For the Sake of Single Verse

For the sake of a single verse,
one must see many cities,
men,
and things.
One must know the animals,
one must feel how the birds fly
and know the gesture with which the little flowers open in the morning.
One must be able to think back to roads in unknown regions,
to unexpected meetings
and to partings one had long seen coming;
to days of childhood that are still unexplained,
to parents whom one had to hurt when they brought one some joy
and did not grasp it (it was a joy for someone else);
to childhood illnesses that so strangely begin with such a number
of profound and grave transformations,
to days in rooms withdrawn and quiet
and to mornings by the sea,
to the sea itself,
to seas,
to nights of travel that rushed along on high and flew with all the stars
—and it is not yet enough if one may think of all this.
One must have memories of many nights of love,
none of which was like the others,
of the screams of women in labor,
and of light, white, sleeping women in childbed, closing again.
But one must also have been beside the dying,
must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the fitful noises.
And still it is not enough to have memories.
One must be able to forget them when they are many,
and one must have the great patience to wait until they come again.
For it is not yet the memories themselves.
Not till they have turned to blood within us,
to glance, and gesture, nameless,
and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves
—not till then can it happen that in a most rare hour
the first word of a verse arises in their midst
and goes forth from them.

Ranier Marie Rilke

Loktantric Sambaad (Democracy Dialogues)

Over the weekend, I travelled outside of Pokhara to see some of our Democracy Dialogues, the civil society component of the UNDP Constitution Building project that I've established with my colleagues. Since the original small grants were given to 18 Nepali NGOs (representing the 'historically marginalized' communities) in March, after I left for the States and Dad's subsequent death, I hadn't had the opportunity to see this community-based, grassroots process yet in person.

So, with our new Communications Officer, Christian Clark, and two colleagues, Surendra Chaudhary, the Grant Manager (who worked with me at SC/US), and Kalpana Sarkar, our UNDP Program Officer, we flew to Pokhara on Saturday morning and came back today (Monday). We spent Saturday & Sunday out in isolated, rural villages on the ridges of Syanga and Tanahun districts.

We were all incredibly impressed by the local community interest to participate in the drafting of a new Nepali constitution. There were 40 to 70 villagers at each of the Loktantric Sambaad (Democracy Dialogue) sessions, men, women, grandparents, teenagers and children. Of course, since these were indigenous villagers, Magar people, who live in the hills around Western Nepal, the events were preceded by an hour of delightful and joyful dancing & singing -- not to mention the garlanding of us, the 'honored' guests.

Even after ten years of a civil conflict which has torn at the fabric of Nepali society, these two days showed us how much the local culture and pride of Nepal is alive in these villages. There was an immense sense of honor by the Nepal Magar Association in hosting these day-long constitution building events. It was clear in the speeches by the local leaders and women's associations that they take their responsibilities seriously and are exceptionally eager to participate in drafting a new constitution for what everyone refers to as the "New Nepal".

The process itself takes anywhere from four to six hours, at least, depending on the amount of debate, discussion and facilitation. Although, of course, with the introductory culture show and mid-course breaks for snacks or food, the whole process can easily take a full day.

After all of the individual comments had been gathered by the facilitator and assistants, with names noted for each comment, these recommendations were written on public pages of newsprint for all to see, read aloud, and vote upon by voices of consensus.

Afterwards each person in attendance came up and either signed the newsprint themselves or, for those not literate enough to write their names, to put their John Hancock-like finger print on the sheet in dark, cobalt ink.

As you can imagine, this was an amazing, inspiring process in a dusty, dissicated village high above the wide Himalayan river valleys below. Yet, no matter how remote, these communities are eager to engage in the writing the new Nepali constitution, especially as the years of civil conflict, recent multi-party elections and Maoist political education have more than alerted them to their rights and opportunities.

These days, among many rural Nepali citizens, there is a palpable sense of urgency to recreate the identity of the Nepali state to be a more inclusive, more equitable and more representative nation. Although no one is trying to make constitutional scholars out of the 27 million Nepalis, there are certain values, priorities and needs that seem to run the gamut of people who are aware of the drafting of the new Nepali constitution.

Since the UNDP Civil Society Outreach initiative aims to reach the 'historically marginalized' communities in our first iteration of the Loktantric Sambaad (Democracy Dialogues) process, these events was organized by the Nepal Magar Association, who represent one of the largest indigenous communities in Nepal (with just over 7% of the nation's population). The head of this NGO, Nabin Rokka Magar, is an extremely energetic and organized individual from Rolpa district (considered the heartland of the Maoist movement during the conflict). Nabin led the village-based process we observed in both Syanja and Tanahun districts.

Many of the issues that were identified and highlighted during the day-long process had to do with fundamental rights of the people, e.g. women's rights, children's right to education, the rule of law and people's own sense of security, as well as language rights (right to be taught in one's own mother tongue), religious rights (freedom of religious worship), as well ethnic rights (as described in the ILO Convention 169), including self-determination and the federal restructuring of Nepal based on a combination of ethnic, geographic and linguistic lines.

Significantly, the Magar Association leadership reiterated and reinforced the idea that no matter which federal state that the Magar people will live in, and they are strongly advocating for a Magar Autonomous State (Magarat), ALL Nepali citizens will have equal rights in that state, no matter their caste, ethnicity, religion et al. The new states would respect the historical/cultural lineage of the people who have inhabited that region, but the fundamental rights would be the same for everyone. That level of political maturity, in itself, is a remarkably hopeful sign for the future of the country.

So, although not exactly Thomas Jefferson and James Madison sitting around a candlelite table in the 18 C., but, actually, something similar might have taken place in the towns of Pennsylvania, Virginia and New Hampshire, if there has been a community process supporting the Founding Fathers when the American colonies were drafting a new constitution after separating from the British empire.

At least I'd like to think so...

In Search of an Identity, by Ezra Man Leslie

1992 was a big year for me, I was born—Ezra Leslie, son to Keith and Shakun Leslie. My mother, Shakun, is a Nepali fashion designer/political activist, taught by the nuns, raised by her culturally rich mother, inspired by her worldly father, and is best described as “the most Jewish women this side of the Himalayas.” Keith, my father, on the other hand, was raised in upstate New York by his Jewish parents (both in the medical field)—he went to Amherest, immediately followed by a stint in the capitol with Senator Percy, and ended up traveling the world for roughly twenty-five years. He, as opposed to my mother, can be described as “the most Nepali man this side of the Atlantic.” This is where I start to get confused—if all of the above is true than I am a Nepali-American Jew, who was bar-mitzvahed in Israel, but has been raised in Hindu-Buddhist Nepal, and now goes to boarding school in Massachusetts—oh and I almost forgot I was born in Thailand. In other words I was marked the second I was born—marked with a crisis, a crisis of identity

My story is like any other, I was born on June 28th and after picking up my passport at the American Embassy in Bangkok flew home to Nepal with my parents and older brother, Josh. I grew up in a simple household that played stage to development workers, fashion designers, philosophers, writers, poets, gardeners, activists, Americans, Nepalis, Jews, Hindus, and Buddhists—all of these roles excellently played out by none other than my parents. Quite simply two parents, who as wise, kind, and intelligent as they were, still found themselves trying to figure out who they were and what they were doing here. As I said I was marked.

At the time I didn’t realize it, but life was getting complicated. My mother’s strained relationship with her family, not of any fault of her own, but rather as a tributary to her own river of a search for self identity, resulted in a strange relationship for Josh and I with our home country, Nepal. A relationship best described as two boys living in a rented house; you refer to it as yours, it is yours, but the landlord never treats you as if it is yours or accepts that it is yours. As a result we associated with Americans, international Americans who were happy to accept us as one of them. It seemed to us a minor detail that we had never lived in the country we called our ‘other home’; it was just nice to have one.

I started my first year of formal education at a community driven school called Lincoln. The next five years at cosmopolitan Lincoln passed in relative ease, but starting in middle school my thoughts began shifting across the Atlantic Ocean to my yet unlived in home, America. The departure of some close friends and a desire to challenge myself were partially the fuel, but in retrospect there was a certain part of me that was just searching for an identity. Personally, I had never doubted my Nepali identity, or my American identity, but it was much harder to be accepted by my compatriots and as I reached an age where I could finally see the manner in which the Nepali people viewed me I became scared. I avoided having to deal with them in groups where it would become apparent that I was not, in their eyes, one of them. Instead I emanated my Nepali patriotism and pride through my interactions with the ‘common’ Nepali. The Nepali people who amused themselves to think that that they shared the same blood with this ‘kuire’ (the derogatory word used in Nepal for foreigner) and so accepted me blindly. Not as a fellow countrymen, but as a spectacle, an item at which they would amuse themselves by humoring it.

Being young, and confused I longed to see if I possibly belonged somewhere else and naturally my inclination was towards America. In my heart I knew I was ‘100% American and 100% Nepali.’ Sadly I had very little say in the two-way street that is acceptance so it was no coincidence that at the end of my 10th grade I decided to pack my bags and follow my brother, who had been called by what he hoped would be greener pastures a year earlier, to Northfield Mount Hermon in Massachusetts. Full of hope I arrived in America, and where should I find myself, but at international orientation, a place where non-American students can be assimilated. Starting off just where I left off—a foreigner in his own country. I quickly realized this year would be no different from Nepal except the countries and the faces had change. It is my bane not to have a home, but a bane I bear proudly; knowing that whatever challenges I shall meet I can pull from the best of both worlds. It is a fate that I will struggle with on a day-to-day basis, but I have also quickly realized that the strength to fight that struggle will come from within. My dad has always said, “there are three truths: my truth, your truth, and then G-d’s truth,” and so I walk out of my door everyday comforted that although other people may not understand who I am and where I have come from, I know and G-d knows. And that is good enough for me.

Ezra Man Leslie
NMH April 2009

Joshua's Universe Poem

Universe
Saturday, April 21, 2007


the lights are on
head bursting
tv screeching
what am I doing?

a little Boy,
up in the village
no’s nothing.
but
his fields.
empty
brown
a single stalk growing

I am at home writing.
for what,
no use!

I join the Boy
leave everything behind
hand by hand
its time to till the land.


Joshua Leslie

Generations on the Move

another sunday, quiet sunday, at home amidst the garden...

downloading music, watering bamboo, homework with leah, mind traveling

reflections, i guess...

we had a lovely evening last night at karma & pia's w/ dale & christopher. old friends (like 'bookends'...) sharing their lives, their thoughts, their experiences, their understandings, their confusions. their efforts to find the balance that is so critical to fully and joyfully participating in the sufferings of the world (as dear departed robin used to say...).

there's a common theme of the place we find ourselves in life's immense journey. we are at a new juncture that was always ahead of us, waiting for us, even in our uncertainties, escapades and constant journey; always lingering around a curve, over a false summit, a patient knight sitting at the 'chautara' (nepali resting place), smoking a bidi, waiting for our meandering lives to catch up with this sense of the eternal return.

such is sense of this middle passage. this still point between our role as parents to our children and children to our parents.

a point in life that we all reac in our 40s or 50s, when we see that our children have grown beyond our wildest dreams to near-adults, independent in certain ways, confident as we always hoped, moving to the next glorious stage of their lives, while we see our parents age quickly now, many stepping across the gateless gate, beyond us (for the moment).

this is the essence of this middle passage as we momentarily hold the arc of the parabola: observing our children climbing up mt. analogue, where we feel those forceful, evocative breezes in our hair, the pinnacle of our life's fleeting achievement.

while we see our mothers and fathers start slip down the ridge back into the earth. not like daedalus falling from having reached too far, beyond his human form -- but fully human, all too human, bent from the burdens of a good but demanding life, borne back to the depth of the soil from which we, in some mysterious way, emanate

('boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past', FSF)

yes, as i said to karma, 'not so long ago all of our children were here w/ us in kathmandu. next year most of them will be in america. and for years to come...' already we begin to plan vacations together in america, this american boy with his nepali wife and their tibetan and danish friends. such is the power of life. taking us beyond our wildest dreams. as our big ships are turned by the tugboats that have become our own children.

i say to myself, 'joshua is at georgetown in washington, dc. this weekend' i hear myself say it and feel it echo around my thoughts, like swirling a glass of chablis to observe the color and aerate before tasting. i hear my mind conduct the same mental exercise about the life of my beloved son. 'yes, joshua is in washington, dc.' it sounds so strange, yet soon to be so true for, possibly, the next four years...

most importantly, of course, is how happy josh sounded this morning when i skyped with him while he was meandering around georgetown with friends staying up all night for his 3:30 am ride to the airport to return to NMH.

'dad, i love this place. it's perfect for me. i can't imagine being anywhere else. and, imagine, i almost didn't apply! everyone seems happy here. the students really love this place. they all seem to have opinions and ideas and seem so bright.'

can a parent ask for more? especially when you've bridged more than a few cultures, continents and countries while finding one's own life.

after all, scratch the surface for this expatriate community and you'll find a slew of adults worried how their children will fit back into a world that we've shattered. cross-culture isn't just a challenge for the adults who find themselves in multi-cultured marriages. it's a whole brave new world for our children. and, having carried them so far away, opening the world to them like an oyster, how do they find their way 'home'.

home? home. home!

as paul simon sang,

'one and one-half wandering jews free to wander wherever they chose are traveling together in the sango de cristo, the blood of christ, mountains on the last leg of a journey they started along time ago. the arc of a love affair... hearts and bones...'

so, in this middle passage (which as a friend reminded me goes on for quite a long time...), we guide, observe and cherish our children as they grow wings, self-confidence and the character to create their own meaningful worlds within worlds...

while, as the conversation shifts, we ask now about each others' parents. their frailty, their marriages, their health, their independence, our love. our longing...

as we feel the tides shift and no longer do we worry as keenly about our own children, but observe our own parents become those elderly children, needing our love, our reassurance, our affection, our support...

'how are they?' 'are they alone?' 'do they need us?' 'when are you going back?' 'are we too far away?'

these are the questions we share and swirl in our thoughts as we sit late with the lights of the city below us...


yes, the middle way, the middle passage,

this immense journey...

hearts and bones.

like frail birds on a wire

the arc of our inner lives

moving along the queue

no longer equidistant between generations

but soon to have our bare heads

touching the open sky

with younger generations coming up

behind us

none ahead

any longer.

for we have buried the best

and love the rest...

Joshua's Moment of Silence at NMH: Nietzche and Schopenhauer

Nietzche and Schopenhauer
Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Last night I picked up a book that I bought over Spring Break called “The Philosophy of Friedrich Nietzche”, an autobiography describing the philosophy of Nietzche. Early in the book, I came across a name I had never heard before, Arthur Schopenhauer, so I decided to look him up and this led to me discovering a philosphy that truly captivated me.

For Schopenhauer believed that humans were motivated only by their own basic desires, or their ‘Will to Live’. Now many people would chastise this statement, saying that it was egotistical and selfish to think only for oneself. But, personally, I disagree. I believe that, yes, Schopenhauer’s statement may be too extreme. Yet, even Lord Buddha in some ways advocated the same message as Schopenhauer.

Buddha talked about how life is a balance, and that balance includes one’s own selfish desires. Of course, this selfishness does not give one the right to kill or hurt someone or remain quiet and oblivious in such a situation, as both attitudes are sides of the extreme; instead, being true to oneself permits the right to expresses your emotions, feelings, and attitudes – which is the Middle Way.

We are not saints, we are merely human beings. We have the right to be a little bit selfish in this world. As the root of the word selfish is Self. It is equally important to note that the Self is a person with respect to a complete individuality. A complete individual includes not only one’s own identity, but one’s community, and the world around you.

Therefore, our true Self, in addition to taking care of our own Ego, requires us to give back to a world that has given us life, love, and the pursuit of happiness.

In truth, as the sages and philosophers have taught us, the highest form of Self is giving back to one’s community and world. The lowest form is mere Ego and only caring about oneself.

Thus, it is our responsibility to find the Middle Way between the highest form of Self and Schopenhauer’s lowest form of Ego. So I ask you, for the next minute to contemplate your very own life, the one life you have, and think how you define your Self, as selfish, selfless or somewhere in between?

Let Us be Silent.


Joshua S. Leslie
Class of 2009
Northfield Mount Hermon

Butterfly Heaven

 “Once upon a time, I, Chuang Chou, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Chou. Soon I awakened, and there I was myself again. Now I do not know whether I was a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man. Between a man and a butterfly there is necessarily a distinction. The transition is called the transformation of material things.”

After Dad died, some of his doctors came into the hospice room to offer their condolences. They spoke of his respiratory failure and the anatomical finale of his existence among us on this lovely yet troubled world.

Although intrigued by the medical arts and sciences I'd never studied, I was still confused by where Dad had gone. While his now silent body lay in front of us, still, quiet, in deep repose, his spirit, the flicker of a smile on his lips, the light in his green eyes, the anxious frown on his forehead, were gone.

I knew that Death had come and taken my father away. I couldn't deny that.

No longer would he either encourage or exasperate me, as he'd done, no doubt, always for my benefit, throughout my life. No longer would I hear his voice on the phone, receive his reminders of things I need to do or hug his increasingly frail body when I reached Palm Beach Gardens or he came to visit me somewhere on my family's perpetual perigrinations in this world.

So, I wondered, naturally it seemed to me, where Dad had gone.

After all, it seems unlikely, irrational, childish even, to imagine that such a powerful energy or spirit or soul or life force could simply vanish like the light of a candle.

Could it?

So I asked his hospice doctor, "If you don't mind, where is my father now?"

She replied without words, only a finger pointing up, at the ceiling, although I think she meant the skies or heaven or the empryean or beyond. "There!", she seemed to be saying, beyond words, beyond description, beyond her medical school education or her years of medical practice had taught her. (I'm not sure that they have a class in medical school on this subject...)

So, when Dad's gentle and kindly Indian internist came by to offer his condolences, I asked him the same question. "Dr. H., where is my father?"

Dr. H. looked at me sceptically and slightly confused, so I quickly added, "I asked Dr. B. the same question."

"What did she say?", he asked.

"I'd rather hear your answer first.", I replied.

"Well, in the Hindu world, we believe that the soul migrates from life to life. In this way, the soul moves from one life to another until it reaches perfection and is released from the constant turning, the wheel of existence. However, it is rare to reach that stage so most people's souls continue to step from bodily form to bodily form constantly trying to improve or purify its essence."

[At least that's what I understood Dr. H. to be saying...]

"Yes", I said, "that is traditional Hindoo orthodoxy, but what do YOU believe?"

"Well, I believe the same, actually. The soul doesn't die in the same sense as the body. As the physicists have taught us, nothing that is created or exists within the material world can ever not exist in the world. It can change form, but it can't simply not exist anymore. That's impossible. Therefore, our soul must still be here, somewhere, moving toward light and liberation."

[Moksha, I believe, is what the traditional Vedantists call it.]

"Can our human souls reincarnate as non-human life?", I asked, as I know that this has been a spiritual and philosophical question for millennia -- although, for me, only in the decades since I began to gaze confusedly up at the stars...

"No", Dr. H. said. "I don't believe a human soul can migrate to a non-human form. That's quite unlikely."

Well, the point of this story isn't to hope that Dr. B. or Dr. H. can answer questions that have weighed on human consciousness since man first discovered fire and sat around it at night wondering about our relationship to the stars. Even non-verbal societies, if such existed early on, tens & tens of thousands of years ago, must have been tempted by the same thoughts. Definitely the Vedic poets, the Greek epic storytellers and Hebrew psalmistists explored such inchoate ideas more than a few thousand years ago.

Nor, do I have an easy answer to the very simple question of 'where is my father' or, my dearly beloved deceased friend and guide, Jerry Sternin (as we attended a lovely life embracing ceremony for him today in Cambridge).

I simply know that neither of these remarkable and beloved men are here any more. Everyone seems to agree on that. Death, that harvester of the living, has come and taken them away, leaving only the emblems and body of their lives for us to muse upon while we remain.

So, it was with a bit astonishment, after we took our lovely 8 year old daughter, Leah Prajna Rose, to a butterfly farm in South Deerfield, MA this morning as she so urgently, in her perpetual childlike wonder, desired, while I wandered amidst this enclosed tropical environment, with thousands of the most beautiful butterflies floating around us of such beguiling colors, patterns and forms, that I, belatedly realized both Dr. B. and Dr. H. may have been wrong.

For I think I recognized my father, a handsome, cream and black Monarch buttefly resting on a sugar cup, while, over there, too, behind a mauve bouginvillea, flittering and floating among the sweet flowers, Jerry. They appeared a bit dazed by their new incarnations, which could explain their inability to fly or, possibly, dance in a straight line.

I guess they were simply getting their beginner's butterfly wings. A bit new to the overall butterfly program.

No doubt, a bit astonished to have taken such a pristine and gentle living form.

At that moment of revelation, I realized: how perfect! What a delightful and enchanting place for a weary human soul to rest for the length of a butterfly's lifetime, in between the arduous transition from one human soul to another.

Or, if they had really perfected their human forms, maybe my father and Jerry rest for eternity, or at least as long as that lasts, in the final chrysalis of a gorgeous, nearly transparent, fragrantly innocent floating butterfly.

There, at peace, in their own refined, modest heaven among us on earth.

I know that Leah thinks it could be true...

Why not us?