaching. Along with this, I have loans and debt that need to be accrued for while I’m away. One student loan can be deferred since I’ll be working with a non-profit. The other is a parent plus loan; so, that can’t be deferred since it’s not in my name. I’ve estimated that I’d need approximately $5500 dollars to cover minimum payments (it’s horrible I know) for that year. So that’s $7500 needed to go to Bangladesh. An amount that seems completely unattainable with only about 4 months before leaving, and many of my friends think this a bad decision to go, for many reasons.

Reasons Why Priscilla Shouldn’t be Crazy and Go to a Third World Country (Would Bangladesh be considered 3rd world?):

1: The pay is insufficient. 2: Why would you leave us (yes, many have said this). 3: Um…didn’t you know that you’re photographing my wedding in the fall? Oh, well, now you do. 4: What about all the work you’ve done to establish yourself as a photographer in Charleston? As a potential business of your own? 5. If you can acquire that kind of money in 4 months, why not just stay and payoff a good portion of your debt? 6. What about Colorado? Or Atlanta? Or somewhere in the continental United States where I want to move in the near future and you can tag along? 7. Bangladesh is an Islamic country? Did your dad spazz when you told him that? You almost killed the man when you went to India and that was just for a month. What is he going to do for a year?!

All those reasons I’ve weighed heavily. I agree there are potential downsides. Likely the biggest one for me would be my lack of mobility, to be able to just hop in a car and go or even venture into town alone. These aren’t things a Western woman should do alone in this country, at least it’s not recommended. And for those that are news savvy, there was recently a military uprising of sorts, rogue guards or something in Dhaka resulting in over 50 people being killed and the government having to initiate emergency action. I also know that two volunteers left the program early last year, but I’m not privy as to why. 

I don’t have much time to accept or decline…basically several days. I was informed that fundraising is encouraged in order to ensure volunteers have enough money while they’re away for expenses or anything they may need. For some reason, I hate soliciting. I hate asking for money, for help in general. I’m not sure why. And I haven’t really raised money for anything since yearbook in high school. Though I was one of few to manage the sell of a full page ad, I wouldn’t say sales is my forte. But I have close friends that are very extrovert, very charismatic, and would hopefully help me in fundraising pursuits if I asked, but these are also the people that really don’t want me to go. So, I have some potential ideas to raise money…

1. Try my hardest to book 2-4 more weddings to photograph between the end of April and the end of June. If this happens, then I likely won’t need outside money, but I only have two gigs in May at undercut rates, which won’t be enough.

2. Tell my dad to sell the car when it’s paid off. It’s my gift for graduating, and once it’s paid off, it’s to be signed over to me anyway. It’s a Civic so the resell value should be pretty decent, at least enough to cover half my bills while I’m away. (Note: Many friends have voiced that they think this is stupid option. That I should keep the car because why wouldn’t I come straight back after my year is up?)

3. Sell. Sell. Sell. TV. Photo printer. Books. Thangkas. Decor. Anything that I don’t plan to take with me, that has no sentimental value, that I will not really need when I comeback. 

4. Fundraising Ideas: 50/50 raffle, setup a donation website, sell magazines (gags), perhaps see if close friends can throw a party or two with a small door fee, ask businesses to sponsor me, etc. 

5. Sell a part of my body for advertising purposes. A nice tattoo on the hand/arm with some website or company. (Yeah, I can guess the look on your face).

6. Sell advertising to put on my car. Magnet decals shouldn’t be hard to get.

7. Hook for a Cause…I’m kidding, but that is a catchy phrase for some reason. 

So, I’m not sure what I’m going to do. I feel a bit rushed. I hate not having more time to prepare for expenses, for leaving. I wouldn’t want these next several months consumed by my current full time job along with the stress of raising money and the photography commitments I do have. That is precious time I’d lose being with friends and family, and taking in the nostalgic and tragic beauty I have so intimately found in the many facets of Charleston. 

My sister thinks this all an illusion. That I think happiness will be halfway across the world, and that I’m trying to escape or runaway from thoughts and feelings I associate with this town and my current life status. She fears the hope I’m putting in Bangladesh to free me, to save me, to renew me, will not come to fruition like I thought and that I’ll discover it isn’t where one is, but how they live that fosters happiness and wholeness. 

As for my decision…my instinct is silent. I hate it when it refuses to stir whether it’s in favor of or against a choice, an idea. But all that is there is silence. And all I’m left with are conflicting emotions and a mind that constantly weighs a judgement scale that refuses to teeter for one side or the other.

Insider vs Outsider

In Religious Studies, fieldwork is an expected practice, and when introduced to approaching fieldwork, it is quickly taught the potential dilemma that will arise: Insider vs Outsider. 

Insider is the person or group being studied. The outsider is the scholar. Being an outsider causes limitations both needed and impeding when conducting fieldwork. As an outsider, one automatically has a different understanding of anything seen or spoken by the group because that scholar comes in with personal biases, constructs from his or her society, and sometimes, paradigms of the academic world that only permit certain interpretations or theories to be published or accepted in the mainstream. The easiest example would be when Catholic priests would go into indigenous tribes around the world. They interpreted that group’s rituals through the scope of understanding within Christian teachings and beliefs. Therefore, a ritual to a particular deity would likely be interpreted as heretical, demonic, and so on because the point-of-view of the priest was constructed by different societal structures and religious beliefs. However, the ‘outsider’ status is necessity because it maintains enough metaphorical distance that the scholar can still analyze and critique the group’s beliefs and practices. (Note: critique isn’t meant in the negative sense)

But, this still creates a predicament. An outsider will remain too distant, too ignorant of the group’s practices, if there isn’t some stepping over into ‘insider’ domain. To know the language and comprehend through the contextual meaning the people do, to live with the people, to not only witness ritual but perhaps participate in it and all the while, attempting to suspend enough of one’s own beliefs long enough to make the leap to understand someone different. But this too can be problematic because where does a scholar draw the line between insider and outsider? When does too much of one or the other corrupt or jeopardize the research? And there really doesn’t seem to be a conclusive answer.

I’m bringing this up because I’m facing the same ‘Insider vs Outsider’ dilemma in my photography. Perhaps not to the same extent. But today served as an example of how I teeter on that border, never wanting to fully commit to one or the other. I attended a candlelight vigil to commemorate 50 years of Tibetans’ plight, to remember those tortured and murdered, to vocalize the atrocities committed by China, to ask with our hearts for peace. Immediately, I stand out with my camera not being the tiny point-and-shoot. I always explain I’m a freelance photographer because I’m not hired on with any publication nor do my images ever get published unless an image from an event is needed and it just happens no other photographer working for a publication went (I usually leave this part out). But I notice the skepticism that comes as well; I’m not necessarily trusted. And anyone has reason to be skeptical, and after all, I prefer people practice good hermeneutics even if it revolves around me. 

Personally, before going into an event, I determine an ethical or etiquette code to follow, with allowable adjustments depending on how things unfold. When it comes to religious events, I’m especially cautious. I refrain from photographing during prayers, moments of silence, and usually will consult someone about any particular restrictions I may not be aware of. An example is when I photographed a Native American Pow Wow, there’s no photography permitted during the opening ceremony and dance, and I would not have known had I not talked with the organizers; so, though I usually advocate “do and ask forgiveness later,” I don’t in the case of religious and spiritual events because if bonds of trust are so quickly tainted, that group will never want me to attend another event nor will I meet people who can help connect me deeper into that world.

As the event began, people circled around a small table with candles and an area with a mic where several speakers stood nearby. I stayed to the sidelines with the group, but maintained a front position. The crowd was small, an intimate gathering, so I decided to choose a spot wisely based on the setup and not move too much, perhaps only kneeling or small shifts to the side because I didn’t want to distract. When they prayed, I put down my camera, when there was a ten minute moment of silence, my camera was off; when they handed out candles after the opening speeches, I took one and did my best to not let my flame die (it did twice, eek). My behavior leaned a bit more towards the ‘insider,’ but due to respect, my background in Religious Studies, and my personal history and interactions with those in Dharamsala. 

There was another photographer there, obviously professional with his long lens and hood cover, which it was overcast so I wasn’t sure why he even bothered with a hood cover, but I digress. He moved around constantly. He didn’t take a candle and actually stepped away for several minutes during the moment of silence. And all this isn’t really that bad, but what did irk me was during the group prayers, he walked into the middle of the circle on several occasions to photograph the table of candles. And I’m just sort of looking at him, wondering if he realizes how obnoxious he’s being by stepping into the empty center enveloped by a crowd and getting right in front of the speakers while they’re reciting prayers aloud? It was just sort of tacky. Tacky because that was a particular image he could have gotten at another time. It’s a shot that requires a closeup, macro frame, but it wasn’t the type of image I’d even consider being obnoxious for. When people started accepting candles, I stood to the side to photograph the more ‘intimate’ images I wanted, but I didn’t push people aside or interrupt a poignant moment. He was a complete ‘outsider,’ perceiving the situation from a standpoint of photographer only. What shots do I need? When the opportunity comes to get those shots, take it. Find different angles. And so on. 

I understand his thought process as a photographer. But I also understood the purpose of the event, the type of gathering it was, and indeed, I sacrificed some good shots because of my choice to behave a certain way. 

In my short time as a photographer, I’ve learned two things very quickly. The first, a lot of people say they’re a photographer. I have never met so many photographers in my life until I became one. Seriously. And the second involves photographers’ etiquette. Many people I meet who aren’t photographers usually have a story about an obnoxious photographer they’ve encountered whether it’s been at an event, a friend’s wedding, their own wedding, etc. I’ve taken those stories a bit to heart, knowing I don’t want to be that type of photographer. The more that I can make myself ‘unseen’ though clearly visible, the better. And that ability to be ‘unseen’ in plain sight is possible when many variables are weighed and varying strategies and techniques are used to make me insignificant in a person’s or group’s awareness within that moment. And in truth, I find that to be the key in capturing a moment. It doesn’t always work out like I want, and I don’t always get the photographs I want, but this method has given me enough good/great images that I consider it effective.

So, the dilemma of ‘Insider vs Outsider’ now finds itself in my photographic ventures. I keep wondering when Religious Studies will stop popping up in each facet of my life, but it is a steadfast thing. Granted, one could say my personal scope is merely biased based on the constructs of my field of study…and I couldn’t say that’d be wrong.

Photograph of the Week

 

Photographed is the Venerable Geshe Dakpa Topgyal during a candlelight vigil to commemorate 50 years of Tibetans’ plight for freedom and human rights. The ceremony took place at Colonial Lake in Downtown Charleston. A small gathering that was intimate and poignant. Lovely simple. Just words, prayers, dixie cup candle abodes, and silence, remembrance and love projected to the world.

The Foot Path

I’ve come to appreciate dirty feet. Strange. Indeed. 

India refused to permit me pure, untainted toes and soles. Never could a bucket shower manage to cleanse the remnants of winding stone and dirt paths. Paths that had been carved from the back of Himalaya, been trekked upon by thousands of feet before mine. The history of foot paths. Stories of all before, and all to come. Dirty feet no longer defined as unclean, but proud symbols of each step taken. Though footprints runaway with wind and water, never does a foot forget the journey. 

My heels are hardened from years of flip flops. How naked and vulnerable a foot can be, but it adapts to its surroundings. No matter if I step fifty paces in a day, each will be adorned with a fresh dusting. Last night, in denial of an empty ink cartridge’s state, I shook photo black noir hoping to jostle enough ink to finish a print. Not only was it unsuccessful, but tiny droplets of black ink sprinkled the carpet. Oblivious to that fact, I walked across the carpet several times before sensing a mild damp feeling. Little black dots stained my feet for the night. I had no urge to wash away the absurdity of ink on feet. 

I think it strange that often dirty feet mean unclean. I’ve read religious texts where feet are used for metaphors for a person’s social status, the bottom of the body, how it is of the earth. Nothing else would I prefer but to be of the earth, be a part of something so real, rather than lay fat and idle on a cloud. 

Dirty can be lovely. Forever it will remind me of the paths taken, by me and strangers alike.

Photograph of the Week

This is a new series I’m attempting to maintain. Once a week, I’ll post a photograph of mine. My goal is for the photo to be recently taken, but I may need images of the past if I’m unable to photograph or find inspiration. I’m debating on adding details behind the image or just to merely have the image, no words to influence interpretation. For now, I’m going to refrain from telling the narrative of an image’s birth. 

 

Girl at St Michael’s 

In the Land of Shiva: Part XIII

We rose with the sun in search of the holiest site in Sikhism. And I relished the plush green carpet beneath my feet, the Western showers, hot water pouring down, a four star hotel for the same price as a Motel 8 room in the States. It was luxury.

Not the same can be said for the taxi driver we reserved for the weekend. I discovered his bed was the backseat of the taxi, likely a quick face and ear wash with cold water in a bathroom nearby. He packed no change of clothes, np overnight bag for our two day journey, only his thinning button up shirt, pants, and a Punjabi music cassette that we’d listen to for over 5 hours that weekend. I thought it odd to memorize excerpts of a song in a language I didn’t speak, words whose meaning I failed to grasp. 

He left us in a parking lot. Melancholy buildings loomed around, Indian men’s eyes stared at these six Western women huddled together, whispering concerns, debating direction to step. The driver just waived for us to walk away, and hesitantly, we complied. But after five minutes, the same decrepit structures and eyes with different faces remained. It felt like post war Europe invaded with immigrants, and we panicked, racing back to the lot. Taxi and driver gone. Shit. Abandoned in Amritsar. 

We decided to retrace our steps thinking perhaps we didn’t go far enough. But nothing fit, nothing made sense. We were in search of a building of gold, but we were encompassed by forgotten structures, their facades faded and subdued. It would be like finding Eden within the bounds of a wasteland. 

After a ten minute walk and rounding a corner, we came to see this was indeed the case. Red and silver streamers glimmered in the morning light, a party at the edge of disaster. An immaculate structure encircled the Golden Temple, a threshold to be crossed, separating sacred from profane. 

Beneath a tent, we slipped off our shoes and handed them over in exchange for a chip. Within the tiled ground were basins of water. Slowly walking through, washing my feet of impurities so as not to taint holy ground. As I climbed the steps, a sliver of gold began to appear. At the top, all was revealed, a temple of gold that almost seemed to be floating on water. How the rising sun warmed its walls with light, causing it to radiate. 

At the sight of it, Haylee cried. Others wanted a moment of silent meditation. And I was in a state of horrific concern. Never would I share my thoughts at that precise moment with them, even with Jaye, nor with another when I returned home in the weeks to come. Before me was a building that invoked awe. That awoke the numinous and compelled people to to their knees, to prayer, to tears. But inside me, before that great temple, was a terrifying silence, a void of emotive fervor. So scared was I of this absent emotion that I almost broke down and wept. And the source of my tears would have been misinterpreted drastically.

The hallow state I felt then haunted me for so long after that day. I thought myself soul sick. How could a student of religions, so passionate about this discourse, feel nothing before one of the greatest temples in the world? And how could others that knew nothing of Sikhism, little of this temple, of its significance to Sikhs, could be struck so powerfully just at the sight of its walls? I evaded ruminating on this for months, fearing what I may unearth about myself in the process. I blamed it on the sickness waking from dormancy in my belly, the nausea and pepto chewables I ate like candy. Yes, it was illness, dehydration, a sick state of being that ruined my encounter with the Golden Temple. I knew this to be a lie, but I willed myself to believe it until the day I realized what had happened to me that day. A revelation that came almost an entire year later.

At the doors of the temple, sound changes. No longer can the ears distinguish between sounds. All there is is a series of voices, prayers, a chorus of bodies without a conductor to guide them. Men and women stand with eyes closed, hands pressed together all the while their mouths move. No room for air between brother and sister, feel the sweat of another, their breath upon your back. And the deeper inside the abyss of bodies, the sound rises, the mind hears nothing but hundreds of voices in indecipherable tongues and all that I can see is the center, the reason for bowed heads, and prostrations, tears and prayers. Roped off is three men and the sacred text, the eternal prophet of the Sikhs, the Guru Granth Sahib. 

Standing but several feet away, I am pushed, jostled, shoved away by pilgrims earnestly reaching towards the sacred heart of their being. Rupees are being tossed in, crumpled bills, meager coin change. Dozens on their knees, arms stretched towards men who hold folded orange fabric. These are blessed, to be worn by men upon their brow, but only if the right number of rupees fall to the ground. So many palms open, waiting to be filled. 

I am entranced. Paralyzed by so much before me. My eyes attempt to take it all in, I want to remember it all. And the voices make it difficult to focus. I see the intricate craftsmanship of its underbelly, vivid paints on all its walls, blues, oranges, whites, and the reflected light from its gold walls cascades inside. I cannot move, cannot dismiss these prostrating bodies, their prayers, the smell of their skin, the reading of scripture, too much in this place lives, too much to segregate in the mind. And then I feel my sickness rising, the heat of too many bodies causing my body to concede. Now I pray a silent prayer, “Don’t throw up in their sacred space. Do not throw up in their sacred space.” 

And I’m chanting this over and over in my head. Trying to inch my way towards the closest open space, a bit of air and perhaps I’ll be okay. And then I feel a quick slap across my head, then another. I turn to find an old woman, hair white and face pruned, berating me in Hindi. She slaps the side of my head again, and I jerk away from her, think her mad. But then she smacks her own head, and I realize my grave error. In the midst of my fixation and illness, my headscarf had slipped off, exposing my dark brown hair, a naked head before something so holy. I am horrified, and quickly adjust my scarf, tuck back my hair. All the while I’m apologizing in a language no one around me knows. Long ago was I separated from the others, now alone to face my gaffe. I’m inching away, giving a half bow, the only Hindi word I can think of is Namaste, no use in this context. But I think myself forgiven, for she laughed at me, then went back to her prayer. I managed not to vomit on sacred ground, but brandishing an uncovered head just may trump illness.

The experience and exertion of the morning had drained my energy. I was so tired that all I yearned for was the small cot and window air conditioning that awaited me back at the hotel. My belly and soul were soured, and I just wanted to retreat back to seclusion.

A year later, I once again confronted the void I felt at the sight of the temple. It was an issue I kept analyzing for months, wondering the extent of the illness in my soul. But one day, I realized why it had been such. In Religious Studies, it is said that one sees religion one of two ways: from the top down or from the bottom up. Those focused on the top are usually fixated with god(s), philosophy, abstractions, manifestations of the sacred, symbols, and so on. But those that start at the bottom likely never raise their head enough to even see the sky. The bottom is the people. The focus on the ritual, the internalizing of beliefs, the manifestation of religion in thoughts, speech, action, the union of spirituality and religion with a person, a community, a people.

Since the day I devoted myself to the study of religions, I have been a practitioner of from the bottom up. It is within the lives and stories of the people that I seek religion and spirituality, abstractions do little to entice and engage me, as is the same with gods and philosophy. I felt nothing at the sight of the temple, but was greatly overwhelmed within its walls, engulfed by hundreds of devotees. I sought to etch into my mind the images of praying, prostrating, puja, the smells, all I touched, the sensuality and spirituality that saturated that space.  It took so long for me to see, to realize, what truly invoked me, but the day that I finally understood this gave me insight I had lacked even into my own being.

Excerpts from Eden Prairie

Going against my paranoia of putting creative ideas in public domain, I’ve decided to put several excerpts from Eden Prairie, chosen a bit haphazardly late this night. 

Note: The following words are the property and copyright of Priscilla Thomas. And if I find anyone that ever plagiarizes these words, may whatever god you believe in help protect you from me. That’s not a threat, that’s a fact. 

Chapter II

When Ruth was younger, she sort of came upon the Forgotten Eden. From the outside, it don’t look like nothing more than an oversized shack. Some of the planks are rotting, others crooked out, all being held together by rust sick nails. The Forgotten Eden was built on the edge of town; it’s the first thing seen walking in and the last thing out as people leave. But most pass it because it don’t look like a warm place, a welcome house. And most in town consider it unholy. 

“Forgotten Eden is marked like Cain,” Ruth said, “Almost no man will deal with it, but they can’t help but be drawn to a cursed thing. You always wonder about its story, about a mark that can’t be hidden. And there’s a lot of cursed souls in a place like this. All a bunch of Cains tellin’ their story.” 

 

“I’m not sure I get what you’re saying, Ruth” I paused to take a drink from my cider, “But I just know I feel pain in a place like this. It aches just as bad as a bruise.”

Ruth smirked, and took into her cigarette, letting the smoke blow out slowly from her nose. “Jessie, one day you’ll come to know that everyone is Cain, just some come to realize it, and others just rather deny what they really are.” 

Chapter IV

There was no guitar or drum, so Ruth just started humming real soft with her eyes closed. And it seemed that all them men and women put down their glasses just to hear. 

Paradise got lost along the way

A forgotten dream like miner’s gold

It’s morning in Eden

But God is asleep

And I wish I could sleep

But I can’t go home

To a Mama that says I lie

To a preacher man that gone and made me cry

Pretty blue eyed girl he told me once

And I thought him kind

But I became a prophecy gone wrong

Fallen off Jacob’s ladder

Heaven lost forever 

Preacher man tore my wings

Now I just a bird that can’t fly

No longer the glint in the spirit’s eye

Yes, preacher man did me in 

With that nasty little smile

And a hand of sin

So I can’t go home

And I can’t go back

But I miss the fire in my soul

Before God slept in Eden

And left me on my own 

 

Chapter V

But none of that struck me so much as the music did. That thing called Blues was something different. The sound seemed like it came from the belly, a deep moan that just sang so loud and long, weaving through the air, and it just had the power of the soul. And that seemed its meaning, to rise up from the spirit to speak. It was something the people in this place could understand. And though its words was about pain, it somehow made me feel down but comforted. It healed because it made me come to see my pain and know my hurt, and it didn’t promise nothing past that. Didn’t give me no heaven, no promise of peace, but it made me think about my sick soul and I had to do the rest myself. And to me, the Blues might as well be God talking to me, telling me it knows my pain, lets me feel it, and lets me go mending how I see fit. 

I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder, and I knew I must have been lost in my mind again because I wasn’t paying any mind to anything around me. Rabbit stood pale and wet. Those eyes dark as coal seemed to shiver. Reaching up, I grabbed his face with my hands, and he felt cold. I rushed up, and took him to the back room where no one could see us. I sat him down on a wooden box, tucked back his wet hair cause it was sticking to his face. Taking his hands, I started blowing into them to warm them. He was shaking bad, and even his clothes were soaked. 

“I know you won’t like it,” I said looking him dead in the eye, “But you have to take your clothes off.” 

He jerked his hands back and shook his head.

“Oh don’t be so damn modest,” I said, “You want to just freeze? Ain’t no one gonna see you.” 

Rabbit just sat there shaking, not doing a thing, so I started unbuttoning his shirt. His body tensed up so tight, but I couldn’t stand to let him be going on cold. By the end of it, I left only his under britches on. I ran back into the main room to grab my coat and put it over Rabbit like a blanket. He’d finally stopped shivering. I asked him what had happened, and he actually tried talking. But nothing came out that I could understand, a bunch of sounds bunched together, and then the pained look on his face when he couldn’t get it out. Almost like he forgot he couldn’t talk. He just closed his eyes tight, bunching up his brow, and then he started to cry. I wanted so bad for him to tell me, but I knew he just couldn’t. All I knew to do was just stand there and hold him. And before I knew it, I couldn’t help but cry too. There we were in that back room, him in nothing but white shorts and my worn plaid jacket, holding each other and crying crazy mad. Neither of us could say why. His tongue was not right and my spirit was no better. So, I guess the crying was all we could do in a moment like that. 

I couldn’t think a darn thing, I just could feel it all. And that Blues was reaching for me in that back room, calling my spirit, but I didn’t want no pain. That melody deep and low like a knocking on the door. Leave me be, that music, it knowing me too well. And I sobbed into Rabbit’s hair, holding him closer. Took all I had not to scream for no good reason. But that music was climbing deep into me, it just wouldn’t let go. It swam in my blood, became my bones, and my heart was beating with those plucked strings. Blues had me good, and my eyes were aching from the crying. But I couldn’t quit those tears, and Rabbit cried into my shoulder. And in my mind I was yelling let it be, let me be, let it be…please, God let me be.

 

Chapter VI

I didn’t want anyone to wake, so I left the lights off. Bringing a chair to the kitchen window, the moon was shining down bright that night; so, I could read with just a bit of squinting. Right before I turned that first page, I was still debating to read it or not. This was Rabbit’s thoughts, but I just wanted so bad to know Rabbit. My curious mind won out, and I turned the cover slowly as if someone may hear the pages move and find me out.

His scribble was hard to read, like he slanted his hand while he wrote. On the inside of the cover was a sketch of a girl walking on creek rocks. It took me a bit to notice the wild hair, and I knew it was me. My arms were in the air almost like an L, on the tips of my toes walking across the creek. It was a pretty little sketching. I could better know his drawings than his words though.

 

Eve defied. Madam cursed by Adam. No serpent in Eden except Eli I’le. 

That first line alone seemed like nothing I’ve ever read before. And that’s all there was on the first page. If this is how Rabbit thought all the time, a working tongue wouldn’t do him much good anyway. 

 

A republic lost. Land lay in soil. Wrapped in the grasp of a snake’s coil. 

Eden forgotten like the left hand, evil a live, evil a live.

How easily Lucifer descends upon man,

Another pawn in the lions’ den.

 

Chapter X

“This is how He works,” his voice quaking, “I can heal, but my body reacts. I ain’t goin’ to make you sickly child. I just take in the poison of the unclean myself, but God lets it pass.”

I just kept thinkin’ about how nice Preacher Man looked, and how he looked covered with fat boils on his body. Eli ain’t no healer; he is. And Eli gone and needed somethin’ to make him look like a magic man. But he couldn’t do it alone. Preacher Man still on the floor cryin himself out of his mind. I can’t stand to see a being in pain. Hurts me bad when I can’t do nothin’ but watch. But I figure I ain’t got the power to heal a healer, but I can help him hurt less. So I find strips of white cloth and grab a basin of cool water and the holy oil Eli uses on occasion. And though he tried to push me away again once I settled on the floor, I just grabbed his hands firm like a man would and tugged them down. Not so much as lookin’ Preacher Man in the eye, I start dipping his hands in the water to help that fire in his fingers. And those boils feel almost like paper wax, like one tough touch and they’ll be busted open and sore. So, I keep gentle as can be, and once his hands feel a bit cooler, I take the holy oil and pour a small bit in my hand. Slowly rubbin’ it into his hands so that the oil coats the skin well, protecting it from the air. His hands gone cool just like I hoped, and in all that oil, they became shiny. Then I took the strips of cloth and started wrapping them around his hands till it looked like he was wearing a leper’s gloves. All the while he ain’t said a word to me. Just kept looking into my face, but I kept my eyes on his hands. And it wasn’t till I was done that I finally looked Preacher Man in the face. Though some bumps had come up, they wasn’t red hot or large like the ones on his hands. Just looked like he had some blemishes creepin’ up on his face. 

And it strange how you may see a person, but don’t see a person. All that while I’d seen Preacher Man and his city boy suit, and looks as nice as an actor in the picture shows. But his eyes didn’t match none of that. They seemed like an old man’s eyes lookin’ back at me. Something in them that ring more true that I had first thought. Preacher Man may put on a revival show, come as a God lovin’ entertainer, but he believe strong in what he does. So much so that the Lord let him heal. But that healin’ brings him pain, brings boils on his hands that heal, but that don’t stop him none. Preacher Man still came down to help little girl. He still hadn’t said a word to me, and I thought it funny for two people just to be staring at each other so long.

“I’m Jessie.”

“I know,” he said.

“Well that’s good and all, but I don’t know you from a hare.” 

He almost smiled, “Malachi Jefferson.”

“I know,” I whispered, “But for some reason, I just call you Preacher Man.”