Sumangali.org: In The Spirit Of Serendipity

Yesterday our dear family pet, Rosie, went back to Dog Heaven.

She was small even for a Miniature Dachshund, and her recent illness made her slighter still, but I cried myself to sleep last night to think I would never see that little bundle of fur again, chuckling intermittently at memories of our 14-year friendship as they bubbled into mind.

It seems strange to call her a pet, as she declared herself a family member at every opportunity. She had the stature of a young piglet, but either she did not realise the fact, or did not think it relevant. To her I’m sure she was not even a dog, but just a being like anyone else, it’s just that beings happen to come in all sorts of (immaterial) shapes and sizes.

When invited to play, by any species, she offered a look of acute disdain. Even in her childhood, games were far too puerile for her. There seemed always a lot to do in that little head, as if she bore a great responsibility, or yearned to solve an equation but only lacked the hands with which to hold chalk to a board. Often she would stare piercingly into one’s eyes and start to yowl, increasing in scale and fervour, almost shaping her lips into words, then growing gruff and exasperated that we did not understand the thing she urgently needed to explain.

Her stoicism championed her good qualities. She bore all pain silently, and recovered from even the severest peril immediately. She came back from so many scrapes and illnesses, we often thought she would outlive us all. Her leaving us at last is thus quite astonishing; one final reminder to us that she will do just as she pleases, and not what we dare to expect of her.

Her most famous recovery was when another dog chased her off a 300-foot Devonshire cliff. Hours later the coast guard went down on a rope. There she was amongst the rocks by the incoming tide, unconscious, assumed dead. Back at the top he opened the little bag with its limp cargo, but she duly thrust out her head, yelling and clamouring as if she had been robbed. We conjectured that she was in fact some sort of barking cat. That would account for her size and her nonchalance, as well as the nine or more lives she seemed to have spent up to that point.

To be fair she was a little wary of larger dogs (perhaps more so after the Cliff Incident), but would not let them get away without a reminder of exactly with whom they were sharing the road. She would brace her head down and trot past, often ducking behind our lumbering Retriever, then when the larger dog had passed (and most were larger), she would let out a steady stream of expletives in its direction. The target would gape back, completely disarmed, seemingly stunned out of its senses that such bravado could be delivered from so close to the ground.

I first saw her over the garden gate. There she was in the middle of the lawn, the size of a guinea pig, but with the presence and command of a grown Doberman. She was all puffed out chest, stocky shoulders, ears akimbo (and curled out at the ends like a 60s bob), liquid black eyes, marching up to me with not an inch of submissiveness or eagerness to please, but only “Behold. I am Rosie.” For me that first glimpse summed up her whole adorably outrageous existence, and that’s how I’ll remember her.

I am forever, forever thankful for the laughs she brought and the affection she showed. One had to learn her language to know what counted for affection (a sharp nip on the nose with a blast of camel breath, for example), but once her respect was earned, affection always followed, as did her loyalty.

More on my love of dogs at SriChinmoyCentre.org:

• Inspirational Dogs
• Puppy Powers
• Savernake
• The Guide Dog and her Man

I have always steered clear of the meme format for blog posts, as I considered it self-indulgent, but if a meme catches on, it ends up being more about other people than oneself, so here goes.

John Gillespie over at SensitivityToThings.com has started something with his finely crafted Six Childhood Facts post, and you can read a highly entertaining 6 from Pavitrata Taylor in From Out of the Ether a Golden Egg.

Just for fun I tried to think of a few, but only got to 5. If you think of some of your own, you can add them at the end of this post, or leave a link to a post on your own site. I realise now that the things one has grown up with, and which thus seem ‘normal’ can be amusing and interesting when viewed from adulthood, especially through the eyes of others.

If you’d rather skip the facts about me as a child, you can go straight to the dessert, a bonus feature: Age Does Not Matter. It doesn’t though does it, really?

Some Childhood Facts

1. Tutankhamun
   I would not say a word until I knew I could deliver it perfectly, so I spent most of my time silently listening, and the rest sounding like a 50s newsreader. My mother spoke to me constantly like a friend rather than a baby, so I randomly picked up long words which made me sound cleverer than I was. I nearly gave an old man a seizure in a Sussex railway station when, tottering in a knitted dress and lace-covered nappy, I pointed up at a poster for an exhibition in London and said “Tutankhamun” with newsreaderly gravity and archaeological grandeur.
2. Mastermind
   My mother and I used to be able to read each other’s minds, which might be why I have never really learned how to lie; there would have been no point. We used to play a game called Mastermind, where you have to guess the opponent’s choice of 4 coloured pegs, and the order in which they are placed. There were 6 different colours, and we used to play hardball in that one colour could be repeated up to 4 times. The games never lasted long, in fact they would often be over in one guess, but we used to play for hours.
3. Fillings
   I would eat only junk food after about the age of 9. I hated fruit and vegetables. I ate copious amounts of sweets every day but I was wraithly thin and I have still never had a filling in my teeth.
4. Cheese
   I became a vegetarian at age 13, due to my love of animals. It was rather alarming for my mother, especially as nourishing me was already so difficult, but she took it very well. In the early 80s it was not so easy to buy vegetarian food. Had I been from one of those grow-your-own-muesli, knit-your-own-yoghurt families it might have been easier, but I was not. Anyway, as I said, I would only eat junk food. In those days being vegetarian was all about cheese.
5. Magic
   I used to think I had magical powers because if I held one finger up to my eye I could see through it. It took me many years to work out that it is possible to look at one thing with one eye, and one with the other, so the two images are superimposed. Precocious in some fields; woefully retarded in others. (I’ve never told anybody about that).

Age Does Not Matter (A More Recent Anecdote)

“You wasn’t born in seventy.”

He was huge. Even his shining shaven head seemed muscular, his eyes steady and piercing like an archer’s. I was dried up and dizzy from flying all day, and then even my breath stopped. The hall echoed with an unreal uncomfortable sterility. His huge hand was on the precious little red book that has let me travel everywhere. The stare did not break. How would I prove that I am in that photo booth snap? It was all I had to show that I am me.

CHUG. The rubber stamp came down. He did not betray an ounce of mirth. But after half an instant, in which my world dissolved and hurriedly reconstituted itself, I realised he was making a joke for us both… and paying me a large compliment into the bargain. A joke and a compliment were yet more welcome in that lonely sterile world than they could have been in any other place, made funnier and kinder still by the deadpan delivery.

I yelped a strange laugh with what breath I could draw, and felt the immigration hall at JFK turn to look. Sudden sounds, especially merry ones, are not so common there. I stopped short of skipping my way to Baggage Claim.

If I didn’t seem like I was nearly thirty-seven, that is a victory for my meditation teacher, Sri Chinmoy.

Thirty-seven. I have to laugh. Other people laugh too, when I can remember (or work out) how old I really am. (Nearly 38 now!)

Yesterday I was remembering some of the “records” I used to listen to in my teens. Sometimes I do things like that just to amuse myself; it’s so staggeringly long ago it’s almost as if it must have happened to someone else. I daren’t show you a picture of me then, that would be too staggering. I look older than I do now, in fact I look older than I am now. I carried the weight of so many imagined worries.

It’s not that I don’t worry now, I do, but nowhere near as much. As the saying goes: You can’t push the river, it flows by itself. Meditating every day shows me that is so. I don’t care less; in fact by worrying less I have more with which to care.

As Sri Chinmoy says:

“Age does not matter,
Unless you replace
Your heart-light
With your mind-night.”
—Sri Chinmoy
(unofficial quote)

Age does not matter. Until his passing at age 76, Sri Chinmoy proved that to me. Through his life of meditation and self-transcendence he showed me that perhaps I am not as limited as I think. I hope to continue forgetting how old I really am. I hope to feel amused, rather than bound, if I do happen to remember, and grateful to Sri Chinmoy, especially if others find it funny too.

IMAGES:

• Portrait of Sri Chinmoy: courtesy of Pavitrata Taylor at Pavitrata.com
• Portrait of me age 7 (top): courtesy of my Mum
• Portrait of me, my Mum, Snoopy and Henry-the-dog: courtesy of my Mum

A Chicken and Egg Situation

I spent a while teaching English as a second language in Thailand many years ago, and had a splendid time. Not only did I find the language (especially the written characters) more beautiful than my own English equivalent; the culture, the etiquette, the people, the weather, the food, everything beguiled me and I felt entirely at home, as if remembering a Heaven where I once belonged. Maybe I’ll tell you more about it another time, but I will say two things for now:

1. My grasp of the Thai language extended barely beyond the basic pleasantries and the buying of food. This was mainly due to the importance of inflections and polite appendages, which English has no care for. The word “khai” could sound from me at random as the verb “to sell” or the noun “egg” or the noun “chicken” depending on its delivery. Vegetarian as I am, my linguistic state was precarious.
2. Explaining English to other people made me extremely glad that it is my first language, so I don’t have to struggle with its peculiarities from a text book or teacher. The more I explained, the more baffled I became by my own explanations, gradually realising that there are as many exceptions as rules. I was tempted to take the stance of Frenchman G. Nolst Trenité:

“Finally, which rhymes with enough —
Though, through, plough, or dough, or cough?
Hiccough has the sound of cup.
My advice is to give up!!!”
[source]

Image: Kedar Misani

Contextual Complexities

Learning our first language comes from constant immersion combined with dire necessity. We pick up meanings largely from the words’ environmental context, and grammar from their verbal context. This leaves us able to use a large number of words effectively but often only notionally; without really knowing their precise meaning, let alone their origin.

Words such as man, woman, cat and dog have not changed throughout the ages, but more complex phrases evolve relatively fast:

“…the phrase ‘willy nilly,’ which we now take to mean ‘any which way’ originally had a much different meaning. Willehe-nellehe was an Old English term meaning ‘whether he will or whether he won’t’ and implied someone doing something against their wishes — whether they wanted to or not. Over time this concept has been misinterpreted to the point where its meaning is entirely different. Extrapolate this example across the language and you get constant evolution.”
[source]

The speed and accuracy with which we pick up a language no doubt depends on many factors; partly environment/encouragement, partly our own propensity. Elizabeth Barrett (pictured) is one extraordinary example; something of an infant prodigy in the world of words, not just speaking but reading before she can walk. Elizabeth read her first word when she was 13 months old, from then devouring books with exceptional voracity. In her father’s words:

“I think she has some special abilities that have just been a fortunate thing she’s been born with.”

“This is something we never expected,” added his wife. “We didn’t teach her this. We don’t sit down and drill her on words. She loves reading books.”

[source]

Believing in reincarnation as I do, I can’t help wondering if such capacity is not only to do with nature and nurture, but past experience. Perhaps the name Elizabeth Barrett is a clue?

The Word Burglars

So the English language is as fond of breaking rules as it is of making them up as it goes along, it also is in a constant state of evolution because we don’t always really know what we mean when we speak it. Add to that the (disputable) fact that it has the largest vocabulary, and I am yet more glad I don’t have to learn it from scratch.

“The Oxford English Dictionary lists a total of 171,476 words with an additional 47,156 obsolete and 9,500 derivative words as subentries, giving almost a quarter of a million words in the English language, even when technical terms, place names and multiple word senses are excluded.”
[source]

But that includes all the words we’ve half-inched from other languages. So-called loanwords are “a consequence of cultural contact between two language communities”. As such contact will presumably only increase, so will our vocabulary.

So far we have taken ketchup from… Chinese (yep), gingham from the Pacific Islands (and I dread to think what we gave in return), Japanese gave us karaoke (whether we wanted it or not), American Indian gave us avocado and hurricane (a mixed blessing), African languages gave us jitterbugs and zombies (which we probably could manage without, but it’s the thought that counts), Arabic gave us caravan (thence all sorts of traffic problems during the British summertime), Hindi gave us bungalow and chintz (to be used sparingly, especially in a bungalow), German gave us poodle, noodle and apple strudel (enough said), Dutch gave us smuggle and freebooter (well, we stole them really), French gave us garage and sachet (which we’d struggle without), Italian gave us opera and umbrella (which we needed badly), Spanish gave us mosquito and tornado (which we didn’t). Shall I go on, or are we sufficiently incriminated?
[source]

Shakespearean Tragedy?

I’ve already briefly touched on the subject of poets adding to our lexicon in John Milton and the Origin of Space, but, says Stuart Waters, Shakespeare et al are doomed:

“There is no motive in this crime of the future, just an inevitability based on one undeniable fact. Language changes, and ironically, Shakespeare was himself perhaps the greatest ever at introducing new terms, concepts and metaphors into the language. The very craft he mastered will eventually consign his works to history.

“Technologically, the very nature of communication is changing on a daily basis and we are only at the beginning of this revolution. The internet, email and text messaging are tremendously fertile fields for the growth of new words and concepts and because this type of technology changes so quickly it is very difficult to see where it will take the language. On the one hand communication technology exerts pressure for language evolution, but on the other hand, it puts everyone in touch with everyone else, breaking down the barriers of distance and culture which traditionally fuel language change. What will be the outcome? Who can say.

“It is clear however that sooner or later the poetry and artistry of the Bard will be lost to all but historians of English, just as the works of Homer are unintelligible to modern Greeks.
[source]

Outcome 1: Pidgin

“What will be the outcome?” asks Waters. Well, Pidgin English is one (pidgin, not pigeon).

“A pidgin is a simplified language that develops as a means of communication between two or more groups that do not have a language in common, in situations such as trade. Pidgins are not the native language of any speech community, but are instead learned as second languages.
[source]

English may have the largest vocabulary. Its offspring, Pidgin English, claims to have the smallest, but is possibly yet trickier to learn. With just a few examples from the version spoken in Papua New Guinea, I am amply convinced of that, (although it does have logic, phonetic continuity, and absolute cuteness in its favour):

• television: bokis wailis wantem piksa
• corridor: ples wokabaut insait long haus
• antiseptic: marasin bilong kilim jem
• bathroom: rum bilong waswas

[source]

Outcome 2: LOLspeak

LOLspeak is born of our modern-day 24/7 culture where everyone is multi-tasking, communication is as urgently important as breathing, and everything is too much hassle to do properly or fully. Some familiar examples of LOLspeak are OMG (oh my God), BRB (be right back), and the eponymous LOL: laughing out loud, lots of love, or…

Depending on the chatter, its definition may vary. The list of its meanings includes, but is not limited to:
1) “I have nothing worthwhile to contribute to this conversation.”
2) “I’m too lazy to read what you just wrote so I’m typing something useless in hopes that you’ll think I’m still paying attention.”
3) “Your statement lacks even the vaguest trace of humor but I’ll pretend I’m amused.”
[source]

Does LOL mark the demise of the beautiful English language? IMHO, no. Whatever it signifies for humans, it is a mark of progress for all other species. If it counts for English, animals have finally started to speak, and even nuborned ones are typing their own messages on sites such as cuteoverload.com, ihasahotdog.com and icanhascheezburger.com (pictured). So LOL is progress. Officially.

(Ono! U meen dey don type teh msgs demself?? Srsly?).

Who Has The Largest Individual Vocabulary?

Whatever may happen in the future, regardless of species, who has the largest English vocabulary right now? This is not a straightforward question. Michael Quinion explains why:

“What we mean by word sounds obvious, but it’s not. Take a verb like climb. The rules of English allow you to generate the forms climbs, climbed, climbable, and climbing, the nouns climb and climber (and their plurals climbs and climbers), compounds such as climb-down and climbing frame, and phrasal verbs like climb on, climb over, and climb down. Now, here’s the question you’ve got to answer: are all these distinct words, or do you lump them all together under climb?

“The other difficult term is vocabulary. What counts as a word that somebody knows? Is it one that a person uses regularly and accurately? Or perhaps one that will be correctly recognised — say in written text — but not used? Or perhaps one that will be understood in context but which the person may not easily be able to define?
[source]

Of all the people I know, my meditation teacher Sri Chinmoy (pictured) definitely has the largest vocabulary, however it’s measured. Growing up in East Bengal, English was not his first language, but I regularly come across English words in his writings which I have never seen before. Take my favourite example: sesquipedalian (meaning a very long word).

Sri Chinmoy published almost 1600 books during his lifetime, including around 117,000 poems. Whatever happens to the English language; however it evolves, however it is used and misused, I will always relish it and cherish it, and I will always look to my teacher Sri Chinmoy for new words and new inspiration. It is not only his vast vocabulary, but the use of it which I love. He reminds me to stay in my heart, and to try to use whatever capacity I have for goodness. Although he passed away last year, and I still miss him dearly, he left behind the legacy of his writings for us all to enjoy forever. Read to your heart’s content for free at Sri Chinmoy Library!

“No more am I the foolish customer
Of a dry, sterile, intellectual breeze.
I shall buy only
The weaving visions of the emerald-Beyond.
My heart-tapestry
Shall capture the Himalayan Smiles
Of my Pilot Supreme.
In the burial of my sunken mind
Is the revival of my climbing heart.
In the burial of my deceased mind
Is the festival of my all-embracing life.”

—Sri Chinmoy (from The Dance of Life)

Image: Pavitrata Taylor

Old News: Gardening is In

Once again in the UK it has been suggested that we are behind the eco-friendly times, now caught red-faced and red-handed with basket-full of imported vegetables.

The production and transportation of food is responsible for 23% of our carbon footprint; above home energy, personal travel, and running shared services like hospitals and schools. [source]

China, Japan and Cuba are way ahead of us in their responsible actions, but being a tiny, densely populated island with horrible weather is no excuse, according to the more heroic amongst gardeners.

No, gardening, especially growing vegetables, is not just for your granddad, a left-over habit from the War. It’s possibly the coolest pastime of now. To be caught with compost under your fingernails and a faint whiff of Brussels sprouts, rather than an air-freighted fistful of Zimbabwean mangetout, may be your ticket to unimaginable kudos.

The Urban Farmer

Take Fritz Haeg for example. The architect and design academic, with exhibitions at the Tate Modern in London and Whitney Museum of American Art under his belt, chooses to spend his time on an inner-city council estate in south London with a trowel.

Last year Prime Minister Gordon Brown admitted “We need to make great changes in the way we organise food production in the next few years.” In his book Edible Estates, Haeg paves the way, urging you to dig up your front lawn for an “edible landscape”. Last year the Tate challenged him to make a permanent “edible estate” in the concrete metropolis known as Elephant and Castle.

The grass plot, previously used as a playground for drunks and dogs, was transformed into a paradise of fruit trees, tomato plants, aubergines, squashes, green vegetables, herbs and edible flowers. With a design based on ornate flower beds at Buckingham Palace, it not only looks beautiful, but no doubt smells a lot better than it used to.

Amazingly, although the plot is accessible to the public, no theft or vandalism has been witnessed. It’s not just venerable pensioners who are turning out to help; most of the volunteers are children and teens. Carole Wright, who manages the garden designed by Haeg, notes the project’s social benefits:

“People who have not spoken for five years are suddenly chatting again, discussing what they’ve grown. And it brings together people from different cultures too – they lean over the fence and reminisce about the vegetables they grew in their countries as children – okra, bananas, yams, sweet potatoes.”

[source]

The Guerrilla Gardener

The British government is not always so supportive of gardening. The intrepid Richard Reynolds (a resident of… Elephant & Castle) just grows ever stealthier in his undercover missions to bring blossoming beauty to public areas neglected by the council.

The council says it’s against the rules, the police say it’s committing criminal damage, and warrants arrest, but the Guerrilla Gardener is undeterred. Relying on donations of overgrown house-plants, seeds in the post, and whatever he can appropriate from his mum’s garden, Reynolds is on a crusade: not to feed the world so much as make it more beautiful.

And that’s a crime?

“I’d rather the council did things I can’t do, like fix the lifts. I’d rather do the gardening myself. I’m not an eco-warrior, I just like nice gardens and want to be left alone to garden peacefully. There’s no sadder sight than a paved-over front garden.

“Why spend so much effort cultivating your back garden when no one but you can see it? So many people live in big cities and don’t have land of their own, but that doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be able to garden.

[source]

Pigs May Fly

For Toronto Scientist Gordon Graff, urban gardening is not just pie in the sky. His 58-floor SkyFarm concept is designed to provide food for 35,000 people per day.

The trouble with growing crops on the roof (well, the main one at least) is the weight of the soil used in traditional methods. The plan here is to use a “hydroponic” irrigation system, where nutrient-rich water is recycled through the building. One added bonus is that a lot of diseases thrive on soil, so without it chemical pesticides are no longer needed.

There are rumours that a similar building in Las Vegas would also house not only crops, but pigs. I’m sure much stranger things have happened in Vegas, so I’m ready to believe it. [source]

Further Reading

• The Guerrilla Gardening offical website: see how you can fight the filth in your area… if you dare.
• For all the latest gen on gardening check out Gardenerstips.co.uk
  (“What a great logo!” I hear you cry, “They surely must have got it from Pure Web Designs!” )