Those of us who live in Vancouver, British Columbia, know that we Caucasians have been a minority for quite some time. Even when I left many years ago to live and work in New York, the Asian community here was in the majority, and by Asian I mean those from the Indian continent as well.
I am now living just outside Vancouver but within striking distance, and I moved here because of my job. The last census showed us that 65% of the population in my town is Asian, and the rest of us are a polyglot. I live in a Punjabi and a Chinese community, you would be hard pressed to hear English spoken here. I live in a Punjabi home, a lovely, modern suite in a mansion that houses an extended family of untold relatives spanning at least three or four generations. I am treated with the utmost kindness and respect and of course, the sentiment is entirely reciprocated. Although the air is filled with refulgent joy and happiness and the all embracing love of family, each for each other, I am left alone and respected as one who needs her solitude.
Every once and awhile as I sit in my patio overlooking the trees and the flowers, sipping wine, the ancient patriarch of the clan, turban wrapped, with a long white beard and in a long white robe, will drift through my space. He does not speak English and his eyes light up when he sees me. He says with a shy smile, HELLO, HELLO and he waves at me, and I say HELLO, HELLO and wave back with a smile, and this ritual is repeated on the rare occasions when he walks through my garden.
It has been hot and sunny and so today I took a walk through a lovely public garden close to my home, water lilies and fountains, ancient turtles,.... and hardly any Caucasians at all. I went to my favorite part of the park, waterfall, silence, peace and joined three elderly Chinese ladies who were milling around the pond. They did not speak English but it is amazing what you can communicate with kindness and smiles, and laughter.
The most elderly of them had a very large sword in her hand. At first it did not register as a sword after all, how many of these do we see in parks these days. But it was definitely a sword, a very big one, it looked pretty sharp and it had a pretty red tassel hanging off it. (I will not divulge any more details in case Homeland Security and our own CSIS get overly exuberant).
She started to dance, accompanied by exquisite Chinese music that emanated from a bag that she had hung in a nearby tree. She must have been about 90, and although she stumbled a couple of times I had a fleeting sense of how she danced with this sword as a woman of 20, 30, 50 and beyond. I saw her grace and her beauty, this gentle dance that had her entire focus and attention. The entire moment was unexpected and in a moment, I felt as though I had entered a Kurosawa landscape and had moved completely out of linear time.
There is really no moral to this tale. But I know in my heart that I am blessed and richer because of all that I have learned in my life, from my own culture certainly, but also from the richness of other cultures who have provided such a rich depth of texture to my life.
As I finish this post, the old man walks by my window. He has a cane now and he stoops to pick the weeds out of my garden, his face intense. He looks around to find me but the synchronicity of the moment leaves me spellbound and in silence. I watch him go by from inside my home, which is his home too.
I am now living just outside Vancouver but within striking distance, and I moved here because of my job. The last census showed us that 65% of the population in my town is Asian, and the rest of us are a polyglot. I live in a Punjabi and a Chinese community, you would be hard pressed to hear English spoken here. I live in a Punjabi home, a lovely, modern suite in a mansion that houses an extended family of untold relatives spanning at least three or four generations. I am treated with the utmost kindness and respect and of course, the sentiment is entirely reciprocated. Although the air is filled with refulgent joy and happiness and the all embracing love of family, each for each other, I am left alone and respected as one who needs her solitude.
Every once and awhile as I sit in my patio overlooking the trees and the flowers, sipping wine, the ancient patriarch of the clan, turban wrapped, with a long white beard and in a long white robe, will drift through my space. He does not speak English and his eyes light up when he sees me. He says with a shy smile, HELLO, HELLO and he waves at me, and I say HELLO, HELLO and wave back with a smile, and this ritual is repeated on the rare occasions when he walks through my garden.
It has been hot and sunny and so today I took a walk through a lovely public garden close to my home, water lilies and fountains, ancient turtles,.... and hardly any Caucasians at all. I went to my favorite part of the park, waterfall, silence, peace and joined three elderly Chinese ladies who were milling around the pond. They did not speak English but it is amazing what you can communicate with kindness and smiles, and laughter.
The most elderly of them had a very large sword in her hand. At first it did not register as a sword after all, how many of these do we see in parks these days. But it was definitely a sword, a very big one, it looked pretty sharp and it had a pretty red tassel hanging off it. (I will not divulge any more details in case Homeland Security and our own CSIS get overly exuberant).
She started to dance, accompanied by exquisite Chinese music that emanated from a bag that she had hung in a nearby tree. She must have been about 90, and although she stumbled a couple of times I had a fleeting sense of how she danced with this sword as a woman of 20, 30, 50 and beyond. I saw her grace and her beauty, this gentle dance that had her entire focus and attention. The entire moment was unexpected and in a moment, I felt as though I had entered a Kurosawa landscape and had moved completely out of linear time.
There is really no moral to this tale. But I know in my heart that I am blessed and richer because of all that I have learned in my life, from my own culture certainly, but also from the richness of other cultures who have provided such a rich depth of texture to my life.
As I finish this post, the old man walks by my window. He has a cane now and he stoops to pick the weeds out of my garden, his face intense. He looks around to find me but the synchronicity of the moment leaves me spellbound and in silence. I watch him go by from inside my home, which is his home too.