ADOPTING THE LIGHT

Tags

Adopted daughter, adoption, Attitude, healing, Hiking, Hope, Injury, Love and loss, Positivity

ADOPTING THE LIGHT

My friend Shirley Melis observes, “It’s no so much what happens to you but what you do with it.” She’s written a best-selling memoir, Banged-Up Heart – Dancing with Love and Loss, about losing her husband, falling in love with a man who swept her off her feet, marrying him and then losing that husband to cancer. She survived those tragedies and found love a third time. Her positive attitude and resilience so inspired me, I recently added an accolade to her many five-star reviews on Amazon.

Today’s post is not about bereavement, but about losing and then regaining health and fitness. Rather than a banged-up heart, I acquired a banged-up back. Five months ago I fell and suffered a spinal compression fracture. It happened during a hike in New Mexico’s Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Inattentiveness and treacherous footing.: I stumbled, slipped into a rocky mountain stream and landed on sharp boulders(https://tinyurl.com/yb2ruz3k).

Because of possible side-effects, I opted not to have surgery. The neurologist assured me that eventually the fractured vertebra would mend on its own. Thus began a slow, arduous healing process. Physical therapy, swimming, arnica and acupuncture were just a few of the measures I embraced. Amazingly, there was a silver lining to the cloud that now hovered over my life. Because I couldn’t hike three mornings a week, I had time to finish the novel I’d been putting off. The injury created a gift of time. I’m getting back to hiking, but in a modified way.

As an adoptee, I’ve learned that emotional adjustments are the way to succeed. At age five, I was taken from flimsy foster care arrangements to the warm, loving home of a college professor and his wife, my adoptive parents. On one hand, I felt completely abandoned. Ripped away from all I’d ever known, I had to pretend to be the “real” daughter. It’s taken a lifetime to realize that the problem (of being abandoned) was actually an opportunity. It’s taken years to shift from feeling victimized to being the heroine of my own life. The new attitude is fed by love of family and friends, nurtured by gratitude, and maintained by daily journaling.

When 2018 began, I chose one word as my new year’s resolution: LIGHT. On January 1, while cleaning the perpetually cluttered home office, I came across notes from an Oprah Winfrey/Deepak Chopra 21-day online workshop. The topic: “Getting Unstuck~Creating a Limitless Life.” Each one of the 21 days focused on a new intention. The following ten were the ones I embraced…

I am fulfilled when I can be who I want to be
I am never stuck when I live in the present
I embrace the newness of this day
I am in charge of my brain, not the other way around
Today I am creating a better version of myself
I am aware of being cared for and supported
My awareness opens the door to new possibilities.
My life is dynamic because I welcome change.
I deserve a life without limitations.
Every day unfolds the next step in my journey.

These are resolutions particularly appropriate not just for the “adoptee frame of mind,” but also for anybody who seeks to envision a personal encouraging light. It may be the light after losing a loved one, the light of healing, or simply the light of a new appreciation for being alive. Whatever your light may be, it’s worth seeking.

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Join Elaine on alternate Mondays for reflections on adoption and life. Her newest novel Clara and the Hand of Ganesh, a sequel to All the Wrong Places, is a work-in-progress. Your comments are invited. If you would like to be a guest blogger on an adoption-related theme, email me at deardiaryreadings@me.com

After the fall, beginning the road to recovery

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GOLDINGHAM ~ 1820

Tags

British explorer, Kubla Khan, Novel in progress, Romanticism, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Tamil Nadu

Note from Elaine: This post was originally published in December of 2013 and is now part of my novel-in-progress The Hand of Ganesha, scheduled for 2019.  All the Wrong Places, prequel to Ganesha is due out in April of 2017. Pre-publication orders are being taken at http://www.pocolpress.com.

Lord Goldingham is the ancestor of my character Arundhati Benet, one of the protagonists of The Hand of Ganesha.

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A British tourist, one Lord Johathan Dinegar Goldingham, strolled along the beach

The India of his dreams…

just south of Chennai. His cousin Lady Elizabeth, a descendant of George Earl of Cumberland, had invited him to Calcutta. That hectic cauldron of humanity was not to his liking and therefore Goldingham announced diplomatically that he would travel to outlying areas rather than exploring more of the city.
It was here in Tamil Nadu that Goldingham found the India of his dreams. After exploring the stoneworks of Chennai, he hired a black Indian to lead him to the beach where stone ruins could be viewed. The tide was out and huge stone ramparts loomed up from the water. It was as though an ancient city were rising up from the ocean, that or sinking into it.
As he walked, Goldingham pondered the Bagavad Gita, particularly that portion he’d committed to memory:
He who neither likes nor dislikes, neither bemaons nor desires, who has renounced both the auspicous and inauspicious and who is full of devotion to me – he is dear to ME.
The trip to India was, he surmised, a step toward achieving the end of desire. His desire, that is. After the death of his beloved Bet and the tragic accident that took their son and daughter, he lost his will to live. Reading the poetry of Samuel Coleridge gave him a new reason to get up each day. It was Coleridge’s “Kubla Khan” that drew him to the mystical, world of the imagination.
As he edged along the ocean, it occurred to him that he should look in the damp sand for fragments that might have floated surfaceward from an ancient city under the sea, the lost kingdom of which he’d dreamed.
No one around to find his behavoir peculiar, he felt strangely liberated. Still nimble at age 45, he sat down on the white sandy beach and removed his shoes and stockings, stuffing them in a rucksack he carried on his back. After rolling up his trouser legs, he waled  into the ocean, ankle deep. The water felt warm, like bathwater. Not at all like the icy Atlantic Ocean surrounding his native Isle of Jersey. He stretched out and retrated his toes, as though they might find artifacts buried just under the sand.
The world of the imagination, that’s what attracted him to Samuel Coleridge and “Kubla Khan” and to take this trip to India. He strode from the beach in front of his hotel toward a lone pillar, part of the ruins of Mahabalipuram. He tried to envision the lost city that lay beneath the ocean, the ancient empire of which this pillar was just a part. He recited, at first in his head, and then out loud…
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree;
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round;

Beyond this point he’d not really memorized. He remembered only a fragment beyond the “walls and towers”; a “damsel with a dulcimer.” A damsel, yes a damsel…

Stay tuned for more excerpts from Elaine’s novel The Hand of Ganesha, sequel to All the Wrong Places

Adopting the airwaves–>I’m on the radio today!

Tags

adoption, Dealing with Adoption, India, Novel-in-progress, The Writing Life, Walking

At 4 p.m. Mountain Time, 101.1 F.M. KSFR–Wednesday afternoon I’ll be talking about my six published books with show host Abigail Adler. Please tune in!

The Last Word

Wednesdays at 4:00 pm

• Hosted by Abigail Adler

• 

For people who read, for people who write, for people who want to publish, or for people who are just curious…What do writers think? What do writers really do?  Find out – listen to THE LAST WORD: Conversations with Writers every Wednesday at 4 pm with host, Abigail Adler

 

Drifting

Tags

Alone, Escape, Novel in progress, Orphan, Southern India

The incoming tide delivered Arundati to the beach. Bruised, cold, and barely conscious, the child lay by smooth gray rocks, clumps of seaweed, shells and driftwood. In the half-light of late afternoon, she could make out only  dim shapes. When she tried to cry for help, a rasping sound came from deep within. She was too exhausted to form words.

Arundati struggled to rise to her feet, collapsed, moaned. By now she was breathing with effort. From a distance she was indistinguishable from other sodden heaps of the ocean’s detritus. Closer inspection revealed an Indian child. Tiny and delicate, she was clad in the shreds of a coarse muslin gown. She might have been five years old. It was hard to tell, as Indian children were much smaller than their counterparts in America or Europe. Waves lapped gently around the girl’s splayed arms and legs, revealing dark ugly bruises and dried blood from knife slashes. Apparently, her light brown skin had served as the canvas for a madman’s rage.
Floating, as if still in water, the child dreamed. It was the beginning of Holi, the festival of colors. She was her Mama and her Babu. They, along with aunties and uncles, were singing. Someone played a tambourine and shook bells.  She and her brother Shubi ran from tree to tree playing tag . Once you touched a tree’s bark, you were safe. If you got tagged before reaching the tree, you had to be the monkey with no home.
As the tide receded, the girl grew even colder. Shivering, she burrowed into the rocky sand, hoping for a bit of warmth. She had traveled a long way and would need many hours to regain her strength. Though she had been thrown into the ocean and presumed, dead by the shipmasters, Arundati somehow  lived. Night was falling.  She breathed in hungrily, filling her lungs with the damp, humid atmosphere of southern India, exhaling in raspy bursts. It would be a long night. Arundati prayed to Ganesha that it would not be her last…

Elaine’s novel Arundati begins in Tamil Nadu…Read an excerpt!

ARUNDATI – novel in progress (continued)

Tags

artifacts, Ganesha, India, suspense

Hindu God Ganesha

Mahabalipuram, India
December 26, 1798

British traveler Jonathan Dinegar Goldingham strolled along the beach south of Chennai, where he was spending part of his winter holiday. His cousin, Elizabeth, a descendant of George Earl of Cumberland, had invited him to Calcutta, from whence Jonathan would travel to outlying areas as much as time allowed.
He’d found the India of his dreams.   Dinegar, as he was known, was happy to breathe in the cold, salty air of the sea pounding southern India. Mahabalipuram was indeed a fortuitous discovery, one of those gifts of travel that occurred to those with the money and leisure time for indulging the spirit of Wanderlust.
As he walked, he pondered the ancient civilization that was said to have existed here five thousand years earlier. Strains of the Bagavad Gita came to Dinegar, and he recited aloud,
He who neither likes nor dislikes, neither bemoans nor desires, who has renounced both the auspicious and inauspicious and who is full of devotion to me – he is dear to ME.
In his travelogue entry, he would write about the lost city under the sea, an Atlantis of Asia , the splendor of which surpassed mankind’s wildest dreams. After all, Mahabalipuram’s beauty was allegedly so great that the jealous gods wreaked punishment. In a colossal storm, they covered Mahabalipuram with water to keep it forever hidden from man’s admiration.
Children’s voices interrupted Dinegar’s private musings. Native urchins scampered along the shore looking for God only knew what. Tiny, skinny little boys — were there no girls in this village? — wearing only their dark brown skin or perhaps a filthy loincloth.
They were the perennial small boys to be found in impoverished countries anywhere in the world. Young as they were, they knew that a foreign visitor might mean money.
With the innate cleverness of survivors, the children sized up this white man.
Far taller than any  men they had seen in their native village. Skin a strange white, hair a shade not to be seen on any head in Chennai — blond — the visitor wore a white linen suit, a vest and pocket watch. He walked, stiff and upright, with a cane.
Rani, the tallest of the urchins and the best dressed, if loincloths could be considered dress at all, greeting Dinegar in an alien tongue. He held his hands in the universal greeting of “Namaste.” When Rani smiled, his face was quite handsome. What might this child want of him? What might he be offering?
The child thrust his hand into a black pouch hanging from his waist. He held out a gray piece of something to the British traveler. Was it a pebble?A shell?
Dinegar took the tiny stone fragment from Rani. “Ah, I see you have a relic, my boy.” The item was a hand attached to a severed wrist. It was pocked by erosion. Dinegar thought immediately that it must have come from the lost city of Mahabalipuram.  He was immediately interested. Apparently it had been presented by the sea at high tide. This enterprising little fellow was harvesting the ocean’s gifts to sell them.
Sensing the interest of his prospective customer, Rani began speaking English with astonishing proficiency. “Sahib, this is the hand of Ganesha, the son of Shiva. It is I am certain from the ruins beneath the sea.”
“Yes,” said Dinegar. “I know of the lost city of Mahabalipuram. It is in fact what brought me to your part of the world. That and the poetry of Coleridge.”
Rani waved the hand in front of Dinegar, holding it between his thumb and index finger. “Sahib, the hand of Ganesha is good luck. Is rare and valuable. You will not find another. Most of the relics from Mahabalipuram are in museums.”
“But I cannot take it if it belongs to India,” said Dinegar. It must be turned in to the authorities.”
“No, no. I am allowed to keep what I find. Name your price and it is yours.”
“Well, I don’t know…” began Dinegar.
Rani pressed the small object into Dinegar’s large palm. “Buy?” he pleaded.
It was such a small thing. Surely no one would miss it. With all the statuary allegedly buried under the sea, this was no more important than a grain of sand. After all, mused the professor, he could add it to his travel collection of shells, stones and mysterious objects from around the world. He relented.
“Only English money,” Dinegar said. “No rupees.”
“No problem, English money. Please, Sahib, buy,” Rani tapped his mouth and then patted his stomach, which looked as though it hadn’t been filled for a very long time.  This foreigner could not miss the message. Rani would do whatever it took to make his sale.    Dinegar took a shilling from his pocket and handed it to the boy.
“Good?” he inquired.
The answering smile of the boy made him think that he’d paid to much. No matter; the child had to be commended for his business sense.
“Good,” said Rani. “Brings luck. Luck good.
“Ah, I understand. This hand of Ganesha may change my fate for the better. Well I need that.” By now, Dinegar was surrounded by young boys, all of whom held bits and pieces of stone or brass, all of whom wanted a sale.
“No, money finished. Done. No.”
The small mob engulfed him, and Dinegar was forced to use his cane as a prod to make his way through the throng. He walked very briskly away from the shore, encouraged by the fact that a strolling couple, other British tourists, were nearing them. He hoped they would serve as a distraction while he made his escape.

ARUNDATI – A Novel In Progress

Tags

1940s, adoptee, adoption, Arundati, child adoptee, human trafficking, inspiriation, novel

ARUNDATI

The incoming tide delivered Arundati to the beach. Bruised, cold, and barely conscious, the child lay by smooth gray rocks, clumps of seaweed, shells and driftwood. In the half-light of late afternoon, she could make out only  dim shapes. When she tried to cry for help, a guttural sound came from deep within. She was too exhausted to form words.

Hindu God Ganesha

Arundati struggled to rise to her feet, collapsed, moaned. By now she was breathing with effort. From a distance she was indistinguishable from other sodden heaps of the ocean’s detritus. Closer inspection revealed an dark-skinned child. Tiny and delicate, she was clad in the shreds of a coarse muslin gown. She might have been five years old. It was hard to tell, as Indian children were much smaller than their counterparts in America or Europe. Waves lapped gently around the girl’s splayed arms and legs, revealing dark ugly bruises and dried blood from knife slashes. Apparently, her light brown skin had served as the canvas for a madman’s rage.

Floating, as if still in water, the child dreamed. It was the beginning of Holi, the festival of colors. She was her Mama and her Babu. They, along with aunties and uncles, were singing. Someone played a tambourine and shook bells.  She and her brother Shubi ran from tree to tree playing tag . Once you touched a tree’s bark, you were safe. If you got tagged before reaching the tree, you had to be the monkey with no home.

As the tide receded, the girl grew even colder. Shivering, she burrowed into the rocky sand, hoping for a bit of warmth. She had traveled a long way and would need many hours to regain her strength. Though she had been thrown into the ocean and presumed, dead by the shipmasters, Arundati somehow  lived. Night was falling.  She breathed in hungrily, filling her lungs with the damp, humid atmosphere of southern India, exhaling in raspy bursts. It would be a long night. Arundati prayed to Ganesha that it would not be her last…