Sumangali.org: In The Spirit Of Serendipity

Chinese Recollections: Strolling and Standing

Most urban Chinese appear to live in fairly cramped conditions, so they are very inventive when it comes to using public space for daily activities. The side of a busy dual carriageway serves as a fine arena for Tai Chi practice. It’s perfectly acceptable to hang clothes to dry wherever there is space; any flat wall on a roadside is likely to have a line tacked on to it from which to hang pyjamas and suchlike. High-rise blocks are a patchwork of colour; verandas crammed, layer upon layer, with flags of laundry.

The public park almost reaches saturation point by 7am. A dark tangle of bicycles forms a complex unintentional sculpture at the entrance. Three long stone hoops create a gateway, each hoop crested by curled green tiers of roof tiles. As if locked in some darkened oil painting, clusters of Mahjong players converge on stone tables. Smoke hangs like carded wool between them and the awning of trees above. Some practise Tai Chi alone; others form groups. I am mesmerised. They move as one body, so they are acutely conscious of one another, yet their faces betray only an inner awareness. Each face is devoid of expression, basking in the serenity of concentration. Tiny children stump around with overflowing energy as they do anywhere in the world. They are perfect models of charm; fine porcelain faces touched with bloom. Nothing seems to be used as an excuse for inactivity. Even the most wizened are out shuffling or stretching with what vigour they have at their disposal, however limited that may be.

I continue to the vast, placid scenes of a botanical garden. In the damp breath of morning huge rounded rocks adorn the edges of a lake. Through mist an ornate summerhouse, open to all sides, juts out into the depths. All thoughts are suddenly hijacked by its classical splendour. Trees reflect their softened versions in the water; I reflect on a life composed of love and beauty. Within that stunned silence there is space for a fount of gratitude. A steep hill behind invites me to a higher viewpoint. I accept, and climb. Many others are climbing too, so perhaps there is a destination. Perhaps mine is not the same as theirs though. The road winds and splits, winds and splits again. Town looks toy-like; tall buildings rendered squat. The road twists and splits again. Youths are calling to one another from craggy peaks, voices echoing eerily in the gorge below. I pass an elderly lady under a tree… then for a moment there is only me.

The sun stretches warm fingers out to me through a haze broken by branches. There is a tangible stillness beyond the mere lack of movement: a living stillness. Bags of sand and cement are propped against trees. Then I see why: ahead is a bridge of white stone — so new one would think nobody had ever set foot on it. With soft, reverent steps I reach its centre and look sunward. In an envelope of clarity that brief moment sets me alone with God, and it all makes sense.

Images by Kedar Misani at Sri Chinmoy Centre Gallery

Chinese Recollections: Writing and Painting

The forms of any written Chinese characters are exquisite — on rusty signs, tea packets or even just as graffiti. I came across a bamboo thicket rich in poetic beauty. On closer inspection I was transfixed; each stem was completely covered in characters, carved into the green skin to reveal yellow. I was glad not to know what it all meant - to be able to see it not as defacement but as ornate and intricate decoration. The hotel elevator takes an age, and I am not yet used to the gentle pace of life. Luckily there are several paintings on each floor to help pass the time as I wait. I am told a Chinese painter or calligrapher must grind ink in a stone following the line of eight hundred figures of eight before marking the paper. Only then will the mind be fully cleared of thought; allowing the artist to create dynamic, authentic strokes. The result is a fluid, bold, fast expression of form. With just a few curves a blossom clings to a stem or a crane takes flight.

An hour can easily be lost in perusing works of art in the shop next door. I hear a crackle and a hum as the strip lights are illuminated. A Pekinese puppy crouches and attempts to ward me off with a snuffling grunt that is presumably his best menacing bark. I mimic his stance, chuckling in appreciation of his boldness, and offer my open hand in friendship. He coils away in a silken ball, but then lunges forward to plant a full sneeze in my face. This marks his acceptance of me as a potential patron, and I am allowed onto the premises. Three groups of girls are scattered around absorbed in card games and animated discussion. Two men talk in more serious, muted tones. From a carved table in a haze of cigarette smoke they slurp tea from wide ceramic thimbles. Piles upon piles of living masterpieces drape the walls. A handful of black strokes link loosely together to shape a wriggling shrimp; a blotted green stain forms an icy body of water, bursting into torrents as a waterfall; muscular carp flex between weeds in a carnival of colour. I am lost in admiration.

I find my shopping trip doubling as useful research on my return to the hotel. Someone has found for a particular event an enormous scroll depicting a mountainous winter landscape.

“Can you turn this into a spring scene?” she asks me, “It’s a little bleak.”

I seem to learn more about the Chinese people whilst shut away in my room than whilst in their company. The eight-foot by four-foot scroll unfurls to take up all available space and I have no choice but to be completely immersed in it. There is no grinding of ink eight hundred times as a prelude I must admit; my preparation consists of a prayer fervent enough to swiftly clear the mind of thought! Initially I feel a fraud – people spend decades learning this technique, then along I come to edit a masterpiece. How ironic. Practising on scrap paper for a while though I realise that hesitation just doesn’t wash with this style of painting. Conversely, just about any intelligent, confident stroke cannot look “wrong,” (at least not to my untrained eye). A metaphor for life perhaps? Further preparation suddenly seems like procrastination; I look into the scene and identify with its life and space. In less than an hour the trees are heavy with open blossom and the water is flowing and vibrant. Through this priceless experience I understand more of how the energy and confidence so evident in China can harness truly authentic creative freshness.

Images by Kedar Misani at Sri Chinmoy Centre Gallery

Chinese Recollections: Talking and Eating

Someone small and lively is vacuuming the hall carpet outside my room in a bright green skirt suit and high heels.

“Nihau!” sparkles generously from her smile.

“Nihau!” I delightedly respond.

I know only two Chinese expressions — hello and thank you — but amongst such openhearted people, all sorts of friends can be made with just those two.

Conversely, the simplest transaction can turn into a game of charades. I recall trying to order bottled water in a restaurant and ending up firstly with a tube of dried Parmesan cheese, and on the second attempt with a teapot of hot water poured ceremoniously into a wine glass. For me to be in a country where it is virtually impossible to communicate in English helps counter my linguistic complacency, and provides me with a chance to develop more lateral thinking. There are very few English characters written anywhere, and only a small percentage of them form words that make any sense. I find the creative translations and misspellings endearing because they are so confidently presented.

It pays to be careful not only when choosing what to eat, but also where to tread when walking alongside a street. Any crooked paving slab can serve as a miniature fish market or some other terrestrial stall. A missed footing may cost you a week’s supply of raw bean curd, or a kilo of monkey nuts. Mostly the wares are recognisable as food, but are often either dried or fried beyond more specific recognition, or would not be recognisable to my western eye even in their natural form. Everywhere the smell of burning garlic, deep-frying, and pungent herbs. Everywhere the tiny figures of mobile greengrocers bent under the weight of thick bamboo canes - a brimming basket balanced at either end. A breath-taking spectacle is the fruit vendor’s cart: abundance as I have never seen it. Every colour and shape seems represented in its most perfect God-ordained form, in a bountiful, mouth-watering cascade.

Images by Kedar Misani at Sri Chinmoy Centre Gallery

Chinese Recollections: Dignity and Poise

Across the road from the hotel, beside the rubble of abandoned demolition, sits a tiny cave-like shop selling more things than would seem possible in such a small space. It is immersed in the fumes of traffic and sewage, and thick dust blows up from the potholes when motorcycles bolt past. The shopkeeper greets me with the noble eyes of a good king, and the serene smile of a saint. His riches are not the broom handles or tea cartons that surround him, but poise, courtesy, carefulness, and kindness. I relish my daily visit, observing him with fascination. He is a portrait of rare dignity. Returning my look with a cavernous depth, he smiles as if from his whole being.

I revisit that smile in my mind’s eye time and time again. It reminds me that although a slave may possibly be stripped of dignity, a servant’s dignity can easily exceed that of the one whom he serves.

That dignity seems evident to some extent in everyone I see in China. I realise I am purposely searching for someone displaying any hint of anxiety or self-consciousness. There is no sign of either affliction! Neither is there much sign of overt spirituality, but it’s as if people carry an invisible temple within them. They seem somehow aware of themselves in a way I have not seen anywhere else in the world. Ancient wisdom sits beneath youthful, forward-looking openness.

The most fitting word I can find to describe the cultural atmosphere is “auspicious.” Every action follows a kind of stately confidence and measured deliberation. There is symbolism in every colour and form. The corners of buildings are even rounded so as not to block subtle energy. From the character on a hanging lantern, to the positioning of a charm, to the assumption of a Tai Chi pose, or the pouring of tea, everything carries a significance hidden beyond the veneer of outer appearance.

Along the waters of a small port, row upon row of fishing boats butt against one another. The archetypal pirate ship must have been born somewhere in these ranks. Dark flags point out above turned wooden railings, perched along blunt, formidable bows. Families wearing contented smiles move slowly and talk loudly, peering out at me from behind piles of netting. A child of four or five pushes out from her floating home, poised on a square raft, paddling with a long plastic spoon. She drifts further and further away, not looking behind her, but singing cheerfully to herself; absorbed in her journey. On reaching the boundaries of comfortable distance, she drops into the water, swimming smoothly back home with a bright grin and the raft in tow.

Images by Kedar Misani at Sri Chinmoy Centre Gallery

Behind every great woman

They say that behind every great man there has to be a great woman, but behind a great woman? They do not mention. Perhaps we should look down toward the hearth. Shaggy Muses, by Maureen Adams, is a heartful tribute to the dogs who unknowingly, and unconditionally inspired five iconic female writers: Emily Brontë, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Edith Wharton, Emily Dickinson and Virginia Woolf.

I suppose there are dog-lovers in all walks of life. So, what makes this connection interesting, or is it just a coincidence? Having read to the end, I see that the dogs—differing vastly in breed, breeding, size and temperament—played differing roles in the lives of each woman, but there are themes in these interspecies bonds too strikingly similar to be coincidental. That makes for a fascinating read, but the dogs themselves make it heart-wrenchingly un-put-downable (for this dog-lover at least).

Sadly all women had one clear thing in common: traumatic lives. That is a well-trod path for writers in general; not so much in terms of life’s challenging events per se, but the heightened sensitivity and emotionality of creative people leaves them ill-equipped for bereavements, illnesses, emotional or physical abuse, the sheer overwhelming nature of creative output itself, and in many cases everyday life in general. In each of these five cases the dog (or dogs) had a soothing and joyful influence, keeping the writer grounded, as well as offering empathy, employing that other-worldly sixth-sensitivity which is the hallmark of their species.

Virginia Woolf

Virginia Woolf (pictured on the front cover), the most tragic of all, maintained humour in her letters about dogs and their refreshingly earthly simplicity. But she had no qualms about referring to their spiritual qualities either. It seemed both were equally essential to her, making her literally inseparable from them:

“Out after lunch with Gurth to … the Joachim concert at the Bechstein Hall, where Gurth accompanied a … song with a voluntary bass of his own composition & I had to remove him in haste.”

“I took Max along the River, but we were a good deal impeded, by a bone he stole, by my suspenders coming down, by a dogfight in which his ear was torn & bled horribly. I thought how happy I was without any of the excitements, which, once, seemed to me to constitute happiness.”

“And the truth is, one can’t write directly about the soul. Looked at it vanishes; but look at the ceiling , at Grizzle … and the soul slips in.”

“Your puppy has destroyed, by eating holes, my skirt, ate L’s proofs, and done such damage as could be done to the carpet—But she is an angel of light. Leonard says seriously she makes him believe in God…”

In one passage Virginia hits the cornerstone of what it is to be a writer, which may further explain why a writer may be willing to overlook the less desirable canine traits to behold the more refined and inspirational:

“Why does my spaniel jump onto chairs when she is dripping from a swim in the river? The answer is that instead of controlling life … we writers merely contemplate it.”

Edith Wharton

I say the most tragic of all was Virginia Woolf, but I felt sorriest of all for Edith Wharton. Who would be born to a wealthy family in Victorian times? Denied the privilege of reading novels until after she was married, the awkward seventeen-year-old was primped and primed as a debutante, a husband being the only seemly occupation for a young lady of her era.

The young Edith was certainly forbidden from writing novels; imagination could not be a helpful quality for a wife to possess, and as for self-expression, well! In a world where every daily act and duty followed strict rules of propriety, what place could there be for spontaneity or spirit? As a child she begged the servants to save oddments of brown wrapping paper from any parcels delivered to the house. Crouching on the floor, she wrote on them her first secret stories.

She did marry an eligible and affable chap in the end, but he suffered a hereditary form of insanity, which came on soon after. Although she devotedly nursed him and encouraged him, he did not improve, and became too dangerous to be alone with, so Edith was left to her dogs and her servants. As the latter could not be decently leant on emotionally, that job fell to a string of Poodles, Chihuahuas and Pekingese, on whom she was almost excruciatingly dependent. In the autumn of her life, that role only increased in importance. Her own words describe why it was dogs who won her heart:

“If ever I have a biographer, it is in these notes that he will find the gist of me … Let us begin with some stray thoughts—The subconscious … of the psychologists … I am secretly afraid of animals—of all animals except dogs, and even of some dogs. I think it is because of the usness in their eyes, with the underlying not-usness which belies it, and is so tragic a reminder of the lost age when we human beings branched off and left them: left them to eternal inarticulateness and slavery. Why? their eyes seem to ask us.”

Elizabeth Barrett-Browning

One can say unequivocally in the case of Elizabeth Barrett-Browning that her dog was not merely a companion, but a life-saver. After a volley of painful bereavements, and many years of debilitating illness, it seemed the young poet had given up the will to live. Bedridden in a darkened room, mourning acutely for her closest brother, she barely ate or slept, and was described by her family as “close to death”.

In a daring attempt to lift her from despair, a friend offered a spaniel puppy named Flush. There were many near-refusals by the poet, born of misgivings about the dog’s cloistered future, and mere shyness of accepting such a dear and generous gift. But even before she did finally accept, thoughts of the puppy had begun to turn her from her grief. By the time he arrived, he had already entered her heart and begun to transform her suffering existence into a life of joy and creativity. To her benefactor, Elizabeth wrote:

“How I thank you for Flush!—Dear little Flush—growing dearer every day!… Such a quiet, loving intelligent little dog—& so very very pretty! He shines as if he carried sunlight about on his back!”

Not exactly the words of a person close to death. The dog had a blissfully spoiled existence, sleeping on his mistress’s bed and eating from her hand. They were singularly devoted to one another. One problem with devotion to dogs is that they do have such short lives compared to ours. It would seem perilous for such a fragile girl to invest her whole heart in a mere spaniel. Indeed she plunged back into despair when the dog was stolen more than once by a gang of professional dog-nappers, demanding a ransom for his return. The two were reunited each time (both somewhat the worse for wear), and their bond only deepened.

For all they say about similarities between dogs and their owners, one can’t help noticing that this mistress wore her hair uncannily like a spaniel’s ears. Flush’s greatest gift to Elizabeth was not hairdressing though, but self-confidence. That trait was sorely lacking in the poet as as she lay immobile for much of her early life, unable to contribute to the family household, and seemingly ineligible for marriage. But soon, basking in the dog’s devotion, she grew spirit enough to think and act for herself, to write prolifically, and to live happily ever after with fellow poet Robert Browning.

By the time Flush passed away Elizabeth was an established writer with much finer health than when he came into her life, leaving her far better equipped to accept the loss and to replace her grief with gratitude for his life. Although she survived him by only six years, they were for the most part happy and creative years; a continuation of the strength he had brought her.

Emily Brontë

Brontë dogs were a far cry from pampered Pekingese and spoiled Spaniels. The one who featured most prominently in Emily’s life was the formidable Keeper, brought into the family to deter burglars. Maureen Adams sets the scene:

“On England’s Yorkshire moors in the mid-1840s, the villagers of Haworth often paused in their work at the sight of Emily Brontë, the parson’s daughter, striding across the heath with a massive dog at her side. Years later, they could still remember the tall woman and her dog appearing suddenly out of the fog. No warning of their approach could be heard except for the dog’s odd breathing, a wheezing whistle, the result of an injury from one of his fierce brawls with the local dogs. Emily would nod a greeting and pause to hear the latest tales of quarrels, thievery or ghost sightings. The dog, Keeper, stood completely still—his eyes on his mistress—until the moment she stirred, when he instantly followed her. A strange pair they were, uncanny and frightening, like the old stories of the goddesses and their dogs. Yet there was gentleness between them.”

It was more a battle of wills between the two characters than an abundance of affection as with the other women and their lapdogs, but it was as powerful a connection. In fact it seemed Emily was not entirely aware of a boundary between herself and the dog, in the same way that she had difficulty distinguishing her outer life from her inner life of fiction. Maureen Adams notes:

“Most dog owners depend on their dogs to keep them connected to the natural world. Taking a dog for a daily walk allows one to experience the changing seasons and the vicissitudes of weather. But Emily Brontë, who wasted away if not free to wander the moors, did not need Keeper to connect her to nature. Instead, she needed him to help her stay grounded with daily routines, which she tended to forget when she was absorbed in writing.”

All the Brontës died young, so, unusually, Keeper outlived his mistress. According to one observer:

“Keeper walked first among the mourners to her funeral; he slept moaning for nights at the door of her empty room, and never, so to speak, rejoiced, dog fashion after her death.”

Emily Dickinson

This poet was by far the most reclusive of the five women, and thus perhaps the most dependent on her canine muse to keep aloneness from turning to loneliness.

The puppy Carlo was a gift from her father. As a successful lawyer he spent a lot of time away, and fretted about the safety of the three females he left behind: Emily, her sister Lavinia, and their mother. His fears were not unfounded, as bandits and burglars were rife in New England, but he was somewhat overprotective, which perhaps swayed his choice of a very large breed: the Newfoundland.

It was no accident that he gave the puppy specifically to Emily, but it may have been a fortunate coincidence that he also chose such a very sensitive breed. He knew very well of his daughter’s preference for solitude, which turned easily into anxiety about what lay beyond the garden hedge. It seems he gave Carlo not only for practical outer protection but for “human” companionship and reassurance when he could not be there himself.

Again this huge beast was no lapdog, and spent most of his time outside, but he was allowed upstairs into his mistress’s living quarters. Not quite fitting into the private conservatory where Emily spent much of her time, he would lie in the doorway with only two paws inside. Emily loved the outdoors, and roamed happily alone with Carlo in the family meadow and neighbouring woods before entering into her best-known state of complete seclusion. Even then the family had a large garden where Emily grew fragrant flowers and sketched poems, always with Carlo looking on.

It must be said that it was not only fear which kept her alone, but a disillusionment with the world and with humanity. She craved silence and sensitivity, but found it only rarely in human society. Carlo’s virtues grew in her esteem; a tribute to the dog and to dogs in general, if at the expense of some cynicism about the human race. In letters she openly credits Carlo with more refinement than society:

“They [men and women] talk of Hallowed things, aloud—and embarrass my Dog—He and I dont object to them, if they’ll exist their side.”

“You ask of my Companions—Hills Sir and the Sundown—and a Dog—large as myself, that my father bought me—They are better than Beings—because they know—but do not tell.”

“I talk of all these things with Carlo, and his eyes grow meaning, and his shaggy feet keep a slower pace.”

Says Maureen Adams:

“Carlo never grew exhausted by Emily’s need for constant, attuned attention because it was part of his inbred nature to provide such a response. All dogs naturally look at their owners with a steady gaze, but it can be argued that the Newfoundland’s deep-set, dark eyes are the most sympathetic of all.”

As with most of these writers when their favourite dogs passed away, Emily did not write much about it to her friends. She would understandably have been too grief-stricken at Carlo’s death to speak of such a delicate subject to mere humans, remaining more inclined to “tell it slant” through her poems. Years before the event finally came though, she told a friend:

“Gracie, do you know that I believe that the first to come and greet me when I go to heaven will be this dear, faithful, old friend Carlo?”

Acknowledgements

With many thanks to Maureen Adams (and her two shaggy muses) for this touching and insightful read. It is truly one of the best books I have ever owned, and I will treasure it.

Found out more at ShaggyMuses.com

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

Emily Dickinson referred to herself as a pagan. Some biographers would go so far as to label her a druid for her worship of nature. But was this apparently stubborn heathen life really built on atheism?

On the surface what seems a blatant rebellion against the Christian reforms sweeping New England in the 19th Century could be misinterpreted as a lack of spiritual inclination. If we look beneath even a single veneer we will undoubtedly find true spirituality at the heart of her endeavour; far from snubbing God, but simply insisting on no less than a first-hand experience of Him.

The poet shunned religious doctrine, but did she shun religion? Certainly not as a whole, and even then it may be merely a matter of syntax. The words ‘religion’ and ‘spirituality’ may at times be used interchangeably, and at others a fine distinction must be made. Charles Anderson chooses to make no distinction, using the word ‘religion’ in its broadest, and perhaps most primal sense:

“The final direction of her poetry, and the pressures that created it, can only be described as religious, using that word in its ‘dimension of depth.’”

Emily inherited the Puritan traits of austerity, simplicity, and practicality, as well as an astute observation of the inner self, but her communication with her higher Self was much more informal than her God-fearing forefathers would have dared. The daughter of the ‘Squire’ of Amherst, she came from a line of gritty, stalwart pioneers, carrying what was almost considered the blue blood of America. Her family was far from poor, but she did not lead a lavish life, for the Puritans abhorred luxury and waste (even a waste of words, which trait the poet did well to inherit).

She accepted the Puritan ideals of being ‘called’ or ‘chosen’ by God, and fully embraced the merits of transcending desire, but not the concept of being inherently sinful:

“While the Clergyman tells Father and Vinnie that ‘this Corruptible shall put on Incorruption’ it has already done so and they go defrauded.”

She had faith in her own divinity, so perhaps she was yet more certain of God than her peers. She did not claim to fully understand Him, or even to have perennial faith in all His Ways—her poetry bears a continuing strain of doubt—but she certainly did not fear Him. The inner freedom this afforded her—rare for a woman of her time—brought her to the point of being almost cheeky in her familiarity and certainty. This confidence fed her poetry sumptuously, and gave it the well-known child-like quality. To her, truth was in nature. In that beauty she could see and feel God directly:

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church —
I keep it, staying at Home —
With a Bobolink for a Chorister —
And an Orchard, for a Dome —

Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice —
I just wear my Wings —
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton — sings.

God preaches, a noted Clergyman —
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last —
I’m going, all along.

Emily did actually attend church regularly, sometimes traveling to hear some of the rousing and charismatic preachers who stamped their mark on that era. She was often moved by these sermons, perhaps as compelled by the speaker’s delivery and the construction of words as the message within them. But this was not enough to entice her to succumb to the fierce religious revival. One by one her friends received an inner calling and were ‘saved,’ officially accepting Christianity. Members of her close-knit family eventually followed suit, including her strong-willed father, and finally her brother, Austin, perhaps her closest ally. Emily would not commit to something she could not sincerely feel, even under the unthinkable social pressure that surrounded her.

Until the age of 30 she continued going to church, although she was excluded from certain meetings and services open only to those who had been ’saved’. She became increasingly reclusive throughout her 30s. It is tempting to see her seclusion as further evidence of spiritual asceticism. Her spiritual path was certainly intensely lonely in such a social climate, but she craved aloneness more and more, and seclusion somehow formed a symbiotic relationship with her art. Increasingly her art became an expression of her spirituality.

Immortality (“the Flood Subject” as she called it) consumed Emily’s consciousness. Dwelling on death was natural in those times as illness and general hardship frequently took lives around her, her awareness heightened further by the many years spent in a house adjoining a cemetery. But dwelling on death was also almost a spiritual practice, a ‘graveyard meditation,’ a means of focus, breathing life into the concepts of Eternity, Infinity and Immortality.

Poet and philosopher Sri Chinmoy said of the poet:

“Emily Dickinson wrote thousands of psychic poems. One short poem of hers is enough to give sweet feelings and bring to the fore divine qualities of the soul.”

“With a deep sense of gratitude, let me call upon the immortal soul of Emily Dickinson, whose spiritual inspiration impels a seeker to know what God the Infinite precisely is. She says:
‘The infinite a sudden guest
Has been assumed to be,
But how can that stupendous come
Which never went away?’”

From Patriots of America by Sri Chinmoy

What drove her consistently was that she needed truth, and at any cost. She needed to see it with her own eyes and feel it with her own heart, not grasp at it in the words of a clergyman but explain it to herself through her own words. It seems she was even ready to die for her cause:

I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,” I replied.
“And I for truth, —the two are one;
We brethren are,” he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.

Emily’s truth-seeking was a spiritual quest that governed her inner life, and naturally blossomed through her poetic works. Her own words, in a letter to a friend, succinctly claim Eternity and Immortality as her own. Perhaps they also presage the enduring spiritual appeal of her writing, far beyond the short span of her life:

“So I conclude that space & time are things of the body & have little or nothing to do with our selves. My Country is Truth.”

“With thee conversing I forget all time,
All seasons and thir change, all please alike.
Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,
With charm of earliest Birds; pleasant the Sun
When first on this delightful Land he spreads
His orient Beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flour,
Glistring with dew; fragrant the fertil earth
After soft showers; and sweet the coming on
Of grateful Eevning milde, then silent Night
With this her solemn Bird and this fair Moon,
And these the Gemms of Heav’n, her starrie train:
But neither breath of Morn when she ascends
With charm of earliest Birds, nor rising Sun
On this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, floure,
Glistring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,
Nor grateful Evening mild, nor silent Night
With this her solemn Bird, nor walk by Moon,
Or glittering Starr-light without thee is sweet.
But wherfore all night long shine these, for whom
This glorious sight, when sleep hath shut all eyes?”

—John Milton, Paradise Lost Book IV

This is my favourite passage from the man who is considered the second greatest English poet. If John Milton was ever irked at having to play second fiddle to Shakespeare in the poetic hall of fame, it may have comforted him to remember that his poetic works were not his greatest feat. Indeed, he invented Space.

Without him, NASA would be NA?A, there would be no “final frontier” into which Captain Kirk could boldly go, and no number 1 hit across 23 countries for Babylon Zoo (arguably a mixed blessing).

Four hundred years ago, “Space,” in the Outer Space sense of the word, was the relatively empty regions of the universe outside the atmospheres of celestial bodies. Thanks to Milton it is now in a handy 5-letter package, to which we can more readily append words such as man, ship, shuttle, hopper, and cadet.

Milton was not always so beneficent, as he also created “pandemonium” and “gloom”. But we are indebted to him for the words terrific, jubilant and sensuous. Without him we would never “trip the light fantastic,” or be moon-struck.

This week visitors to Cambridge University Library will have a chance to inspect the workings of Milton’s great mind, as some of his rare manuscripts are put on display.

Milton’s influence on the modern world cannot be underestimated, says Dr Gavin Alexander, fellow of Christ’s College: “His writing took epic realms like fantasy, romance and science fiction and combined them with ideas about politics, morality and human nature on a huge cosmic scale nobody had really seen before… Without him, it is possible we would never have heard of The Lord of the Rings, Star Trek, or The Matrix.”

“He is among the world’s great poets,” says Professor Christopher Ricks in the preface to the exhibition. “Living at this Hour: John Milton 1608-2008″ opens at the Cambridge University Library on Tuesday.

—Read more from John Milton: the poet who gave us ‘Star Trek’ and ‘The Matrix’ in the Independent On Sunday

• Budding etymologists can find more surprising word origins at www.etymonline.com or www.wordorigins.org, such as the following (tangentially related as it was coined by another Milton):

Rarely do we know the exact circumstances surrounding the coining of a brand new word. But in the case of googol, a mathematical term for the number represented by a one followed by 100 zeroes or 10100, we know exactly who coined it and when, Milton Sirotta, the nephew of mathematician Edward Kasner, and the year was 1938. From Kasner and Newman’s Mathematics and the Imagination (1940):

The name “googol” was invented by a child (Dr. Kasner’s nine-year-old nephew) who was asked to think up a name for a very big number, namely, 1 with a hundred zeros after it…At the same time that he suggested “googol” he gave a name for a still larger number: “Googolplex.”

Later in the book:

A googol is 10¹⁰⁰; a googolplex is 10 to the googol power.

The name of the search engine and software company, Google, is a deliberate variant of the mathematical term. The company’s founders, Larry Page and Sergey Brin, came up with the name in 1998. They altered the spelling for trademark purposes.

—www.wordorigins.org

Shakespeare in a comic book? This is serendipity, as I’d never have expected him there. In fact I wouldn’t have even looked.

The other day my mother was remembering the comics my brother used to read twenty-something years ago. We got as far as The Beano and The Dandy, when she said with a frown, “Did you have comics?”

“No!” I said as if stung, “I used to read magazines.”

“Oh yes, of course.”

I realised that even before my teens I regarded comics as something for those who are either just barely literate, or too lazy to read, or male and under the age of ten. As is so often the case, my mind was broadened only hours later, this time by an article in the Independent, heralding Britain’s latest homegrown hybrid: Manga Shakespeare.

Manga is Japanese for “random (or whimsical) pictures”. It firmly took root in the late 18th Century, drawing inspiration from 12th Century giga (literally “funny pictures”), blossoming in the early 19th Century, with the great Hokusai even producing his own manga collection. Originally wood-block prints, the modern story-based manga started to emerge in the form of drawings as Japan increasingly absorbed American influences.

Manga is much more culturally important to Japan than comic books are to the US. Weekly sales of manga in Japan even exceed annual sales of comics in America (source: Wikipedia). In the UK at least, manga, anime (animated manga), and in fact anything Japanese is no doubt rising in popularity.

Self Made Hero is a British team, set to release their Manga Shakespeare collection this Thursday 1st of March. Emma Hayley, director of SelfMadeHero says:

“With our fresh and innovative approach to the classics, we are creating exciting and unique books that will inspire today’s generation.”
—SelfMadeHero.com

Good luck, I say. Anything (well almost anything) that makes the Bard more easily accessible has to be a good thing. Shakespeare is not a pompous poet in tights to be kept mouldering on the dusty shelves of aging professors; he’s a genius storyteller, and you shouldn’t have to be a genius to unravel the brilliance of his work. His plays are timeless, and infinitely adaptable. True, the original language is hard going, but if the essence of the stories is revealed to a wider audience, then maybe more will be inspired to delve into the treasure chest of his original works, while they’re young enough to keep up with the thrilling pace.

“Manga is a dynamic, emotional and cinematic medium easily absorbed by the eye. Its attractive art and simple storytelling methods will enthuse readers to approach Shakespeare’s work in the way he intended – as entertainment.”
—SelfMadeHero.com

Later in the year a collection entitled The Classical Eye will be released by the team, so watch this space:

“…transforming classics into another art form. The books feature acknowledged leaders in the world of graphic novels and bandes dessinées, using illustrators and writers whose work is widely admired internationally.
—SelfMadeHero.com

Image Source: SelfMadeHero.com

A recent post on SensitivityToThings.com, entitled Serendipity, prompted more in-depth pondering about the word and its meaning. Serendipity can be defined as pure luck in discovering unsought things, or yet more simply as good fortune. This might be a good time to explain the link between the name chosen for this site and its chosen motto.

Firstly, you might wonder how come this English girl has an Indian name. My first name, Sumangali, is a spiritual name, given to me by my meditation teacher, Sri Chinmoy. A spiritual name is like a mantra, reflecting the essence and purpose of its bearer at a very deep level. It was given to me after I had been studying and practising meditation for a few years.

The root of the word Sumangali (mangal) means auspicious. Sometimes two people may have the same word as a name, but the interpretation or aspect of it may be different. The main part of the meaning for me is auspicious good-fortune, so this is at once my essence and my primary purpose, and that’s what I hope to try and offer through this site, in any small way I can.

As for the word serendipity, there’s no way I would have guessed its progenitor: Horace Walpole, 4th Earl of Orford. It seems there was a gap in our language, and so the word was born, inspired by a Persian fairy tale called The Three Princes Of Serendip (Serendip being Sri Lanka).

So the princes were fortunate on their travels? Well it’s not so simple. It seems they were very wise as well. Perhaps Horace won’t mind me quoting the letter in which the word was first written:

“I once read a silly fairy tale, called The Three Princes of Serendip: as their highnesses travelled, they were always making discoveries, by accidents and sagacity, of things which they were not in quest of: for instance, one of them discovered that a mule blind of the right eye had travelled the same road lately, because the grass was eaten only on the left side, where it was worse than on the right—now do you understand serendipity? “
Source: Wikipedia

Well no, Horace, in fact your definition has sparked numerous debates on its meaning. Looking up The Three Princes Of Serendip we find a little more clarity:

“In the camel story, the Three Princes use trace clues to precisely identify a camel they have never seen (lame; blind in one eye; missing a tooth; carrying a pregnant maiden; bearing honey on one side and butter on the other). This result of abductive reasoning is not what is meant by serendipity (the discovery of something not sought). Because of their cleverness and sagacity, they are accused of stealing the camel and are about to be put to death by Bahram Gur. Suddenly and without anyone seeking him out, a traveler steps forward to say that he has just seen the missing camel wandering in the desert. Bahram spares the lives of the Three Princes, lavishes them with rich rewards and appoints them as advisors. These rewards are the unsought (serendipitous) results of their sagacious insights.”

So, Horace, what you mean is that wisdom is often rewarded, and if we do not seek to receive a specific reward, but receive it nonetheless, then we are serendipitous? Ergo: wisdom - expectation + reward = serendipity.

Back to SensitivityToThings.com, John Gillespie cited a quote from Sri Chinmoy about rainbows. Sri Chinmoy says that a rainbow siginifies success and progress, but we must be looking towards the sky in order to see it. In this case wisdom is looking at the sky. Rainbows are rare so we can hardly dare expect them. The reward for looking upwards anyway is the rainbow, so that’s serendipity. The rainbow is already there, we just have to be looking up in order to appreciate it: an analogy which could stretch to any corner of life.

These days employers are starting to realise a fact already well-known in the field of research and development (an industry heavily dependent on serendipity): that employees need a certain amount of time in order to be creative. One caveat is that that the optimum pressure–freedom ratio is different for each individual. There’s an interesting post on the subject entitled Time For Innovation at SlowLeadership.org. In this case wisdom is taking enough time out.

In other cases it might mean breaking out of routine. Have you noticed how problems you’ve been brooding over often resolve themselves if you have a break from ‘solving them’ and go for a run or walk? Ever taken a wrong turning and found something interesting that you otherwise never would have known was there? I wrote a little something along those lines in My Day finds A Motto.

Meditation is certainly conducive to serendipity, and it’s one reason I meditate every day. Even a few minutes can bring a fresh perspective, often bringing forward solutions to things I would not have thought of while facing them head on. Rather than shutting me away from the world it makes me more aware of my surroundings, and reminds me of what’s good in the world around me.

I could go on… Wikipedia has much to say on the subject of serendipity—much more than a blog-post-worth. One section says simply “See also Synchronicity“. Don’t get me started…

Image: The Horace Walpole at the National Portrait Gallery, London