That "solitary" seeming soul who actually is always in conversation with his inner voice. That "introvert" who is continuously preparing for that extrovert disclosure. That "friendless" (How many can be reached out by his standards? Where is the time?) looking individual who extends a friendly hand in our loneliness. That "brooding" being suggesting us ways of living a brood-free life. That creature who dies a million times before striking the gold of the quintessence of life.

It is not easy to be a writer. If you ask a writer how he wrote a certain piece he would never be able to tell. Or if you ask any artist that question for that matter chances are bleak that you would get a reasonable answer. To put it in simple terms there is one thing that made them what they are and that is their persistent pursuit of their interests. They just fell in love with their work. Pure unconditional love. And when that happens, that is when their love reciprocates. For a spectator he seems to be a solitary-introverted-brooding-friendless magician but HE up there knows that he is in love. With his work. Always with a companion, never fearing its loss.

We all have a companion like that somewhere in us. Before it gets really late we need to divulge him out. CHASE him this Valentine. Before you know it you could have that glint of a lover in your eyes.

With love,
Manjit

⁽⁰⁾

The novel begins with the author in her early 20’s settling in an old-fashioned derelict farmhouse near a village called Alderney in Grey County, Ontario with her husband, “the careful guardians of a property that dreams are made on.” She names it Lambsquarters because the “land here was destined for sheep. . . (t)he barn, housing mothers and babes in a giant nursery, fills with the sweet bleats of lambkins. Mothering-up pens rang in perfect order against the walls. A woolly barracks. Lamb’s quarters.”

Her husband, fresh out of medical school is keen to start a country practice and is an instant hit. While he remains serving the patients in the community, we stay at the farm with Barbara right from the day she starts to renovate it, to her first pet sheep, encounters with a snake, a turtle, a fox, a raccoon or her introduction to various farming tools and terms like crowbar, hay cutter, shovel, trowel, shearing, spinning, stiles or poultry podiatry. Wordsworth seems to be lurking in the content as we witness nature and the writer always in tandem, exclusive of the difference of genre.

Mothering ad Birthing becomes the leitmotif and McLean gives extended descriptions on the subject. Herself a good nurturer, she venerates the same in her world of farm and takes pleasure in watching the marvel of birthing in her fauna, be it her sheep, hens and bluebirds; (herself?) or even the soil itself, mothering and nurturing the bounty of produce.

It would not be far fetched to perceive McLean’s work along the lines of Julia Kristeva’s psychoanalytic theory of an embrace of motherhood as the model for psychic health. She believes that, ‘”A mother is a continuous separation, a division of the very flesh.” The experience of giving birth paradoxically “wounds but increases” with “the calm of another life, the life of that other who wends his way while I remain henceforth like a framework”.’(Handbook of Critical Approaches, 205)

How paradoxical! How Cyclical!

We come out of the writer’s farm not devoid of the perspicacity of these lessons. As she articulates: “So much of what I do here is contradictory. Sheltering and slaughtering. Planting and harvesting. Conservation and consumption. Solitude and community. But perhaps that’s exactly what this life is, a delicate balance of disparate and warring concepts, brief moments of harmony in the dissonance of nature and culture.”
And again,
“The mosquitoes’ life cycle: from swamp to us to swamp. The farm’s life cycle: from spring through winter to spring. Our life cycle: from child-free to parents—of newborns through youth—from peace through trauma to planting to harvest. And all over again. And again.”

The all known themes, but not once wearing out or losing charm. The book makes a good reading not only for a literatus but also a neophyte in farming who would want to reconnect to the roots. And McLean addresses both the readers incredibly well.

Lambsquarters
Scenes from a Handmade Life
Barbara McLean
Random House
Hardbound, 2002, CAN $ 32.95, Pages 297

About the Author
Barbara McLean holds a Ph.D. in English literature, which she acquired while she and her husband, a country doctor, were running Lambsquarters and raising their two children.

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Historically, Valentine's Day has roots in the Roman Catholic Christian tradition in which three saints named Valentine or Valentinus, all of them martyred, are related to this occasion. One story dates back to the Roman Emperor Claudius II who ordered the discontinuation of marriage which was threatening to scale back his military enlistment.

Even though it is not sure which story is more authentic yet its import cannot be ignored. Valentine's Day has become a permanent fixture in our psyche and it inspires heroic, romantic ideas and ideals. Seeking love is a consuming passion for everybody: we hanker for it, pursue it, and obsess with it and sometimes when our intentions are subverted we do exactly the opposite of what love is all about. In a jiffy, our professed love turns into a paroxysm of hatred and violence.

In a society where love despite being the number one obsession among the young and old alike, is not such a thing you can get in plenty, it is imperative to ask as to why love being so rudimentary and basic, keeps on eluding us? And when I say so, I do not mean the number of "I love you" you have been cooed in your life time. I am referring to the profundity of love which does not need any language-the one which quenches your existential thirst. It is the sort of love which infuses an extra gung-ho into life and makes us appreciate the sacredness of this existence. But given the increasing preponderance of violence, exploitative mentality, wars and lack of acceptance in our world, it seems that even though we are trying head over heels to be lovable or loving yet we are sinking into that bleak situation of lovelessness.

Are we doing something wrong? Surely I would like to think that.

We live in a commercialized world where almost everything is for sale and love is no exception. When we come to think of love as 'something' which can be possessed just like cars or material richness, we commoditize it. We make it look like another object on the market which can be possessed if we pursue it appropriately. Osho called this type of love as object-based or mind-based, where a boy falls in love with a girl because of her beautiful face and voluptuous body and a girl falls in love with a boy because of his handsomeness, hefty salary, a prestigious profession or a big house. Love, then, becomes nothing more than a thing or an object.

But the problem with this kind of love is that you can always find better a object next time you look on a street: there are always more beautiful faces and bigger houses around the corner. We usually do not fall in love with the person but with a 'constructed idea' of love which our mind provides us. But mind is notorious and changes so readily with the influx of new information-it thrives in a comparative and referential environment. This mental-flux keeps us on tenterhooks. That is why mind begins to wander the moment you look at a more beautiful face or a more successful person. Over and again, we fall for our "concept of love" rather than "love" per se, and that is what is wrong with the whole idea of love.

Roses and greeting cards do not create love; they are just carriers or messengers. Without the soulfulness of love, they are just objects, nothing more than bricks. Regardless of what the commercial world says, love cannot be bought or pursued; it is something that "happens" when you open your heart and make "yourself worthy of it".

And when you become worthy of it, love will find you! Just as the Sufi poet Hafiz says:

Even after all this time
The sun never says to the earth,
"You owe Me."

Look what happens with
A love like that,
It lights the Whole Sky.

Happy Valentine's Day!

⁽²⁾

in life of trees
and sun

yielding to abandon

Escape
in flight from the world
another tender leaf
tumbling into churning rapids
where the grey clouds
blend lightly into the blue of the sky
and ants
crawl up and down
my body
a decomposing log or protrusion of rock.
i mistake the howl of soaring planes
for the thunder of an imminent storm
or the sound of contorted tree roots
cracking their boulder homes
out here
home
in the world.

Anthony Kupferschmidt is a student in the Department of Gerontology, McMaster University, Hamilton, Canada.

⁽⁰⁾

Born on December 7, 1918 Helen lived up on the mountain of Hamilton (Ontario, Canada) all her life. Her first husband, an alcoholic, died when she was only forty. Ten years later she was remarried but lost her husband again who died of a stroke. She had one brother and sister and both of them, including her mother died of cancer.

Trained for an office position, after high school until about age 65 she was in a secretarial job which she enjoyed thoroughly but dejected and grim after the loss of so many of her family members she was wondering what to make of the so called future. So she went on to see her doctor, Mr. O’ Sullivan who inspired her to go on in life. She had worked all her life, tended to her family but now was the time to think about a different and interesting pastime. That is when she walked up to the nearby Senior’s Center which was the perfect choice and “salvation” according to her. She started exercise classes, tap dancing and Hawaiian dance.

Unfortunately soon she got a pinch nerve in the back due to which her doctor advised her to stop dance classes immediately. Just as luck would have it, McMaster University called the Senior’s Center looking for an appropriate candidate for the position of a Senior Class Assistant. Helen responded and got the job. Ever since she has been working in the same position in the Department of Gerontology and the current year is the 14th one going. But she did not stop exercising altogether. Now days she has taken to easy chair exercises at the same Senior Center.

Still in good shape, Helen insists she never went on any kind of weight loss diet. Fond of chicken and hamburgers, she eats meat, lots of fresh vegetable and fruit and is a regular at Swiss Chalet and Tim Horton’s; the secret is, she never overdoes her meals.

Helen’s "memory" is remarkable which can be derived from the fact that she is an active member and actor of the group called ‘Autumn Leaves’ that is directed towards staging humorous skits at various Senior’s Centers around the province. She is also tied to Mohawk College where she is the member of ‘Studies in Aging Advisory Committee’ that look into the current issues related to the Senior citizens.

She prays twice a day and enjoys the simple joys of life like watching her grand children develop and grow. She is also a big fan of Lawn Tennis and American Politics (because it is more exciting!). Reminiscing the good old days, she feels glad that she is “not raising a family today”.

Life as she would sum up:
“You get out of life what you put into it [do not] sit back and bemoan”. “I don’t think there is ever perfection in life”.

Recommendation for fellow seniors:
“Stay active and enjoy what you are doing”.

Message to the younger generation:
“Keep going strong, taking one day at a time”.

When you look at Helen at 86 years of age today you begin to believe that old age is a myth and it’s all in the mind after all.

Stay healthy, have a healthy/constructive preoccupation and stay young!

⁽¹⁾

If God spoke to a man in the deserts of Arabia two thousand years ago, He can also speak to me today, else how can I know that He has not died? Come to God any way you can; only come. But in coming do not push anyone down.
—Swami Vivekananda.

Sitting silently
Doing nothing
Spring comes
And the grass grows by itself.
—A Zen Haiku

His compassion is beyond all description.
The Lord’s gifts are so great He expects nothing in return.
However great a hero or warrior, man keeps on begging.
It is difficult to conceive the countless numbers who go on asking.
They indulge themselves in desires and dissipate their lives.
—Guru Nanak.

Till man destroys “self’ he is no true friend of God.
—Rumi.

If you listen to me, you will know what is right, just and fair. You will know what you should do. You will become wise and your knowledge will give you pleasure.
—The Book of Proverbs.

In trying to practice religion, eighty percent of people turn cheats and about fifteen percent go mad; only the remaining five percent attain the immediate knowledge of the infinite Truth.
—Swami Vivekananda.

⁽⁰⁾

2. Blatant
a) Depressing
b) Futile
c) conspicuous
d) Tardy

3. Kudos
a) Disgrace
b) Honor
c) Hat
d) A Manner of speech

4. Deleterious
a) Beneficial
b) Annoying
c) Harmful
d) Noteworthy

5. Febrile
a) Nervous
b) Feverish
c) Chilly
d) Temperature

6. Jamboree
a) A small gathering
b) A large gathering
c) A Village fair
d) A city club

7. Defer
a) To put off
b) In respect of
c) In consequence of
d) Equal

8. Foible
a) A deceptive scheme
b) Fickleness
c) An incredible story
d) An ornament

9. Janus-faced
a) Unreliable
b) Active
c) Belligerent
d) Two-faced

10. Simulacrum
a) Authentic
b) A pair of tools
c) A see-saw
d) Superficial likeness

----------------------------------------

Answers:
1. (b) 2. (c) 3. (b) 4. (c) 5 (b) 6 (b) 7 (a) 8 (a) 9. (d) 10 (d)

Your Score:
8-10 Excellent
5-7 Good
1-4 Needs improvement

⁽⁰⁾

I had slowly lost respect for such events. I was still in that age where I considered myself morally correct while choosing my actions more to please others, than following my own conscience.

Meanwhile, I received a letter from my father who was working in another town: "Dear Son, the moment of retirement is simultaneously filled with pride and gloom. One is not only waiting for an overdue relief from the daily workload but also scared of parting from a major chunk of one's life. This is the job which gave your mother the strength to face difficult circumstances and raise three children on her own as I had to support my own parents, brothers and sisters. Your mother would really need you at such a juncture. In my absence, you must be with her."

I was thinking, while accompanying my mother to her last day at school: "Isn't it good that she is retiring? A long difficult life has virtually destroyed her physically with severe osteoarthritis and hypertension. That is why she refused the position of Principalship ten years ago. She has fallen from the rickshaw four times in last six years. The rickshaw puller, physically maneuvering this three wheeled open air structure hardly cares about the pits and bumps on the roads; his sole motive being getting the next customer in the shortest possible time." The forwardly bent rickshaw seats with no lateral support to hold are so high that a short-statured person like my mother is literally holding on to her life. I have not seen anyone change the structure of the rickshaw in the last thirty years. Those who construct rickshaws are rich enough, never having to take a ride on this cheap mode of transportation meant only for the common people. I have seen even strong young men fall from rickshaws and then taking a hitch in the same rickshaw to the nearest doctor."

I was thinking: "Twice she suffered such severe head injuries that now her hearing capability is reduced to one tenth. Since last year, even the ear aid is not much of a help. We try to make her understand by gestures or by writing. It is like disrespect to the person who all along had a sound hearing sense. Suddenly you are rendered incomplete and inferior and a lesser human being. Compassion from others is a kind gesture, but not a true substitute for one's sense of equality in terms of healthy faculties. One can best relate to others only when one feels equal in every sense. Of late, mother has started keeping her thoughts and emotions to herself. The resulting stress has made her hypertensive which has further depleted her hearing. She is now less logical in conversation, often misunderstands our gestures, and loses temper easily. We try to be patient but the everyday struggle of life has taken a toll on everyone?s reserve. The reserve within us which we usually have for others is now consumed by our own survival during the day. If we lose temper she feels even more cornered and handicapped."

Thoughts in my mind were flowing like a downhill stream: "I was wondering, how she related to her students and colleagues? How she communicated in meetings? I never heard any complaint though, in all these years, except one by my mother?s elder brother. To pressurize his sister for settling a property dispute illegally in his favor, he made a fake complaint about her hearing handicap and urged the authorities to dismiss her.

When we reached the school, my mother?s colleagues met us with an unexpected fervor. "Do you know that this is the biggest gathering ever in our block to send off a colleague?", they told me. They were true. I had never seen such a big gathering for a send off party at my University, which had fifty times more faculty members.

"Why?" I was curious.

"Because your mother has set the record of the longest uninterrupted school job in the state-forty three years! You should be proud of her!"

I was caught napping, I felt.

The ceremony began. In the beginning, the District Education Officer honored my mother. The first one to speak was the school Principal: "When it is still a time for children to play and dream, this lady who was a girl, yet to complete fifteen years, started earning and supporting her poor parents, who had to migrate due to the partition of our country having left everything behind. The years took their toll physically and emotionally. During the last ten years, it was hard for her to walk because of bad joints. She would come in her class in the morning, and leave only when the last bell rang. She would have her lunch sitting at the same place. For the last few years, her hearing got significantly impaired. In response, she virtually reduced her social life with colleagues to a minimum. She was not unsocial. She would continuously sit in the class, and go on teaching her students. She once told me, "Though I cannot hear them well, at least they can hear me. If I go on teaching, some of it will certainly stay with them?. She gave the best and maximum of her time and attention to her students and her duty. She would be the first one to complete all her records, registers, and marking of examination copies. There were others, including me, in the same school who were physically far more capable than her, but far less efficient. This lady used her handicap as her biggest strength. She used her weakness in favor of her students. Do you know that the students, who are so fond of talking and making noise at the drop of hat, making life hell for other teachers who could hear so well, would stay silent in her class? They would regard her immensely for what she gave them. This woman, whom you might think ok having only half her organs, half her strength, was the hardest working and the best teacher I ever saw in all the years of my service."

The principal was speaking. I did not realize when I stopped listening and was lost in my own thoughts: "How little I knew my own mother? There was a significant and large part of her life which I was totally unaware about. I considered her dedication for her work as a mere routine for earning money. I only saw a tired, helpless, and physically ill woman in her late fifties, who repeatedly threw tempers and was incapable of living and enjoying life properly. How far away I was from the truth? We know only part of the truth and superimpose the same on the entire picture, claiming its authenticity, as if we have "seen" it. Do we really "see"? I asked myself."

"For most of us, if not all of us, parents are two individuals who provide us with sustenance, assert undue authority, unnecessarily remind us of our duties, burden us with their responsibility when they grow old, interfere in our personal lives full of old values, unaware of the frontiers of modern life and the ones who absolutely do not know us, our desires, ambitions, problems and capabilities. In harsh moments, we even think that we are a product of their accidental physical interaction; for sure they never wanted us in the first place. A part of this picture might be true. But once again, we superimpose this part on the entire canvas."

I asked myself: "how many times did I think that the life of my parents was a battlefield where they fought valiantly and uninterruptedly for years, like unheard and unseen warriors, unrecognized by those very people for whom they fought for during their combined survival. How many defeats and betrayals, disease and deaths, hungry days and unslept nights and physical as well as emotional accidents compiled this struggle? I only understand their restrictions but I rarely ask for the wisdom behind these. If they do not understand my modern life, how many times do I try to live back the times they had to actually live in? Even if we were born by an accident, they did not discard us to the ruthlessness of life. They at least accompany us to a point beyond which we can reconstruct our life the way we want. It is true they were probably not perfect people. But am I perfect?"

It seemed to me: "Those who give birth, and those who are born, meet each other in the circles named as mother, father, son or daughter. As if we have come from different planets, just because we are not living in the same time zone inside us. For parents, the child never "grows up" to them and for the child, parents never "grow up" to his times and needs. For a large number of parents, a child is a responsibility who in Indian conditions, is supposed to take over their responsibility when they would grow old. The whole relationship keeps revolving around responsibility, whose centrifugal force blows away a large part of the mutual affection and joy of being together. How shocking it is and how impossible it seems, to live with someone for decades under the same roof and yet not know them? As if the root and the leaf of the same plant did not recognize each other."

My thoughts were interrupted. The principal was inviting me to the stage and share my feeling about this day and my mother.

I started to speak: "I am thankful to you not just for inviting me, but also for letting me see and meet my own mother like never before. I know that my mother often thinks that I am far more educated than her having become a veterinarian, having obtained a degree from Canada which she has only seen on the map, having seen five countries and flown over two seas on an airplane which she has never even seen from close, and having learnt to speak fluent English with well dressed people. I wonder if I make her feel small with the fact that I teach in a University while she is only retiring from a primary school. My mother does think that I have grown taller than her. However, the truth is that I have not even grown closer to her knees because even after receiving three degrees, roaming about in a few countries and reading a lot of books, I still don't have the courage to speak and stand by the truth in a way my old, tired and far less educated mother can do. It will take me an age and may be few lives to be able to do that. I am still too far behind her, too small compared to her."

I grew silent as I could not speak more. I looked at my mother to see if my emotion reached her, if she knew how I see her now.

She was sitting silent and tranquil. Looking in the space, far away from me. The dimensionless space, perhaps as deep and wide as the lonely universe inside her.

I was standing too far from her, her hearing aid would not help from this distance.

She had not heard anything.

Dr Sukhpal Singh has a Doctorate in Veterinary Sciences from the University of Guelph, Ontario, Canada and is now a Lecturer in the University of Saskatchewan, Saskatoon. He published his first collection of poetry in Punjabi transliterated as And Silently Came Spring.

⁽¹⁾