Finally had the chance to wade through all of the India photos and select my favorites… it’s like the carefully edited trailer of a way-too-long documentary. I even like this version better than the whole bunch, myself. If you are so inclined, you can view the new album here. It works best in Slideshow format; I’d recommend setting the speed to 1 or 2 seconds per shot. Cheers.

Damon and I got married last Saturday (yes, again) and are still basking in the big, giant happy. It was a gorgeous day and we had so much fun at our small celebration, surrounded by the people we love most in the world. Hard to believe the windy, brambled, unexpected paths that led to this place, but certain that every step was an integral part of the journey. Grateful, grateful, and grateful, with a side of bliss. Still learning new things every day and having more fun than is right or proper. Shared goals, provocative exchange, extreme silliness, profound seriousness, eyes-wide-open authenticity, no drama and an irrational love of all things made of cheese. This kicks ass.

There’s something about being this in love that it makes you want to get married over and over again. Once a month. On every continent. Okay, maybe not the really cold one… but Damon and I are having our “western” wedding (as our Indian friends would say) tomorrow in New Hope, Pennsylvania and we couldn’t be more excited. It’s a tiny, family affair, with a larger gathering of friends on Sunday. (And a webcam for some far-flung friends who we wouldn’t do this without.) Tonight, the families are meeting for the first time at our house, and then it’s on to a weekend of celebration. We’ve worked hard to plan a really personal ceremony (in English, this time) that is reflective of where we’ve been and where we’re headed and all that we’re grateful for. During this week when so many are facing such excruciating loss in Virginia, we’re sharing in the grief, and trying our hands at courage. Ferociously holding onto this happiness, fully aware of how easily it can be taken.

Thank you for taking the time to follow my Indian adventures, and for sharing with me as so many of you have. In some ways, this past year looked like it had the chance to be my worst-ever, and then it had to go all “best-one-yet” on me and so many of you helped make it so. Dig. So, cheers to you and yours, this weekend and always. To those you’ve loved, those you’ve lost, and those still out there, waiting for you to find them.

“…very likely she has always understood what I have slowly learned… that love is hard, that while many good things are easy, true love is not, because love is first of all a power, its own power, which must continually make its way forward from night into day, from transcending union always forward into day.

And as the plane descends, it comes to me… that once the lover recognizes the other, knows for the first time what is most to be valued in another, from then on, love is very much like courage, perhaps it is courage, and even perhaps, only courage.” -Galway Kinnell

Our final goodbye on that last day at Mother Teresa’s was with Auntie, who had been waiting by her sewing closet in a pose that was somehow at once both formal and twitchy. When we broke free of the crowd and approached her, she hurriedly unlocked the small room and motioned us inside. There, she handed us several small wrapped parcels and tried to find bits and pieces of English to wish us both a long, happy marriage and all the blessings of God. The metallic paper later revealed a small marble jewelry box, with a little beaded necklace and a Mother Teresa medal for me, and a wooden flute for Damon; she had remembered from our pantomimed conversations that my “husband” liked to play musical instruments. Auntie didn’t have the money for the things she herself needed, and here she was, showering us with gifts. Still — she had one more thing up her sleeve.

Then, with a rare “I’m-so-pleased-with-myself” grin, she pulled out two long reed brooms. These brooms are common in India, and can be used to rake leaves without disturbing delicate plants, to sweep up debris, to scrub floors with soapy water — excelling at any number of homekeeping tasks. Ingenious. They were new to me when I arrived, and I loved them; my excitement over such mundane household tool being the source of great amusement to my new friends. Auntie was among the amused and had purchased two of them for us as a cheeky, but meaningful wedding gift. Unbelievable. At her request, we posed for photos with her and these unexpected gifts, before saying our goodbyes. She began crying, as she put her hands over her heart and concentrated on the English she seemed to have prepared: “I am so much loving of you. So, so thankful. So much of happy, many sad.” Me too, Auntie. Me too.

As Damon and I traveled for the next five days in and out of cars, hotels both humble and posh, and finally airports, every Indian we encountered wondered why the silly Americans were lugging these giant, humble brooms from place-to-place. When we explained that they were wedding gifts, most would chuckle and shake their heads in embarrassment for us. And every single time, I insisted that these were the best gifts we’d ever received.

Indians are easing the restrictions for foreign adoptions in an attempt find families for more abandoned girl children and children with darker skin. Read the article here.

Microlending is on the rise in India and has a chance to make a real difference for the poor. An Indian blogger weighs in.

Kissing in public is a no-no in India. One hundred couples were rounded up in Bombay during a recent crackdown on “obscene” behavior. Read more, if your delicate sensibilities can handle it.

Heard the assertions that India and China are going to be the world’s next superpowers? Believe it.

When Damon visited Mother Teresa’s with me to say my last goodbyes, I couldn’t wait for him to meet Shanthi, the girl I’ve written so much about here. I had told him of her progress, of her laughter and of the way she tugged on my soul. She would be the hardest to leave.

We were pulled along by a large cluster of chattering ladies and girls for a full guided tour of the facility, but Shanthi was nowhere to be found. A low panic started building — where had she gone? What could have happened? No one seemed to know. Finally, one of the residents pointed towards the washroom, where we found her snoring away in her wheelchair in the hot sun. Forgotten? Nothing we could do would rouse her; I was saddened and a little concerned. Was she ill? Had she accidentally received too much medication that morning? How long had she been there and when would she have been retrieved?

We wheeled her out of the sun and she came groggily to. Our attempts to connect and engage her weren’t so successful — she was just too out of it. My friend and fellow volunteer Allyson recognized the signs of mild dehydration, and suggested we bring water to Shanthi after her sun-baked nap. As we tried to get her to drink, and said our wistful goodbyes, Sister and some of the girls were nearby, happily playing with my camera, oohing and ahhing over “snaps” of the Golden Temple. I didn’t know until much later that they had taken this photo of us — of my last moment with this girl I had started to think of as my own, and have every day since. It’s too hard to wrap my head around the fact that I’ll likely never see Shanthi again. I push those thoughts aside by hungrily reading the small stories of her sent by other volunteers who have remained in Delhi and decided to take a break from their own work to visit Mother Teresa’s for a day here and there. They’ve told tales of her strong grip, her happy outbursts, and of the angelic beauty I so fell for. It’s comfort, but still. I feel like I left family behind.

We first met the stern “Auntie” on our second day as volunteers at Mother Teresa’s, when the ritual of a mid-morning break for chai and biscuits was established. We were in the middle of tending a gruesome amputation-worthy wound in ways that are too unlovely to even describe here, when we were anxiously summoned by a resident. We hurriedly passed along a half-Hindi-half-English explanation that we couldn’t possibly come now, but thank you so much. Our lack of attendance was not well-received that day and our subsequent tardiness the following was greeted with icy silence. The assertion that important medically-necessary work couldn’t be interrupted was ignored — even when we had it perfectly translated in Hindi. It took us several days to understand that Auntie had been given the task of extending this hospitality to us and our seeming indifference to the chai ritual was an overt insult.

Once we succumbed to this mid-morning break, we began enjoying the brief but civilized rest. An English butter cookie was just the thing to help keep our levels energy up, and taking some minutes away from the tireless residents helped recharge us to return into the fray. Unfortunately, the chai was too sweet and too rich for my tastes and allowances for this were apparently not in the cards. My polite refusals were ignored, my cup was filled to the brim daily, no matter how often I covered it with my palm, and if I didn’t finish every drop, the stern Auntie scowled and gestured impatiently at the waste. Thankfully, Allyson enjoyed the taste, so we developed subtle distractions and delicate slights of hand to switch her empty cup with my own.

Towards the end of the first week, we tried to ease the awkward silence of tea-time with Auntie by lamely attempting light-weight Hindi conversation, while she struggled to call forth single staccato English nouns or adjectives in response. By the following week, she seemed to warm some to us, though it was probably due more to our new-found punctuality and empty teacups, than our company. Still, it was a start.

Then one Tuesday afternoon, she reappeared and took me to an outside bench to tell me her story. It took some time to understand the tale, but I eventually learned that she had been taken in as a 3 year old orphan by Mother Teresa herself and sent to one of the satellite Houses. Forty-odd years later, Mother had visited this very Delhi House where Auntie was now working and remembered the greying grandmother as one of the thousands of toddlers she had saved. Tears betrayed Auntie as she recounted cooking a simple curry dish that Mother subsequently ate, and her usually stoic face crumpled as she recalled how the tiny nun had kissed her right hand on her final visit. She held it before me as though I would be able to see the spot, glowing, and whimpered in broken English that Teresa was the only mother she had ever known. The imposing woman beside me, an orphan once more. I took a risk and asked with reverence if I might touch the hand that Mother Teresa had kissed. There was a too-long pause while Auntie studied my eyes with an almost intimidating concentration, and then she offered me the hand. That day, we became friends.

It’s been hard to find time and head-space to continue posting about India, and about the transition returning home. So much is going on, the pace is so confusing to adjust to, and I’m still wrapping my head around the journey. I loved India like crazy. It was so upsetting to leave. I both hate and love being home. /sigh. So while I’m getting my act together, I thought I’d pass along a link to my full India gallery — all 931 images and movies for anyone who might want a deeper look. You can access them here. (Slideshow mode seems the most efficient way to view things in Picasa — just set the speed to your preference or click through manually once the show starts.)

When I get to know Picasa better, I’ll do a (much, much shorter) favorites album, but if you’ve been reading this site, you’ve pretty much seen that highlights reel. Consider the gallery the self-indulgent director’s cut with hours of extra footage on the collector’s DVD. Let me know what you like, what you don’t like, what’s just as you imagined it, and what’s surprising. Are there things you wish you could see, or things you’re glad that you didn’t. Tell me about it…

… and trying adjust to life back in the States; it’s way harder than I expected. Life seems somehow much lazier, and yet way busier than I remember — and with so many things that really don’t feel like they matter. Still, I’m so looking forward to the joy of wedding #2 in April. Returning to life with this incredible, smart, silly, loving man I share my life with is certainly easing the transition; lessoning the sting of the intense missing. In so many ways, Delhi felt like home.

Lately, my posts here have been few and far between. Time and technology kept me from sharing everything that I wanted to in real time, and what I was able to share is only a tiny fraction of my experience. So many things I never had time to write about, so many incredible sites that weren’t able to be photographed, and so many days of wonder and horror and beauty and sorrow and vitality that I could never quite figure out how to put down in words. And now, the pace and concerns of western living seems to layer guilt and feelings of self-indulgence over everything when I try to put aside time to keep processing the experience and write about India. Ah, well. I think I’ll keep going with this site for a while, because there are things I still want to include, get down on “paper”, and try to find a way share. There are things I’m still trying to understand and things that need working out — writing seems to help.

A Word on Content… for weeks now, I’ve worried that my posts here were starting to look like a festive travelogue, what with the dress-up, the holiday, the wedding, the site-seeing, and general merriment. It’s true that untold amounts of fun were had, that the celebrating of anything and everything in India is truly an art form and that I dove in head-first. But I went there for service and that service was the center of everything. So many of you supported me as I worked towards that goal — emotionally and practically with both your enthusiasm and your financial contributions. I started this site as my way to connect with you, and to connect you with the work that I was doing, and the experience that your generosity made possible. Oh, the irony, when it turned out the hardest thing to do was to write about the work itself. The biggest and most important piece of this past month, and yet there’s barely anything here about my days at Mother Teresa’s. I’m acutely aware of that, but am not sure how fill in the gaps. Weeks later, I’m still trying to take it all in and find way to talk about it. Maybe with some time and distance, I’ll be able to offer some more on that front. I’ll keep trying. As always, I’m so grateful for your interest, indulgence, enthusiasm, and bear-hug-like support. I’m a lucky girl. More soon…

On my final official day of work at Mother Teresa’s, I said goodbye to everyone without too much thought or intention, as I knew I’d be back. When Damon arrived in India, there was some crossover and the ladies insisted on meeting “Didi Pati,” or “big sister’s husband.” The very idea that there was a man in my life, and I’d soon be a wife sent them into fits of giggles. Arranged marriages are still going strong in India, so for even the older women, my situation filled them with anxious excitement and mystery. I had said my half-hearted goodbyes to everyone, with the understanding that I’d to return with Pati on the given day.

That morning, I dressed in a brightly colored kurta, applied considerable makeup, wore my best jewelry and added a bindi for good measure. Women in India seem to always look their absolute best, at whatever level that’s possible, and my early days of arriving simple, plain-faced, and with air-dried hair — intended as a sign of respect, humility and community — turned out to be a major let down to my new friends. When I finally caught on that my modest appearance said the opposite of my intentions, I got serious about how I looked. I arrived at the crack of dawn late in my first week in my finest embroidered salwar kameez, with my hair blown out and sprayed, and with more makeup than I would ever wear at home. The women literally applauded, taking me around to their less mobile friends to show off how I finally looked like a “real Indian lady.”

It was late morning when Damon & I finally arrived via a grumpy rickshaw driver who kept trying to up the price with every mile. At the end of the long driveway, I wondered if the house was readying for lunch or some other activity, and that our long-forgotten promise of a visit would be confusing or disruptive. When the gates swung closed behind us, a quarter mile down the tree-lined drive, we heard a whoop, and residents poured onto the pavement cheering and running towards us. My friend Allyson, who was staying on at Mother Teresa’s for another week, informed me that the morning had been a roller coaster of excitement, anticipation, let down, bumming out, and back again, with the hope that we would come and then the fear that we wouldn’t. Breaks to the routine can be the worst thing or the best thing, depending on how they work out.

This one turned into a positive, as we were crushed by the mob of ladies, and eyed shyly by the curious men. Damon jumped right in, seemingly nonplussed by the crowd, the grabby greetings, and the behaviors of scores of residents with severe mental disabilities descending upon us. That sort of thing can be unnerving, even to professionals — even when facing it one-on-one, on your home turf, in your comfort zone, it can overwhelm. I pulled out of someone’s grasp to check on D and ask my friends to give him some space, but he was already gone… tugged away happily, hand-in-hand by some of our more insistent, vocal, (and physically strong) girls to see all there was to see of their home. Love that boy.

Sister recommended a tour the facility, so we caught up with Damon and complied, with his new girl-fans in tow. The tour eventually lead us to the back dorm where he was able to meet a lovely woman who I still think of every day. She has no use of her legs, but moves around skillfully on a small square skateboard. She sits almost under her bed in a sunny corner with an ancient sewing machine making kurtas for the other women from donated fabrics. (In the beginning of my time here, I’d typically only enter and leave this room for wound dressing supplies, or nail polish, or the bowling game I’d made from empty water bottles, or ancient chalkboards & bits of chalk — we’d bounce from treating amputation-worthy wounds, to painting polka-dot pedicures to highly competitive co-ed gaming tournaments to encouraging an otherwise uncommunicative autistic boy’s quiet but insistent reading of English, all in a matter of two hours.)

This dear woman in the corner always seemed to be hiding, and so I’d avert my eyes and do what I came for quietly. The second week, I dropped my bag, and the bottles rolled under her bed. She laughed and mock scolded me with little bits of English, and we became fast friends. I started looking for excuses to sneak into the dorm without followers to admire what she was stitching, try our hands at Hindi/English/pantomimed communication, or to simply hold hands as she prayed. On this last visit, she held onto Damon tightly, told us she was praying for us and the challenges we might face, and asked to have her picture taken with us. Such dignity and such grace. The woman on the floor in the corner. Whose legs don’t work. Would be praying for us. /shakes head. And this scene repeated itself with every goodbye. I could go on and on about what that’s like — to be fussed over, worried about, and prayed for by people who have lost more than we can begin to fathom, but the story tells itself. It doesn’t really need color. I’ll miss her so.

More on this last day at Mother Teresa’s soon…