Once upon a time a baby girl decided she wanted to see the world earlier than what her mama’s doctor had predicted. She got her way. She came early. She looked up at her mama and won her heart right away. Her mama kissed her nose and promised to love her all her life.

The little girl ruled over all in India – her enamored grandparents, uncles, aunts, neighbors, friends. Then one day, she had to leave all that was familiar and moved to a new country. She knew no one. Her mama was sick. Her daddy was busy. She had no friends. Then she saw ladybugs in their new house. She asked her mama if the lady bugs from back home missed her and had they come to visit? When her mama slept, she spent long time sitting with the ladybugs and remembering her home.

Time, however, is a great healer. The little girl went to school, made friends, slowly adapted. Her new country became home.

She did many great things. She played, studied, sang, wrote. Her mama continued to love her, tried to answer her questions, often got frustrated, was often unsure how to nurture her defiant spirit and channel her energy in the right direction but the love that flowed from the mama to the girl through that first kiss, remained a constant.

Childhood was sweet, teenage was tumultuous and finally at 19, the mama looks at her little girl in wonder. She is a woman. She is a person with a thinking, analytical mind, she has a certain depth that the mama can not comprehend. She is fiery in her demand for equal rights. She is a woman the mama wanted her to be when she held her in her arms.

There were times of doubt, there were shades that was disappointing in this whole process of growing up but all those moments of doubt, all those shades of disappointment were overshadowed by all the love that was showered upon the little girl. Love won. She accumulated so much love in her 19 years that she has enough to pass around.

Happy 19th birthday to my child. May love see you through all your life. May you always pass it on.

On the eve of Mother’s day, I took some time off – for myself. I took a cup of coffee and walked out to the back deck. I did not have my phone. I did not have a book. I just sat in the chair and looked out at the majestic oak tree in our back yard, my friend for the last fourteen years. A constant.

The blue sky was awash with sunshine, dotted with wispy clouds. The green around me had the sheen of youth. It is that young, lustrous green, not yet the deep green of mid summer. The stillness around me was peaceful, sometimes broken by a strange birdsong.

We fell in love with that tree when we came to see the house many moons ago. It was fuller then. We had to trim some of its limbs due to decay and storm. And although it looks somewhat lopsided, it is still awe inspiring. The tree, over the years, has been many things to me – an object to admire, a yardstick for changing season, a home to quarreling squirrels, magnificent birds and a witness to our daily life. It has also been a symbol of hope after a long, cold bare winter. It has embodied resurgence of life after death.

The tree has witnessed a significant part of my children’s childhood. Before Ryan was born, Sahana played under it, looking for ladybugs, getting used to the open space after moving in from New Delhi while I sat on the deck and watched her. She raised her head from time to time to make sure mama was there. It watched laughter and quarrels of the two of them as they grew. It has seen Ryan take his baby steps as he ran after his sister. It has seen the exuberance of puppy Sage being chased by his human siblings. It has withstood Sahana and Ryan’s crude attempts to build a tree house with their friends. It has seen them wrestle. It has provided them leaves every fall to rake and jump in leaf piles. They have climbed it, they have cried under it, Sahana has read books in its shade and wrote some of her poems, we have played Holi beneath it. It has seen Ryan throw baseball farther and farther as he grew. It has seen Sahana kick a soccer ball when she played soccer. In a way, the tree has been a constant in their childhood and in their coming of age. Somewhat like me, their mother. A witness.

On this day, it felt just right to look up from book/phone to sit there and think and to commune with the tree – another nurturer.

Ryan hero worships his father. He always has since he was a baby. Seeing dad’s face brought about a goofy grin when he learned to recognize faces. As he got older, he became Sean’s shadow. Sean would work around the yard with a tiny human following him every step of the way. When Ryan started playing sports, Sean helped him by throwing the ball or shooting hoops or correcting his strokes. They would compete against each other in the pool or shooting baskets or scoring goals and inevitably Sean won. That was the norm.

Well the norm broke a few days ago in the swimming pool. At the ripe old age of 12, Ryan beat his dad in a 100 yard IM in the pool. That night at the dinner table, Sean mentioned to me with quiet pride that Ryan actually beat him in swimming. I looked at my son excitedly, “Wow! You finally beat dad! That is fantastic!

Ryan said, with an small smile, “I did. But it did not feel good. It just didn’t feel right, you know?”

“Why? I think that is fantastic! You should be proud!”

“No! He raced after a hard work out. He did a 400 IM, then a 200 IM and then he raced. So he was tired. And he killed me in the breast stroke.”

He was giving excuses for his father, I realized. In his heart of heart, he does not want his hero, his father to be defeated, that too, by him. In his eyes, dad is still infallible. He is not ready to accept glory over his father.

I looked at Sean who sat there smiling quietly at his son. Perhaps he was wondering when does the harsh truth dawn on your child? The truth about one’s parents not being infallible.

I have written before, I find faith beautiful. I find it very peaceful to see a community coming together and performing a ritual that is meaningful to them. Today, I accompanied my husband and son to an Easter service at their church. As we walked in, we were greeted with joyful music and different shades of pastel. Women wore Easter dresses with flowery prints, many men were in button down shirts. Children and babies were well dressed in ties and dresses, complete with bonnets, little white sweaters. There were toys, board books, pacifiers, grand moms, grand dads, adoring aunts, uncles, cousins galore. There were extended families picking up children, holding family babies, taking them to bathrooms. A grand mom in front of me was having the time of her life picking up toys that her toddler grand daughter dropped, wiping down drops of milk that spilled from yet another grand kid’s sippy cup. The priest gave the homily but I did not listen. I was focused on the human interactions around me. The extended family sitting next to us were clearly thrilled to be together. A pregnant woman let her hand rest lightly on her husband’s back. A brother (I assumed) rubbed another brother’s shoulder as they shared a joke. There were three babies that were kissed and adored and passed around. Next to me sat a young family from some country in Africa. A handsome young dad, a very pregnant mother in traditional outfit, resplendent in her pregnancy and a baby about 18 months. I spent a lot of the homily smiling at the young family, at their joy of being together and getting ready to welcome a new life.

At one point, I put my face in my hands and took some time to reflect. Why did I feel the Easter service was more joyous than a Christmas service? Is being reborn more joyful than being born? Does the idea of resurrection give people hope that death is not the end?

I don’t know the answer. But I felt joy. I felt hopeful. I felt happy. I wanted to write again.

Recently I wrote a letter to my niece for her school project. She wanted letters from her friends and family as keepsakes. The instructions said I should write about something to inspire her, my observations on life, some inspiring quotes, how I perceive of her. I sat there in the front of the keyboard looking at the blinking cursor pondering what to tell her. I had just read some disturbing comments by a presidential candidate, spreading hatred and bigotry. I was angry, disillusioned and of course frustrated. It was not the perfect mindset to write an inspiring letter to a new teen to motivate her. Then, instead of focusing on what we read/hear from the important and influential persons on media, I brought back my focus on those who surround me and influence me personally. I viewed the world from my lens of perception and there I found a treasure trove of inspiring stories of humanity.

I work at a public library in a relatively diverse neighborhood so I get to see a microcosm of the world right here in my work place. I see the melting pot that America truly is, here in my library, where immigrants from different countries come together to an English Conversation class to communicate with English speakers better, people of all colors come to create resumes and apply for jobs to better their lives and their families, saree clad or hijab covered mothers bring their babies and children to attend story hours. I see not simply acceptance but respect for people of all color, creed, ethnicity, sexual orientation, religion in my library world. This is the real America, which is colorful, which is loving, which is respectful and which believes in solidarity. But this America does not get written up in newspapers, this America does not find a place in political rhetorics. I decided to tell her about the America that I see around me and not the one I hear about on television and news sites. Here are some personal experiences.

I was sitting at the kiosk on a very gray day in December, despairing over the impending snow storm that was threatening in the horizon when a raspy voice recited close to my ears :

The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.

From the poem Snow-Bound by John Greenleaf Whittier.

I grew up hearing poetry and songs of Tagore my entire childhood, however, poetry does not get as much attention here as it did when I was a student. My delight at hearing someone reciting lines extempore to describe the gloom outside was perhaps palpable. The speaker was an older lady who pointed outside and said, “Isn’t that how it looks?” We got talking of course. We talked about her long teaching career, we talked about my initiation into poetry at an early age. We both lamented the dearth of poetry in people’s lives. She complimented my Indian jewelry and I complimented her ability to remember lines and use them aptly. She left with books but our conversation did not leave my memory.

An elderly gentleman came to me with a research question. During the course of our interaction, talk about his recently deceased wife came up. The research question took a backseat while he pulled out a gorgeous and happy picture of her and talked about the vivacity and life she projected on those around her. He could not believe she was no more. Their children give him devices and smart phones to stay in touch but he has no use for them. He likes to come to the library and talk to real people. I could tell he was lonely without his partner of many years and he wanted someone to listen to his memories of her. We found what he was looking for while he talked and I listened.

A very elderly man came one day wanting help in finding the cost of his house because did not have the technical expertise to look up on the computer. I don’t think I deserved all the gratitude he showed me after I helped him look up websites.

I helped a woman get information on hearing aids because she was losing her hearing. She asked my name. I gave her my name and said, “You don’t have to ask for me if you need help. Anybody here will be happy to help you.” She said, “No, I want to write in Customer feedback, how helpful you have been.” She did.

While doing my job, I seem to touch people’s lives as they touch mine. This is what life is all about. Interaction with fellow humans, exchange of ideas, accepting differences and being graceful in relationships with each other.

There are countless example of human connection and kindness in my personal life and my professional life. So I recounted those as I wrote to my niece. I gave her the world I see, I gave her MY reality and told her the driving force in this world, despite all that she sees and hears, is still love. Her job, along with her peers, will be to spread the love to every corner of the earth and I keep the faith that they will. In a few generations, the playing field will be level.