I spent the day in India today… while lying in bed at home.

I was not reading a book or watching a movie and yet I flew across India, diving down into villages at the base of the Himalayas, standing at the banks of the Ganges in Varanasi and enjoying the vibrant beaches in Kerala.

Sick in bed with a cold, I needed something to amuse myself with and recalling the recent mention of Google Earth, I thought that sounded like fun. I started out by Googling my mom’s house in Oregon. Arriving at the house I thought, Yep, that’s where my mom lives. And then the house I grew up in near Santa Barbara. Yep, that’s our old house. And look, they painted it. And then I decided to Google some places I had always wanted to visit: Prince Edward Island in Canada, the coast of Main and The Isle of Man in Great Britain. The more I looked around I was startled by the detail in the photos. In a way, I felt like I was really there. The Google earth cameras had captured people jogging, going to the post office, driving their cars, I could see puddles on the road, mud on tires and paint chipping off old buildings. Oh my goodness, I thought, what on earth would I see in a place like India?

I have always wanted to go to India but feeling a little nervous about what I might find there and not currently having the means to go, this seemed like a good way to test the waters. In the U.S. and many other Western countries you can drop down into almost any place on the Google map and you will find yourself in a 3D landscape. The visceral response I had to dropping down into places was surprising to me. The screen dives into each location making you feel as if you are falling out of the sky with no warning about what you might land on. Apprehensively, I flew over to Mumbai and randomly clicked on a spot. I am a little embarrassed to admit that I half expected to see children in slums missing eyes and limbs like in Slumdog Millionaire. I know India is much more than the poverty and trash you hear about but based on the detail I had just seen in the Google Earth images, I expected (and secretly hoped) I might get to see a more real India; more real than I would find in a guidebook.

To my dismay you cannot just choose anyplace on the map and see detailed images of each and every street. There were however many designated spots all over India that had captured 360 degree images of different places and to my excitement they were filled with real life scenes including trash, bird poop, rusty bicycles, and dusty cracked feet poking out of sandals; images that a guidebook would most certainly leave out. There was nothing romanticized or air brushed about the photos. Just the real India, the India I would love to see.

First stop… Mumbai. Ever since I read Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts I have dreamed of standing at the sea walls of Mumbai, listening to the waves of the Arabian sea. Preferably at night like the main character often did to clear his mind or do dealings with the underground mafia, but something tells me I should stick to daylight hours in this city. Along a paved seashore path, I saw a man walking a cow. A lovely sand colored bull with big, curvy horns on either side of its head. The man and the cow walked past people sleeping on benches that lined the walkway. As far down as I could see there was someone asleep on each bench. The sun was just coming up over the city as they were in the final deep stages of a restful sleep. Not even the clip-clop of a cow’s hooves passing by could wake them up.

All pictures courtesy of Google Earth.

The sea walk in Mumbai

What I noticed immediately was that most people were wearing sandals. Which makes sense because it’s India and It’s hot. The men almost always seemed to have buttoned up collared shirts on and I noticed that most of the bicycles I saw were rusty. Some were very rusty, covering the entire bike in a muddy brown film. I saw people riding bikes or standing beside bikes while talking to other people. I even saw one person holding a bike up at his side while wading across a shallow river; a small child, just wearing shorts, was wading across with him. The Taj Mahal was off in the distance across the water, the air was misty and balmy looking as I would have hoped and there was trash along the river bank at my feet; bits of paper and plastic wrappers.

Bird poop at the Taj Mahal

I love the looks on their faces

Southeast of Mumbai, I walked down another seashore path, this time along the Bay of Bengal, in a city called Pondicherry. Here I visited  a statue of Gandhi where I noticed that most of the men had taken off their shoes. I took this as a sign of respect, suggesting that this was a sacred place. Gandhi had an orange marigold mala around his neck as children climbed all over him. I enjoyed seeing the Indian tourists taking photos, perhaps fulfilling a lifelong dream of visiting this popular little town. Pondicherry was part of French India so there are many beautiful colonial style buildings and everything looks much cleaner than Mumbai. I also stumbled upon the cutest restaurant called La Maison Rose. Everything was pink. There were pink Christmas lights in the outdoor courtyard and adorable pink paintings of Nandi, the sacred Hindu cow. I have to be honest, Pondicherry was a lovely surprise.

La Maison Rose

Pondicherry was a lovely surprise because it seemed like an India I could probably handle. But I didn’t go today looking for clean streets or French cafes, I wanted to see what it really looked like there. Yes, I would love to see the majestic palaces, lush gardens and ancient temples that make India famous but that’s never what makes a place real. It’s the stench and the noise and the taste of the food and sound of the people who live there and that is of course what Google Earth can’t give me but I was grateful at least to see some of it and get a little more comfortable with what I might find there, outside the picture perfect world of a guidebook.

Some friends at a boat house in Kerala.

For some reason I get really annoyed when I hear people say, “live everyday as if it were your last.” First of all, if I were to do that I’d be morbidly obese. I’d most likely start my day by eating Eggs Benedict with hash browns slathered in hollandaise sauce. I’d drink a big cup of coffee and probably have a donut and then fly to Paris or London and eat some more. Or maybe I’d start by buying a dozen donuts of all variety and take a bite of each one, slowly savoring all those delicious tastes that I usually restrict myself from. I’d still be in my pajamas at this point, most likely eating the donuts in bed. After the donuts I’d go find the perfect brunch spot to have my last Eggs Benedict. I would make sure and ask for extra hollandaise in case they’ve skimped a little. As I write this, I realize I have no idea which brunch place I’d go to for this last meal. I should probably start researching (or rather auditioning) restaurants now to be prepared, or in case I do decide at some point to “live each day as if it were my last.” Currently, I eat oatmeal for breakfast in the hopes of having a more comfortable tomorrow.

In addition to the poor food choices, the urgency of time would most certainly drive me to make rash decisions. I’d feel desperate to experience everything one last time. I can’t be sure what I’d do but anything is possible. I definitely would not go to work. I suppose ideally if you had a job you loved you wouldn’t mind spending your last day working, doing what you usually do, I however am not in this position yet. Does that mean I should quit my job then? This is a scary thought, another reason why living each day as if it were my last doesn’t sound appealing. I’m well aware my job doesn’t pass the “last day of my life” test, but I’m still working that one out.

I wouldn’t be able to go to work anyway because in all reality I’d spend the day telling everyone in my life I love them. I’d go around to each person and tell them all they have meant to me. I’d say heart-felt things and mean them. I might even draw them a picture as a token of my love and something to remember me by. I’d spend the entire day crying and hugging everyone. For this reason living everyday as if it were my last wouldn’t be a good idea either; I’d have permanently puffy “I’ve been crying” eyes. If I were to go around everyday telling everyone I loved them and being as gushy as I know I’d be, I might throw up and so would they. Not everyone can digest that level of sentiment all the time. It reminds me of a story David Sedaris wrote about his mother while she was dying of cancer. He is clearly very close to his family but none of them are prone to expressing it. Given the circumstance, he felt he should try so he said, “I love you” to his mother one night while ending a phone call with her. Her response was, “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” It wasn’t something they normally said and he beautifully illustrated the fact that just because it isn’t said doesn’t mean that it isn’t felt.

It’s possible I’m taking the concept of living each day as if it were my last too literally. Perhaps it’s more of a reminder to walk slowly, notice the trees, the people passing by and take the time to smile. Perhaps it suggests a more subtle experience of life. Rather than focusing on the urgency of the senses, maybe it’s a call to rest more and enjoy where you are, who you are with and what you are doing. Seeing the moment with as little judgment as possible and perhaps more love. I know that when I feel loving towards myself, others and my situation, it could very well be my last day on earth and I would be fine with that. All somehow feels complete in the moments when I fail to see the cracks or problems, it feels complete when I am focused on the good. Maybe that’s what those words mean. I suppose I get annoyed by the phrase because deep down I know I spend much of my time thinking about tomorrow, waiting for a better time, a more convenient time or just a happier time. Maybe I get annoyed because it feels like a lot of pressure to live each day as if it were the last. What if I do it wrong?! Or maybe I’m just hesitant to have a good time. It seems to me it’s a state of being rather than any particular activity. Maybe I don’t have to tell everyone I love them everyday but I can do my best to spend more time feeling it.

For Everyone – As promised, something to remember me by.

I sometimes wake to find a giant sleep line on the left side of my face. It starts somewhere in my hairline, runs alongside my eye and straight through the center of my cheek. It lightens up a bit after taking a hot shower but I can still see it as I apply my make-up. I glance at it as I’m leaving for the day, asking myself, “should I be embarrassed that there is a big line running down the side of my face?” I’m never quite sure how to answer that question.

Two weeks away from my 35^th birthday, I wake to find the same sleep line running down my face. This morning though it makes me smile because it occurs to me that I’m still young enough to distinguish a sleep line from a wrinkle. It has no competition. When I am old and grey will I be able to tell the two apart? This morning, I look in the mirror and see myself as a little girl; hair soft and tangled, the signs of a deep restful sleep imprinted on my warm, round face. I’m transported back to the days when getting a full night’s sleep was a regular occurrence and waking up with a sense of peace was typical; knowing all I had to do was get out of bed and see what the day had in store. My whole life ahead of me, never in a hurry to do much of anything – except grow up.

Most mornings now I get out of bed and notice the darkening circles under my eyes, my complexion a little less rosy, my hair not as thick and hips that are sore getting out of bed. I think about my future, my finances and the messy apartment that I know I will not clean today (that part is still the same I suppose). Today however, I feel at peace and young again, no need for make-up; the sleep line like an angel’s kiss on the side of my cheek, a sweet hello from the little girl who knew it would all be ok.

Recently, while at a family gathering, my five-year old nephew asked me to slice an apple for him to eat. “Of course,” I said “which apple would you like?” He handed me the one he wanted and followed me into the kitchen to watch me cut it. Apparently it was necessary for him to be involved. Dragging one of the dining room chairs over to the wooden cutting board which rested on the counter, he propped himself up on his little knees to make sure I was going to do it right. “Do it the mommy way,” he said in a sweet yet commanding tone. I interpreted this as, “if you don’t cut it the way my mom cuts it, I’m not going to eat it.” Already sensing his complete lack of faith in me, I proceeded insecurely. Now that he was five the simplicity of my presence was no longer enough to win his love and affection. Hugs were no longer free. I had to do something cool.

Forgetting that I was a competent and worldly young woman, all of my self-worth was suddenly lost to an apple. Holding the knife hesitantly in my hand, I asked him, “so how does your mom cut it?” “um, well, she” but before he could finish my hand began to move and I started cutting. I sliced the apple in half, then sliced each of those in half, then sliced each of those in half making six slices altogether. Finally I carved out the seeds and core from all six pieces. “yeah, that’s it!” he said with such delight and surprise. He looked at me mystified, almost skeptical, that I knew how to cut it the exact way his mom did.

Of course I knew how to cut it the way his mother did, we both learned how from our own mother, his grandmother. Forgetting this when he first asked me, instinctively I soon realized that there could be no other way his mom would have cut an apple. When I was growing up the way my mother cut fruit was everything; there was no other way and it was the best way. From my kid perspective my mother did everything perfectly, like cutting apples and peeling oranges. The grace and skill with which she wielded the knife was mesmerizing and I loved watching her just as my nephew watched me. She had special powers that I came to trust and depend on. These skills were a promise of safety against an unknown world; they were as comforting as being tucked in at night.

As I got older I came to realize that everyone has their own way of cutting fruit. Everyone learned how to do it from someone else and some of their ways were even better. I never liked realizing this though; It always had a way of breaking the spell. The spell of safety created by knowing exactly how to do something.  Year after year the world keeps opening wide and showing me that there are infinite ways of doing everything. I’m getting more comfortable with this now and even enjoying it but sometimes I long for the simplicity and surety of my mother’s way. This is what growing up is I guess; peeling back the layers and discovering what works for you and what doesn’t. You keep one way of doing something that you like and discard another that despite being passed down to you with great care and love, no longer works.

I put the apple slices in a bowl for my nephew and he ran off with them smiling and looking pleased. I could see in his face that it was so much more than just the apples he was happy about. I smiled and savored those sure-footed feelings with him.

Ben and Grandma in the Kitchen.