In honor of Earth Day, one of the proposed opening-round questions was: “What are three specific features of our planet or the natural world you relish most?” (In retrospect, I wish I had used the word cherish.) The answers included: fire, ocean, heat, mountains, air, breadth, smells, deserts (desserts too!), glaciers, beaches, and the sheer immensity of the universe. Everyone was frustrated by the need to stop at three — perhaps the list can be lengthened in the Comments section by those who were absent for this month’s meeting.
In his response, B. spoke about the first buds of spring and the emergence of new life. It reminded him of the start of a new painting, when he hasn’t a clue as to what will take place on the canvas. As color, line, and form appear before him, he is both surprised and energized. His perspective offered a new way to appreciate spring: as a show of new work by the master painter.
Another question for the opening round concerned bedtime rituals we either had as a kid or which occur in our present-day families. This description was sent in by J., whose schedule and responsibilities prevented her from attending:
[The question] immediately brought to mind a bedtime ritual we started with my son when he first came home from Russia at 10 months to help him adjust to his new room and new language.
We had a beautiful hand-painted piece of artwork that was given to us as a gift: In the middle it said, “A is my name, Alex,” and then in little squares all around was the alphabet with different pictures (C for Car, E for Egg, etc.). Every night we would go to the poster-sized illustration and say, “A, my name is Alex,” pointing to him so he heard his name. Then we would point to 3 or 4 different letters and act out the matching picture. For example, we’d say “vroom-vroom” and pretend we were steering for “C is for Car,” or take make-believe bites out of an imaginary apple for “A.” His favorite was, “E is for Egg,” as we’d pretend to crack an egg on his head and let it drip down making him laugh and giggle. This ritual lasted nightly for years; some evenings we still play the game even though he is now 6 and does the reading himself. It always ends with cracking the egg on his head while he laughs.
Others echoed how precious and important bedtime stories were, including a grandmother who confessed that quite often she is the one to fall asleep first (but not before receiving her grandson’s permission)! E. remarked on the differences between today’s stories and earlier tales filled with ogres, wicked stepmothers and witches, and plenty of gruesome action. L. reported that as a child, no fiction was needed to imagine the big bad wolf who would bite her feet off as soon as the bedroom light went out.
In contrast, stuffed animals played an opposite role as invaluable friends who might even accompany one to college no matter how threadbare, shredded, and devoid of limbs they had become. Your reporter grew up with a stuffed elephant named Dumbo. As an adult exploring Eastern spirituality, he was drawn to Ganesha, the Hindu god of new beginnings and remover of obstacles, with the head of an elephant. Coincidence? Predisposition? Or one of life’s ongoing, mysterious threads?
By luck of the draw, much of the evening seesawed between two polarities of human nature. On one side, parts of ourselves that weren’t as mature, shall we say, as we might hope: losing our mind, regressing to the age of two, becoming an obnoxious jerk under certain circumstances, schadenfreude, and being overwhelmed by choice and freedom. At the opposite end were life mastery, and meditation as a tool for facing and overcoming our demons.
The latter subject came up in response to the three-part question: What do you do for escape? What are you escaping from? What would you like to escape from but can’t? As sometimes happens in Noodle Talk, an individual draws a question that appears especially written for him or her. S., a Noodle Night newcomer, captivated us all with her immigrant story (not to mention her beautiful accent): Growing up on a small island in the Indian Ocean as one of eleven children; leaving her homeland when her new husband’s job took them to southern France; feeling alone and miserable the whole time she was there and trying, without ever succeeding, to escape the isolation she felt; finally moving to Princeton when her husband received a new work assignment. Here, the library became a refuge and life turned around for her. She now has a career as a life coach and volunteers as a hospice caregiver. She credits her meditation practice for freeing herself from the prison of loneliness.
Last week, I received an email from someone who came to Noodle Talk two months ago and stayed only 15 minutes. In her message, she said that she wouldn’t be coming this month because she didn’t have time for “just talking speculations and childish things.” She was too busy saving the world by preserving cultural artifacts and doing what is important for society. I marvel that she actually thinks we at Noodle Talk do nothing else with our lives, or that there is no value to be had in sharing the stories and experiences that shape and define us. I happen to think that feeling more compassion, connection, appreciation, and aliveness are good things that make for a healthier planet. It makes me wonder just what this woman is running from.
