An African Angel Arrives

As we are occasionally asked about our adoption, I revive a journal entry from those early days.

In October 2002, my wife and I traveled to the airport at Newark, New Jersey, to meet and bring home a little girl from Ethiopia who would become our adopted daughter.

Orphaned a few years ago by the AIDS epidemic in her country, Sasahulesh Tadele (age approximately 6 years) lived with family relatives and in various orphanages around Addis Ababa before finally coming to live at the foster home of Americans for African Adoptions (AFAA) -- the agency we worked with.

This diary entry describes the little girl's arrival in America.

11/2/02: First days on the job. . .

I've been trying to write up some extraordinary memories of the past few days for family safekeeping while our child has been sleeping.

We are immensely grateful to Randy and Bob for all their work in bringing the children over. After getting to the airport terminal at 5:00 a.m. and waiting five hours for the group to land and pass through Immigration, it was quite a sight to see two American men approaching with five energetic African angels in tow, all dressed in red jackets and traditional garb. The children were the most gorgeous little peanuts, scampering around delighted with each other's company, which they've apparently enjoyed over the past weeks and months.

That is why what happened next was so difficult and painful for our daughter Sasahulesh. We had to separate her from her little friends who were traveling on to other cities. She comprehended what was going to happen and became distraught, then full-blown hysterical. With every muscle in her body she strained to get away from us and back with her little friends. My brother had driven in from NYC and brought a little teddy bear for her, but she wanted nothing to do with it. She cried and implored Randy to take her with them. Rebecca couldn't restrain her and it was just awful as I had to go through contortions to hold her back (which caused a spectacle in the airport for the next hour).

Despite the pressure of the situation, I could understand Sasahulesh's position and I felt the force of her grief very clearly. The only thing I could do was summon compassion toward her state and hold on for dear life. When her hysteria peaked, I had to wrap my arms and legs around the little girl and sit us down on the sidewalk for fear she would get away and run into the street traffic. There was no way we could keep her in the car with Rebecca in the back seat trying to contain her in that condition; it would have caused an accident.

A few people tried to help us through this harrowing first encounter. Friendly Ethiopians consoled her in Amharic, to no avail. One English-speaking woman even came over and prayed over me and the the child.

Finally an idea clicked in my mind. I took Sasahulesh by the hand and allowed her to lead me for a long walk all over the airport so she could look high and low for her friends. We walked and walked through the long terminal, inside and outside. By degrees she became calmer, though her tears flowed the whole time. Then by stroke of fortune, we met an Ethiopian traveler who calls himself Gigi -- he was waiting to catch a shuttle to Philadelphia. Recognizing our plight, he was very kind and joined us on our walk.


Gigi ended up spending more than an hour with me and the little girl, nearly missing his shuttle in the process. (I found out later that my brother paid off the irritable van driver to stay put while we attended to the child!)

With Gigi serving as an interpreter and ad hoc guidance counselor, I entered into a three-way conversation with him and Sasahulesh. We covered some serious ground and addressed the issues on her mind. Sasahulesh said she understood that I was her new father, but why had I not come out to Ethiopia with Randy and Bob to be with her? That seemed to be *very* important to her. She spoke with clear conviction in Amharic to Gigi and me, and I also watched her listening attentively as Gigi translated everything I had to say.

In those moments I came to see that in some ways, our child is an adult in a little person's body. She is very intelligent, and definitely knows the score about what's taken place with this adoption.

It would be difficult now to recount our conversation but I can tell you it was remarkable. I spoke candidly with Sasahulesh, telling her what kind of household she was joining and what she could expect from us as parents. I told her that in our family we will never, ever hit a child; and I asked her to please not hit me. I told her how deeply sorry I was to take her away from her friends; that I had wanted so much to meet her in Africa; and that we would not leave for home until she said it was okay to go.

Little by little something melted within her and she let go of her pain and accepted what is to be. My brother said he noticed that her change of heart began when I let go of her hand and sat down on the floor while she stood over me listening to my account. He watched her looking me over then, particularly at the top of my head; and to him it seemed she could see how I was affected by her pain and turmoil.


A few hours after the storm had begun, all was resolved and we were ready to leave. My brother offered Sasahulesh the teddy bear again and she accepted it to everyone's relief; then she even smiled and posed for a few photographs. She climbed into the car clutching the bear, and as we drove off she fell into a deep sleep -- which lasted for the five hours driving upstate and many hours into the night at home. The overseas flight and intense expenditure of this episode had wiped her out. When we carried her into the house and put her into bed, her clothes were soaked in sweat.

I said to Rebecca, "I guess this is the closest I'll ever come to experiencing childbirth."

It was great to be home but we were worried, because during the many hours since we first met Sasahulesh at the airport, she never once went to the bathroom or took even a sip of water. Then I awakened around 3:00 a.m. to the sound of her crying and whimpering softly in her bed. I invited her to come out for a walk around the house, and she took my hand. The first room we found was the bathroom, which she immediately used (much to my relief as well as hers). Then we went exploring her new environs; we said hello to the cat, and eventually settled downstairs to watch late-night cartoons on various cable kid channels. Rebecca brought down a tray with some oatmeal, bananas and juice which she ate heartily. By then, I was fading fast and had to go upstairs and pass out for a while -- we had gotten very little sleep over the past two days.

Around 8:30 a.m. I awakened to various sounds: the piano being pounded, followed by gales of laughter from Rebecca and a bunch of thumping out in the living room. I came out to find our daughter giving a proud and impressive demonstration of her jump-rope skills.

Now during these "first days on the job," all traces of the initial ordeal have vanished. We have been graced with a happy, agreeable and affectionate child. She loves to dance, sing Ethiopian songs, play with balls and balloons; she's incredibly agile and creative with her body. We have been strumming on guitars together, kicking a soccer ball around in the park, watching Sesame Street and Disney Channel cartoons -- all the stuff I could hardly dare to dream we would do. She's an ace marbles player and has been teaching me to play in the living room every morning. What amazes me most is that she is incredibly glad to have new parents and has been finding ways to convey it to us. Today she has been saying things like "Hi Dad," "There's Mom!" "thank you," and "sleepy kitty." I also did a double take when I heard her start reciting the English alphabet and numbers.

We have been calling her "Sasha" and she responds to the name with no problem. The other morning we went to the family doctor for a checkup and she took two inoculation shots in each arm without even blinking. Then we surprised her with a visit to the local Ethiopian restaurant owned by friends who speak Amharic. This amused Sasahulesh immensely.

With our child finally coming home, Rebecca and I are at the conclusion of one ten-month process which many others have gone through (or will go through); and now we are at the start of something entirely new which is more profound in micro-detail than I could have imagined. I don't doubt there will be challenges and difficulties ahead, but for now all we can do is be present to the experiences each day brings one at a time.

Best wishes to all, and thanks again to Randy and Bob for the wonderful job they did as escorts. Since their last glimpse of Sasahulesh was traumatic as they ran to catch their planes, I wanted especially to share this account for them. We'll be glad to hear how the other children are faring -- and we promised our daughter she would be able to talk to her little friends on the phone soon.

* * *

2/25/03: Four months later, Sasha has bonded closely with us and adapted to her new life quite seamlessly. We had chosen Valentine's Day to be her birthday and thus we celebrated together on the 14th -- an event she relished for days before and after. She speaks a whole lot of English now and we're able to converse easily. It's been amazing to watch her language skills develop so rapidly. Of course it helps that she has two kindergarten classes a day at the local elementary school, one of which centers on English for international kids. She's starting to make friends, gets on well with the other children, and is a lot of fun to be around. 

It is my belief that she had nice parents and a good upbringing for several brief years -- because she is a kind child carrying a measure of courtesy and consideration for others. We get into very active conversations, but avoid prying into her background other than to strike up occasional dialogue about Ethiopia and keep it in the picture. One day a few weeks ago, we were talking together at dinner. A relative of the family had just died, and we told her about it. Very matter of factly, almost casually, she recounted the stories of her own mother and father dying. Within a year or two of each other, they took to their beds and wasted away slowly; they got so tired, they couldn't get up and finally the doctors came and then they were just gone. Sasha doesn't know what the word "AIDS" means; but she knows more about the disease than most of us will ever know.

Noise of the World

From Louise March, a pupil of Mr. Gurdjieff:

"Rather at the beginning of my work with him, while I was still amazed that Gurdjieff did not look for anything which constitutes the pleasures and strivings of all other men, he placed himself one day (when he was obviously tired) next to me after he returned from the café. We were on the terrace with the beautiful view of the garden at the Prieuré, where I was working on the translation of the first series of his writings. I asked him, ‘Why don’t you also work here with the view of the roses, the goldfish pond, and the trimmed rows of Sycamores, in such good air?’

"He replied, ‘I always work in cafés, dance halls, and similar places where I see people, how they are; where I see those most drunk, most abnormal. Seeing them I can produce the impulse of love in me, and from that I write my books….’ "*

This aspect has always fascinated me. When I worked with Mrs. March during the 1980s, she taught us much about learning to be quiet, to make space for something higher to come into our experience. We often ate in silence, and worked at crafts in workshops where a quiet atmosphere of concentration was encouraged.

In years since then there has been much to explore about residing deep within oneself while at the same time being immersed in the noise of people, media, commerce, and the busy world.

If I am close to myself and innerly working at times, externals sometimes shift from being distractions to reminders. It is a delicate process. For instance, once in a while, standing in a crowd, hearing the radio or even sitting in front of the TV serves up a tiny-pure stimulus to work on myself. It is the rare exception rather than the rule, but it happens...

If others in the Work or other traditions have explored along these lines, perhaps you can make a little noise about it here. ;-)

* The passage is quoted from an out of print book by Beth McCorkle titled "The Gurdjieff Years 1929 - 1949: Recollections by Louise March."

REALITY CHECK

Copped this from my friend Adam's facebook page today.

I Live in Two Worlds

I am standing with a circle of parents of girls on my daughter's basketball team. We are outside the school gym on a shiny tile floor, talking about this and that after the game. The conversation is pleasant, laced with laughter and a bit of light gossip. Somehow it comes to me that I am here in this moment; my body is standing upright on earth, swaying a tiny bit. We are all standing here, biped creatures, breathing, alive.


Most likely, no one else in the circle is having a moment of self-remembering, coming back to the stunningly simple fact of existing in this moment of Now. We're all just a bunch of Northern Virginia suburbanites talking amicably. I am feeling the subtle vividness of my senses opening up and sending impression-signals to something within me that registers the fact that I am alive; I am.

The funny thing is, I am in the same moment participating in a friendly banter session with other parents; we are talking about our kids, the game they just won, and stuff going on with other teams: Someone heard something about so and so; that other team's coach used to be in the military; that must account for why he yells at his girls sometimes during time-outs on the court. . .

I want to stay in contact with an awareness that I am here; to keep that delicate sense of "am-ness" going in the midst of all of this -- because it is a sacred feeling, being in touch with the miracle of existence. The conversation of basketball parents goes on; I get drawn into it and forget myself again and again -- but the thought and wish for Working comes back.

I wonder how to creatively solve the problem of Working now in this moment. There is a question: how can I Work in this situation? My hands are hanging loosely behind my back, touching a little. I put two fingers together, using that tiny sensation as a reminder that I'm alive. All the while, the lively conversation is going on. What should I do, split apart from it? Nod politely and walk away? Take a leave of absence from something I've critiqued as "superficial"?

It dawns on me somehow that the pathway is not to walk away, but rather to become more involved, get engaged more deeply through simple interest and attention, participate as genuinely and transparently as possible.

I turn back toward everyone, laugh and nod my head, make a comment, connect eye-beams with folks in the circle, listen to what is being said. Talking with others is as easy as riding a bicycle. We are all ordinary people on this earth. It is a blessing to be alive and to have this moment to enjoy together. There is an experience of the indescribable in the midst of all available descriptions and motions, right here in the lobby outside the gym.

L'Alchemiste

Synchronicities of the heart are no doubt familiar to you as they are occasionally to me.

There was a day years ago when I traveled to Boston to meet my friend, guitarist Pierre Bensusan. He was touring the U.S. and performing at Johnny D's in Somerville. We agreed to have dinner at the club before the show.

I had to take several trains to get there and was hurrying through the late rush hour crowds, determined to be on time. Plodding through the doors of the last subway car, I plopped into an empty seat and rubbed my aching neck.

As the train began to move, I looked up and faced a young man sitting in the seat directly across from me. He was reading a paperback book -- The Alchemist, by Paulo Coelho.

Something about this sight touched me and I didn't know why. I just felt happy over the chance to visit with Pierre again and hear his music played fingerstyle on acoustic guitar -- it has been such an inspiration and a gift in my life.

I got to the venue on time, listened to Pierre's sound check, enjoyed dinner with him and friends and then settled into my seat for the concert.

Somewhere in the first set my ears opened wider as Pierre began to play a richly harmonic tune I had not heard before that he had newly composed. Afterwards, he told the audience it was called The Alchemist and was inspired by Paulo Coelho's book.

You can hear this lovely tune at Pierre's YouTube page, if you like. You'll also find there information about his latest U.S. tour -- International Guitar Night -- starting this month, which I can tell you will be a bonanza for lovers of all things musical.

Painting by the Equatorian artist, Jaime Zappata.

Marvin

I was informed today that Marvin Braxton, a student of Mr. Nyland and long-time member of our group in Warwick, passed away last night after suffering a heart attack on December 19th.

Marvin was a lovely man I got to know while attending Friday group meetings at the Barn. His wife Beverly was my daughter's third grade teacher; his son Symeon is in the group in Philadelphia. In these recent years my family has somehow felt affinity to his from a distance.

Many folks were inspired by Marvin's quiet and warm demeanor, gentle spirit, and wonderfully detailed stories about personal Work in life, which he sometimes shared in meetings with simplicity, humor and humility that touched everyone present. I found a few photos of him in the assortment I took during our fall 2007 Intensive. Farewell good brother, and blessings to your kin who walk this earth in the radiance of your smile.

The Sphinx

Occasionally I continue a series of posts for friends in the Gurdjieff groups and other traditions. Bystanders can listen in, or surf back to play-by-plays of the psychotic world (always just a convenient mouseclick away).

Over the years I made little bits of notes on Work experiences, remarks from teachers, questions and reflections. Lately I've dug up old notebooks, slips of paper containing spidery scribblings from early days. What good they do lying around in a desk drawer may be a few atoms less than bringing them into light of an obscure blog like this one. If anything helps you, that is at least a few atoms real.

Mrs. March -- Sitting 1/1/83

The idea of the Sphinx as a symbol which I take into myself. The Bull representing constant force and application. . . Wings are for me in having always the concern or vision of non-ordinaryness, the higher possibilities. How to get Work from just in my head -- into the blood, into the fibre. The Sphinx is a measure of myself.

In Beelzebub's Tales, the Sphinx is described as "an allegorical being, each part of whose planetary body was composed of a part of the planetary body of some definite form of being existing there. . .who, according to the crystallized notions of the three-brained beings there, had to perfection one or another being-function."

Those parts included: trunk of a Bull; legs of a Lion; wings of an Eagle; breasts of a Virgin. Strength, courage, vision, impartial love. And in totality (within the society Akhaldan for which this sphinx was an emblem), it was known as Conscience.