Writings
verse
a new poem every month...
Home.
Sunshine streaming through the curtains
Just a touch of shadow on the carpet
The smell of something baking,
homemade coffee cake
And warm, dark woods
Laughter in the distance
And the sound of bacon sizzling
It is crisp outside, there is work to be done
Peeking through the glass windows,
The horses in the paddock,
The dog… tearing up the garden
The leaves: green, red, yellow, orange
Each falling from their trees,
another mess to clean up…
I pull the blanket over my head,
thinking I’ll do it tomorrow…
knowing the kids will just jump in the pile
and the mess will never really be cleaned
I like it that way, anyway… leaves strewn around the lawn
The house full of toys, always tripping me on the way to the bathroom
My new shoes, the dog chewed…
The horses, ready for a run.
It smells like coffee cake, and fresh squeezed orange juice
The laughter and the sizzling in the kitchen
The sun, peeking its rays through
Saying good morning
And a good morning it is
For I am Home.
a new poem every month...
Home.
Sunshine streaming through the curtains
Just a touch of shadow on the carpet
The smell of something baking,
homemade coffee cake
And warm, dark woods
Laughter in the distance
And the sound of bacon sizzling
It is crisp outside, there is work to be done
Peeking through the glass windows,
The horses in the paddock,
The dog… tearing up the garden
The leaves: green, red, yellow, orange
Each falling from their trees,
another mess to clean up…
I pull the blanket over my head,
thinking I’ll do it tomorrow…
knowing the kids will just jump in the pile
and the mess will never really be cleaned
I like it that way, anyway… leaves strewn around the lawn
The house full of toys, always tripping me on the way to the bathroom
My new shoes, the dog chewed…
The horses, ready for a run.
It smells like coffee cake, and fresh squeezed orange juice
The laughter and the sizzling in the kitchen
The sun, peeking its rays through
Saying good morning
And a good morning it is
For I am Home.
jayamae's journal
my rants and raves, and sometimes, just my thoughts...
February 21, 2009
Julia Bergman is a woman who experienced one day in her life that would lead her on an adventure she never thought possible. One chance moment (a story that gives me chills every time I hear it) and she became a dedicated humanitarian, a woman I admire. She never planned on changing lives, but she has, and she continues to touch many of us everyday.
In 1996, Julia Bergman was working for San Francisco City College as a librarian. She was given a one semester sabbatical and decided to travel to Central Asia. Her trip eventually led her to Northern Pakistan. She had not originally planned on spending time in Pakistan, but the astounding topography enticed her and her traveling mates to take a helicopter ride above the Karakoram Mountains. The Karakoram is home to K2, the second highest peak in the world.
The pilot of this helicopter, flying high above the amazing mountain range, landed in an open field in Askole so that the travelers would have the opportunity to visit a local village. After a ten minute walk, Julia and her four friends came upon children’s laughter. The children, recognizing that Julia was from America, asked her what state she was from. When she responded, “California,” they asked her where in California. When she said, “San Francisco,” the children led her to a sign that read, “America Himalayan Foundation San Francisco, CA Thank you, Jean Hoerni.”
Jean Hoerni was Julia Bergman’s cousin-in-law. When she realized where she was, her tears began to flow. What were the chances that Julia ended up in the same spot where Jean had funded a bridge and the building of a school?
Julia Bergman returned to San Francisco one month later. She spoke to Jean, who was suffering from a rare form of leukemia, and told him that she had seen his school and the bridge that was built for the Korphe village. He was emotionally moved by this news, and made plans to visit the site of the school and the bridge himself. Six weeks following this conversation, Jean Hoerni passed. But later, his bridge in Pakistan served as the spot where his ashes were set free.
At Jean Hoerni’s memorial, Julia Bergman experienced another chance meeting -- one that would give her an extraordinary purpose, and change her life forever. She met Greg Mortenson, the man who built the bridge and the school with Jean’s money. She asked Greg if there was anything she could do to help, and he said, “The children need a library.” Julia Bergman couldn’t believe it. She was a librarian.
Since that day, the Central Asia Institute has been founded. It works to build schools and educate children, especially girls, in remote areas of Pakistan and Afghanistan. To date, 78 schools have been built and maintained. Julia Bergman has instituted many of the libraries in these schools and she has organized teacher training for the incredible men and women who have dedicated their lives to educating the children of their countries.
For more information, please visit https://www.ikat.org/
And, please, read Three Cups of Tea -- a marvelous adventure which proves just how much one person can make a difference. The only thing I forgot, when I met Julia Bergman, was to ask her to sign my very well-read, worn copy of the book.
December 1, 2008
There are some people who long to meet the latest movie star or the biggest rock star. Brad Pitt, Madonna. I don’t even know who’s “it” these days, as I don’t follow the latest news.
Tonight I met Renee Firestone. At 84, she is one of a few Holocaust survivors. I ran into her in the restroom outside the theatre, a half hour before she was to begin speaking. We were standing side by side at the sinks, washing our hands. There was no one else in the bathroom. I knew it was her. I don’t know how I knew, but I just knew it was her. I wanted to turn and say something. I wanted to shake her hand. But how was I to introduce myself? I mean, what do you say…
Renee talked about her life, as a young girl during World War II. She was born in Czechoslovakia, a democratic country. She experienced a happy childhood, similar to the children in America growing up in middle class homes. She was 9, then 14. She knew about the war, but she and her family were safe - even when her country was taken over and became Hungary - she was safe. It wasn’t until she was 20 years old that she was taken from her home, with her mother, father, and younger sister. Her older brother had already been sent to a labor camp, a few years before. She talked about the cattle cars, being shipped to another country. Everyone being packed in, children crying. She said every night the train stopped in the darkness and they heard shooting and screaming, screaming and shooting. After four days without food or water on this cattle car whose bathroom consisted only of a bucket in the corner surrounded by hay, the train stopped. It was daylight and when everyone got off, there was chaos.
I remember sitting there in the third row of the audience and this wave of anxiety came over me, but I was forced to sit there, in my discomfort, and absorb every word that was spoken. Ms. Firestone talked of entering the camp - the one minute ice cold shower, her hair being shaved off, being lined up naked in front of the Nazi officers and their dogs, being gawked at, barked at, and teased. She talked of the “fire factories” - the crematoriums, and the ashes that spilled from their walls. She was in Auschwitz, in Poland, one of six extermination camps, none of them on German soil.
I was brought back to a moment in time, a few years ago, when I was reading Elie Wiesel’s Night aloud to my husband. It was the only book that has ever brought me to tears, and one night, I had to put the book down. The lump in my throat was so prominent that I could no longer read aloud. It was several minutes later, of which my husband was patient, before I could regain enough of my equilibrium to be confident enough to continue the story.
I sat in the audience, overtaken by a horrific silence. I fought back tears of anger, tears of disbelief. It wasn’t until Renee told of her liberation that I felt I could breath again.
On May 8, 1944, Renee Firestone left Auschwitz, 70 lbs. Her mother had been gassed the first night at the camp. Her sister had been taken to a clinic six months after they arrived at Auschwitz. Experiments were performed on her and then she was killed. Her father marched in two death marches. The second one sent him to the hospital, where he died four months later. Renee was reunited with her brother three months after being liberated - he had escaped the labor camp he was in.
Ms. Firestone had said that many Jews had never found out what happened to their families. They have no cemeteries to go to, no graves to place flowers. “Telling their stories is, for them, going to the cemetery.”
“Why are we still talking about the Holocaust? I wish we didn’t have to talk about it.” But look what has happened since World War II - genocide in Cambodia, genocide in Rwanda. “Sixty-three years later and we still haven’t learned from Auschwitz.”
In 1937, Renee Firestone was supposed to go to Los Angeles with her family. Her father had papers for everyone, but her mother refused to go. What a tragedy, but where would we be today if we didn’t have her story to share?
I waited for a long time after her speech ended. I stood in a line to meet her. And when I did, I still couldn’t think of anything to say. I shook her hand and cried. And someone snapped a photo...
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On Tuesday, November 11, I returned to California after spending 6 days in Illinois. I had traveled to Chicago to visit The International Children's Center (ICC), a residential home for young victims of forced immigration. My organization, Spirit Quilts, was there to deliver 100 quilts to the children. This was a day I know I'll never forget...
My cousin, Alicia, and my best friend, Marianne, and I arrived at the ICC at 3 in the afternoon. Alicia's car was packed to the brim with quilts. We struggled getting the boxes full of quilts inside the Center, and once inside, set about organizing and separating the quilts -- boy quilts vs. girl quilts vs. unisex. Quilts that definitely needed to go to a young child; quilts that teenagers might like. I was so excited to meet the children, but first we met with the Executive Director and the Director of the Center. It was then that we collectively decided to deliver the quilts to the children in their rooms upstairs while they were having "free time." This way each child could pick out his or her own quilt.
We visited the girls' wing first. Many of the girls we met spoke Spanish, and so Marianne, Alicia, and I practiced the few words we knew. Things like, "Hola! Como estas?" and "Como te llama?" and "Cuantos anos tienes?" I remember being extremely nervous walking into the first room. Things raced through my head... things like, "I hope they like me." "I hope they like the quilts." "I hope they are happy we are here." I remember feeling really small... I mean, small as in, what could I possibly offer these children? I haven't been through anything close to what they've experienced. Am I the right person for this job? I hoped the children knew what an honor it was to be there, visiting their home, however temporary it was.
In the last room on the girls' wing, we visited a group of girls from China, and one girl from Pakistan. The young girl from Pakistan spoke perfect English, and I immediately struck up a conversation with her. We talked about her country, and then India (where my family is from). We talked about Islam (which fascinated me, as I am a Religious Studies minor), and we talked about her language, Urdu. I asked her which way Mecca was, and if she had a prayer mat. I asked her to teach me to pray as a Muslim, but she politely declined, saying she was too shy. I wish I could have photographed her face. She was a beautiful young woman, with her hijab revealing the darkest, deepest eyes that had so many questions I wanted to answer.
In that same room, a group of young Chinese women sang to us in their language. When they sang the same song in English, Marianne, Alicia, and I began to cry. The words: "You and me, from one world - we are family." I was reminded of a favorite poem, written by Maya Angelou. It is entitled, "Human Family," and the last few lines repeat this simple truth: "We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike."
I asked these same girls what they do to stay happy everyday, and their responses were as follows:
"Laugh."
"Eat a lot."
"Singing."
"Sleep."
"Talk to friends."
Now, visiting the boys' wing was chaotic... don't get me wrong, it was fun, but crazy! All of the boys were between the ages of 12 and 17. And they were typical teenage boys. They kept saying how beautiful we were... one boy even asked me for my number. It was so sweet, how could I refuse? (I didn't actually give him my number, if you're wondering; that is against policy). Almost every boy wrote a personal message in a journal I brought to the ICC with me. And one artist gave me an amazing drawing he had made of the Mother of Guadalupe... it is an absolutely stunning drawing, done on a huge piece of poster board with a simple, ordinary pencil.
At 6 pm, we enjoyed dinner with the children. We were shuffled into a large cafeteria and we all found seats at the several tables that filled the room. Right before we were allowed to go up and receive our food, the lights were shut off for a moment of silence, or prayer. Then, we were served a delicious eggplant stir fry with rice, a green salad, green beans, and pecan pie (yup, we got dessert too)... oh yea, and homemade rolls straight out of the oven! One boy who sat with me at my table refused to eat. I asked him what was wrong, and he shared with Alicia and me that he was leaving the following day. The reunification team had done their job -- they had found his family. But Daniel had found a family at the ICC, and was not happy to leave. I met another girl at the ICC - a girl just about to have her quinceanera - who had been at the ICC for 18 months, and like Daniel, did not want to leave.
After dinner, Marianne, Alicia, and I organized some games to play with the kids. I have never heard so much laughter! And I'd never felt more like a kid since the time I packed my bags on Christmas Eve to move to the North Pole with Santa Claus! I had so much fun, mostly because I enjoyed watching the kids have fun. It was then that I was struck by how absolutely resilient these children are. I'd like to think that I touched their lives in some small way, but the truth is, they've touched mine.
More of JayaMae's writing can be viewed at WritersCafe.org. She can also be visited on MySpace and Facebook.
If you are an artist -- and I believe everyone has a little bit of art in them -- I encourage you to share your work!
Always feel free to contact me through my guestbook. I look forward to hearing from you. -JayaMae
Always feel free to contact me through my guestbook. I look forward to hearing from you. -JayaMae