Tiny petals

scattered suns

a patch of newly

mown grass

alternating lighter

darker greens

daily notes

I write in thought

passing

In the pink

blossoms

of rhododendrons

the tiny bee

above

the blue sky

I reach

to touch

it

“Around us, life bursts forth with miracles—a ray of sunshine,

a leaf, a caterpillar... raindrops. If you live in awareness, it is easy

to see miracles everywhere.”*

“When you walk and you are 100 percent concentrated, the joy you

get from the steps you are taking is much greater than the joy you

would get without concentration.”*

My realization is, “To walk in awareness may come naturally, or it may come by a conscious choice. It is an alternative to focusing on the purpose, the direction, the progress, and the arrival at a destination—awareness lives in the moment.”

* Thich Nhat Hanh, The Pocket Thich Naht Hanh (Boston: Shambhala Publications, 2012), 4.

* Ibid., 9.

* Thích Nhat Hạnh is a Vietnamese Buddhist monk, teacher, author, poet and peace activist who at the time of the writing of the quoted book was living in exile in southwest France.

At one of the Senior Center’s big, round tables for bingo, the caregiver to my right asked me a question I’ve forgotten. But it led to her interest in my being in India (where and why). As bingo was about to start, to end the conversation I simply replied that I have a Substack. Her curiosity kept the conversation going though. “What is the name?” And before I could reply she then asked me what I did in India and where did I live when I was there. I replied to her second question first and wrote Meherabad* on the napkin that she had given me. She searched on her phone and found it. Then she repeated her earlier question. “What did I do?” I gave her my actual Substack id. She found it and showed me the screen with a photo from “A Boy Named Lakhan Part One.”* Then I went on the explain that I also had written a book. She asked for the name and told me she would order it. I smiled. By then, the caller’s voice could be heard: “O 25... 25 in the O row.”

Periodically I have an opportunity to share information about my career as a writer. This day was a good day.

My realization is, “When a feeling of pleasure comes from recognition, it has a way of lingering, prompting gratitude for one’s holding to a choice in life.”

* Meherabad. The site of Avatar Meher Baba’s Tomb-Shrine (Samadhi) and site of world pilgrimage as well as His early primary residence, ashram, and headquarters of His activities until 1944; now overseen by the Meherabad Trust.

* My Substack site can be found at www.purelyprema.com and my book reference is: A Flower for God: A Memoir, Prema Jasmine Camp (Seattle, WA: Wilson Duke Press, 2021).

In mid-April 2025, after a seven-and-a-half-month pilgrimage to Meherabad,* I returned home to Washington State in the US, where I have resided for four-and-a-half years. Initially grateful to no longer need a car, I have only walked here, enjoying my strolls through the nearby neighborhoods and delighted by the continuous scattering of buttons of yellow flowers growing in the grass between the sidewalk and the boulevard. This past summer’s walks, however, offered me a new kind of enjoyment. It was on my daily excursions south to the mail shipping store, and north by the large regional library and four short blocks of stores, that I found hearts on the sidewalk.

My realization is, “Where there is a surprise without an explanation, the heart selects the message.”

* Meherabad. The site of Avatar Meher Baba’s Tomb-Shrine (Samadhi) and site of world pilgrimage as well as His early primary residence, ashram, and headquarters of His activities until 1944; now overseen by the Meherabad Trust.

You might enjoy the following story found in February 2023.

“If You Find A Heart ...”

the

patience

of

a new

leaf

is

the message

of

the moment

My older daughter’s living room has a bay window that overlooks broad, rough grass sloping down to the cul-de-sac. On the warm side of a large rock mid-way down, the annual yellow daffodils bloom by late April. Indoors, green-leafed plants fill the wide windowsill in a year-round garden, sharing greenery through the bare trees of autumn and the winter’s light snowfalls.

Recently, my daughter sent a sequence of photographs she had taken of the growth of the newest leaf on a plant that I didn’t remember seeing before. With my first look, I took a scrap of paper and wrote, “the patience.” At the time, I didn’t think about its meaning, but later I did.

Three large mature leaves are seen in the first photo. They are a glossy dark-green, a forest green. Their perimeters slightly curve away from the off-white main vein connecting each leaf’s stem to its outermost tip. And off that are smaller veins branching gently upward toward the perimeters, and even smaller veins branching off those. The stem of the newest leaf appears to attach to that of the mature leaf it lies on—how minute it must be. By the third and final photograph of the newest leaf’s growth, I discovered that my response, rather than being only to the horticulture of the plant, was my maternal awareness for how the newest leaf, while dependent on its attachment to the main stem, was asserting itself on its journey to maturity.

My realization is, “There is a replication in life of the journey from newness to maturity in many and various ways, that may, at times, unexpectedly offer awareness.

My realization is, “Within families, different generations may have different traditions, but there may be those that connect us through the coming years.”

* Meherabad. The site of Avatar Meher Baba’s Tomb-Shrine (Samadhi) and site of world pilgrimage as well as His early primary residence, ashram, and headquarters of His activities until 1944; now overseen by the Meherabad Trust.

You might enjoy the following stories found in December from earlier years.

“Bright and Cheerful”

“Blessings of Angel Visions at Christmas”

Every bed had mosquito netting over a metal frame that I tied back during the day. The pilgrim to my left, occupied with a book, kept hers fully down.

With only a narrow space separating our beds, her reserve prompted my restraint, and I didn’t say, “Good morning,” or even, “Jai Baba.”*

Called to the office to review my paperwork, I could only verify my first name. Learning that I had been incorrectly given the last name of my roommate, on my return, I took this unexpected opportunity to speak to her. For the past twenty-two years, we have had a close friendship as women who write with descriptive details, as women who write to share their feelings. Valeria and I write to be a part of each other’s lives, lives that are not distanced by the Atlantic Ocean, the Pyrenees Mountains, or even the northwestern coast of the Mediterranean Sea.

Through the Eyes of Valeria

“I am happy in Paros, which is one of the big Cycladic Islands in the middle of the Aegean Sea.* It pleases me in so many ways that are physical, visual, emotional, and cultural. It would be a difficult task to explain and express all that the island and this particular town are offering me these days, but first and foremost is a widespread beauty that comes from a very ancient culture, and a sense of harmony that is not lost and is still visible and admirable in small and bigger ways.

I walk every morning and evening to the top of the ancient Venetian Castle* of the thirteenth century, where previously a temple to Athena* had been built in the sixth century BCE!!!... a vast, breathtakingly open view onto the open sea from the top of the hill.

Steps of houses and churches are in white marble for which Paros has been, and is still, famous... houses are painted white... arches... archeological fragments everywhere... a small splendid museum... the noise of children playing, the beach close by...*”

My realization is: “An unexpected gift of friendship may begin years of sharing—crossing great land spaces and oceans in a leap that is easy for the heart.”

* Meherabad. The site of Avatar Meher Baba’s Tomb-Shrine (Samadhi) and of world pilgrimages as well as the Avatar’s early primary residence and ashram, and the headquarters of His activities until 1944; now overseen by the Meherabad Trust.

* Jai is a Sanskrit, Hindi word meaning hail, victory, glory. It is a common greeting in India when followed by one of the names of a Divine Incarnation, as in, “Jai Baba.”

* The Aegean Sea is an elongated embayment (a recess in a coastline forming a bay) of the Mediterranean Sea between Europe and Asia. Paros is a Greek island in the central Aegean Sea.

The Cyclades is a group of Greek islands, southeast of the mainland, also located in the Aegean.

Many are popular holiday destinations known for their beaches, ancient sites, rugged landscapes, and traditional blue-and-white stucco towns overlooking the sea.

* The Venetian Castle in Parikia, the capital town of Paros, is a magnificent, superb place of ancient stones and columns in front of the vast expanse of the Aegean Sea.

* Athena is a prominent figure in Greek mythology, recognized as the goddess of wisdom, warfare, and handicraft, particularly weaving and pottery. She is also the patron goddess of the city of Athens.

* Personal correspondence.

A dove's call

in the sky so vast

from a topmost thin swaying branch

holding fast

PJC 2024

Three birds on a wire

one in a tree

when all flew away

I alone

own their memory

PJC 2024

The Tree

I am the tree,

the eagle comes to me

I am the tree,

the hawk comes to me

I am the tree,

the owl comes to me

I am the tree,

the wolves come to me

I am the shade

you come too

come sit by me*

T S 2024

* Author’s note: In 2021, I moved into a four-building apartment complex located in a small town in mid-central Washington State. Needing adjustments to be made to the venetian blinds, I had met TS, the supervisor of the complex who I later learned managed over 2,000 units. On the scheduled day, I stood nearby, interested, as we chatted amiably. Our friendship grew slowly as I learned what interested him—eagles.

I noted his awareness of nature. In conversation by a tree towering above us one day, he had looked up and said, “I am the tree... and then continued with the next eight lines of the poem. When he ended and paused, I spoke, “That is a poem, and I want to publish it.”

TS wrote lines one to nine.

I wrote lines ten and eleven...

because... I come to that tree.

too... to sit.

My realization is, “Poets are everywhere, and discovered when they open their hearts and share their inner voices.”

That was when I made a first call to Pat Schneider inquiring about her writing workshops. It ended with my telling her that I wanted to join hers; I would write with Pat for ten years. Thirty years later, with a pre-publication copy of my book, A Flower for God,* in hand, I visited her. “Would you like to read this,” I asked, but she replied, “Just put it in my hand once it’s published.”

Pat passed before I could do that, yet it ended only any more opportunities to be with her in person, for her influence on me remains to this day.

To grow in craft is to increase the breadth of what

I can do, but art is the depth, the passion, the desire,

the courage to be myself and myself alone.

PS 2003*

September Light

The September light moves in and my mind starts filling with images, wishes and dreams of Greece. The sea at this time of year so gentle and villages regaining their true state of being… but I am here, sitting by my window, sorting out old scraps of paper with words scribbled upon them in past years…

Sounds of tractors below my open windows, the fields are ready to be plowed after having been so hardened by the long drought

At Assisi, tall horse chestnut trees frame the curving road that circles the ancient stone walls encircling the town, their thick manes swaying. Trees that create a rich green canopy that will soon turn to enchanting gold and rust.

So suddenly summer ends and one starts longing for the presence of the sun.

Valeria 2024*

March Night

The waxing moon is visible in a sky past pale blue. Hair strands, blowing, frame my face.

I’m seated on a tree-stump chair where I’ve laid a scrap of towel across.

Above me, leaves of the chiku tree are slightly shifting, the second crop of fruit since picked.

A chime hangs from the open metal stair grid above me that reaches the third floor porch where

I do not go, afraid of heights. My kitchen light alone is visible out here.

Across the main road, two buildings away, the voices of children tell me that there are several.

The planet to the west can now be seen. Soon, dim stars.

I wish I could sleep out here…

it is so peaceful.

PJC 2024

My realization is, “Friendship crosses all boundaries of time, place, and individuality.”

* In A Flower for God: A Memoir, Prema Jasmine Camp (Seattle WA: Wilson Duke Press, 2021), 37.

* Writing Alone and with others, Pat Schneider, (UK: Oxford University Press, 2003), 22.

* Personal correspondence.

BEGINNING

In 1966, my then husband Paul and I arrived in Luxembourg to tour Europe. In a 4HP Renault station wagon, we headed southwest to Paris, renting by the Seine River near Notre Dame, and then continuing on to the English Channel, to St. Malo, for a tour of the full coast of Brittany. The Pyrenees drew us south for a cave tour (not Lascaux as that was closed), followed by our heading east toward Grasse and the Mediterranean coast. Fifty-eight years later, I have discovered that we unknowingly passed by Arles, where, at his home, Dutch painter Vincent Van Gogh painted his world-famous Sunflowers. I now consider this a major omission. In response, I'm writing about Van Gogh.

MIDDLE

In May 1888, Dutch painter Vincent Van Gogh, who chose to sign his paintings simply as Vincent, wanting to be known by his first name since he felt that French people had trouble pronouncing Van Gogh,* left Paris to move to Arles, in southern France, to establish an artists' community. Renting four rooms, he was soon joined by his friend Paul Gauguin—painter, sculptor, and writer. Vincent's hanging of a sunflower still life canvas in Gauguin's bedroom prompted his appreciation, and then knowing that he was on the right track, Vincent created a series of sunflower still life paintings that now hang in three major museums* around the world.

He wanted to be known as the painter of sunflowers, and he is—globally. Looking at my computer's view of my favorite Sunflowers still life, painted in 1889, and seen on the Van Gogh Museum site,* I listed my descriptions of Vincent's flowers.

Curious, Energetic, Alive, Independent, Excited, Enthused,
Eager, Uncombed, Unique, Adventuresome, Dance-like, Strong

Vincent said that his sunflowers symbolized "gratitude," as they are so portrayed in his triptych Woman Rocking the Cradle* that honors the comforting mother figure in the middle panel and Sunflowers as the two side panels.

END

In the first year of my relocating to America, to a small apartment on my town's boulevard, I took a daily walk on a nearby street. Each day I observed its houses, the yards, the grass... but also the plantings of bushes and flowers, and I looked to see whether there were any tricycles left on the sidewalks or, entertaining to me, any of the children’s chalk drawings. Occasionally, in passing, I would call out a "Hello." That was how I met a retired military veteran who had grown the sunflower I walked under. It was inside a white picket fence-surrounded yard of almost all flowers that showed "artistic vision” and “horticultural mastery"—descriptions I have borrowed from a garden show I once attended to give him his due. I now only occasionally walk this street; yet when I do, it is always with anticipation as I approach "Flowers Corner."

My realization is, "What appears to have been a loss from years ago, may, in time, bear fruit of full and comforting appreciation, and especially of 'gratitude.'"

* https://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/art-and-stories/stories/all-stories/van-goghs-letters.

* Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam, Netherlands; Sompo Museum of Art, Tokyo, Japan; The National Gallery of London.

* https://www.vangoghmuseum.nl/en/art-and-stories/stories/all-stories/5-things-you-need-to-know-about-van-goghs-sunflowers

* Woman Rocking the Cradle, La Berceuse (Woman Rocking a Cradle; Augustine-Alix Pellicot Roulin, 1851–1930), https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/437984.

During their July visit, I was in residence in mid-central India at Meherabad.* When my brother's photos began arriving, the more he sent, the more I lived with their anticipation and then their travels. One photo was taken from the top of the uncle’s driveway. Dense trees can be seen across the valley, the trees being interrupted only by the belt of the town, and farther on where the varying grays distinguish unending mountains. Closer, at the outer edge of the driveway, Budda is seen sniffing the short, dry grass that is edged by tan and rust-colored leaves. On either side of the dirt drive, two trees tilt toward one another, the tips of their leaves barely touching to frame a blue sky.

In another photo, my brother pauses his walk on a narrow downhill road to look at small white flowers. Looking beyond them, I see scattered, flat-topped stones on light brown dirt. He walks toward mountain peaks—farther away than the row of fir trees ahead—that, shaped as a V, descend to an intersection in the road.

In another photo, I see my sister-in-law’s artist tools on a cloth on the rough ground, while from another photo, I learn that on other days, she puts them on a table. That’s why in a photo with wonderful painterly potential, I am confidently certain that though my sister-in-law is not in it, she is seated nearby on a chair, or on the ground, with her drawing pad on her lap.

As I steadily received these photos, there came a turning point when I changed from a viewer into a participant. In my imagination, I was in southwestern Oregon with them, and I began writing!

One

The abrupt and massive stone juts seem epic as the dominant

character against which the ocean, at low tide, makes a long run

toward the tree population. Always failing then retreating, without

having learned its lesson... it’s an act made in effort, not in conquest.

The woman, so small against the ocean she can see but cannot measure,

silently acknowledges the greatness she stands before, barefooted,

in unblinking reverence.

Two

Inner quiet
Outer quiet
How necessary nature is...
An opening into a world of leaves—a country of light
and rain, selectively received on the floor of the woods.
I walk there.
I could walk there in a time of touching... leaf by leaf
and bark, and breathing in...
deeply.
Such breathing in
of woodsy smells,
a sign to bow before for truth

Three

And I,
with walking stick,
hat, and backpack—for a few
essentials...
I came to know the land and water as never before
as its privacy was opened to me... and in my reflecting,
I found God had sent an experience that swelled
my awareness of my soul.

Four
Each afternoon, I passed the woman in the red
top, but she never noticed, as her back was to me.
But I noticed.
Each day all that she brought was placed

at the same location.
As if the land she shared with the dried and flattened

grasses was in a room of her home.
Perhaps it was.
Perhaps the sky, that I noted as blue, was blue because

she had painted it.

My realization is, "By imagination, we may experience where others have been, and newly discover ourselves."

* Meherabad. The site of Avatar Meher Baba's Tomb-Shrine (Samadhi) and site of world pilgrimage as well as His early primary residence, ashram, and headquarters of His activities until 1944; now overseen by the Meherabad Trust.

Call Me by My True Names: The Collected Poems of Thich Nhat Hanh* was first published in 1993. The book and I have since parted, but I kept two poems of awareness that prompted a special response. From reading each of the complete poems, "In the Forest" and "Twenty-Four Brand-New Hours," presented below in excerpts, I became one with the leaf, one with the living forest—I became the sunshine.

In the Forest
The sunshine is the leaves.
The leaves are the sunshine.
The sunshine is no different from the leaves.
The leaves are no different from the sunshine.*

Twenty-Four Brand-New Hours
Waking up this morning, I see the blue sky.
I join my hands in thanks
for the many wonders of life; ...
The forest becomes my awareness
bathed in sunshine.*

By 2012, I wanted to know more about Buddhist teachings. I purchased The Pocket Thich Nhat Hanh,* which is now held together with a rubber band. I circled full paragraphs, or their parts, that drew my eyes to what I could understand, or visualize. These were the jumping-off points to new understanding. I remembered the comment of a friend, a poet as I was, who had once said, "You write at the level of the insects," and I felt the "rightness" of her perception.

From The Pocket Thich Naht Hanh:

          A Life of Miracles
          Around us life bursts forth with miracles—a glass of
          water, a ray of sunshine, a leaf, a caterpillar, a flower,
          laughter, raindrops. If you live in awareness, it is easy
          to see miracles everywhere. *

          Thich Nhat Hanh

From A Flower for God: A Memoir

          When We Met
          A beech tree was my mother.
          I knew a man raised by a birch.
          The locust has thorns and a bridal veil of blossoms.
          Put a rope swing on the maple. It's your red umbrella.*

          PJC 1985

My realization is, "Awareness may be compared to a single door that when opened reveals one hundred open doors.”

* “Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh is a global spiritual leader, poet, and peace activist, renowned for his powerful teachings and bestselling writings on mindfulness and peace.” https://plumvillage.org/about/thich-nhat-hanh/biography.

* Thich Nhat Hanh, Call Me by My True Names: The Collected Poems of Thich Nhat Hanh (Berkeley, CA: Parallax Press, 1993).

* Ibid., stanza 1.

* Thich Nhat Hanh, "Twenty-Four Brand-New Hours," in Call Me by My True Names: The Collected Poems of Thich Nhat Hanh (Berkeley, CA: Parallax Press, 1993), stanza 1.

* Thich Nhat Hanh, The Pocket Thich Nhat Hanh (Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications, 2012).

* Ibid., 4.

* Prema Jasmine Camp, A Flower for God: A Memoir (Seattle WA: Wilson Duke Press, 2021), 78.

My ground-floor apartment entrance has two front doors. The first is an iron grid that is padlocked when I am away and the second is a double wooden door with distinctively carved vertical squares. This door opens to one large room. My office is to the immediate right, with a folding table for the computer and a coffee table for the printer. A low-cost hydraulic chair is functional but without the comfort of my Steelcase chair in America.

The windows are patterned glass, with the two largest having a combined width of 12 feet practically the width of the entire west-facing wall. During the summer months of March through May, two pink bedsheets purchased years ago are drawn from early afternoon to near-dusk. When the outside temperature is reaching toward 93° F, the inside temperature remains lower and the light is dimmer. With the ceiling fan turning and a small humidifier running, the room temperature is pleasant.

A foot from the back wall, my single bed faces the west windows. At the foot is a folded Jaipuri quilt,* loaned by a friend who knew I would be cold at night when the days' warm temperatures dropped. Between the bed and the office, two dark-brown plastic chairs are used only occasionally for visits. Most of the time, one holds my clothes for the next morning and the other the dried clothes as I take them off the laundry line strung overhead between curtain brackets. The apartment had only one small wall-mounted mirror—until a week before my departure last May, when I purchased a full-length one. It hangs in the front room to reflect the lowered light of the late afternoon. When I am seated with my back to the windows, relaxing, I am able to enjoy that soothing light through its mirrored reflection. And mornings, I can now fully view my appearance.

In the adjoining, smaller room, two counters extend at right angles from a small and deep corner sink. The small space between one counter and the small refrigerator is just large enough to allow the door to be opened. Plastic storage boxes of varying sizes reveal their contents from shelves of gray stone that rise to an open hand's width distance from the ceiling. To enter the last and smallest room, where sun streams through the five- foot. east-facing window, a brightly-colored towel the size of the door opening is pushed to the side. Centered in the counter of that room is a small sink used to wash both dishes and clothes. A power-outage inverter sits under the counter to the left and my single, medium-size suitcase is under the sink. At the end, a door opens to reveal the one step up to a shower, followed by a second step up to the toilet.

I'll be leaving in May when temperatures can rise to as high as 115° F. I'll be leaving behind a nightly greeting to the moon when dusk has resolved into the darkness that clearly defines the shape of the moon. I'll be leaving behind my daily observation of the chiku fruit ripening on my neighbor's tree that grows in the front corner of her compound separated from mine by a 4 ft. wall. More than a divider, the wall also serves as her two cats' walkway as they languidly walk to the backside dirt lane.

What is hardest for me is leaving Lakhan, and perhaps for Lakhan, loosing me too. I count on our success of having been apart for 5 1/2 months as this time I'll be returning sooner.

My realization is twofold, "When we spend time in a relationship with where we live a part of it, and there is a change, it may be more than the memory we depend on, it may be a deeper reliance that what was once so good will return."

* The site of Avatar Meher Baba's Tomb-Shrine (Samadhi) and of world pilgrimages as well as the Avatar’s early primary residence and ashram, and the headquarters of His activities until 1944; now overseen by the Meherabad Trust.

* A Jaipuri quilt, known as Jaipur "Razai" (for quilt), is a type of quilt that originates from Jaipur, a city in the Indian state of Rajasthan. It is unique with intricate designs, traditional Indian motifs, and vibrant colors, and often features traditional Indian textile techniques of hand-block printing, embroidery, and other traditions. They are often made of pure cotton, silk, or wool for durability, comfort, and warmth. And they are often handmade by skilled artisans who have been practicing traditional textile techniques for generations.

they were silent ones, not followed by the sound of heavy thunder, so I thought
the sky had to release the stressful energy of months of heat, excessive heat.

But now… how I welcome the sound of rain, its damp smell and the
grey low sky.

As soon as it started earlier on, I went to my little Rocca* garden to prune and
reduce the Rosemary bushes that were growing too much. I picked a ripe fig
from the tree that had been there when I began working on this small plot of
land, and enjoyed its sweet pulp. The rain began to increase, and I got totally
and happily drenched as I covered the short distance to my house!

It’s going to be such a good “stay home” day, conducive to thoughts,
memories, and thank you notes to the Beloved, perhaps some stretching
to help my muscles. Then a rich lunch of some sort, then a read of your
morning message with attention... later on.

My realization is, "An email from a friend may describe feelings, activities, and locale in such a way that they bring enjoyment to you, as if you too were there."

* Valeria's former house in Italy

Four mornings a week, my alarm sounds at 5:30. The compound is dark, except where light from a high-mounted security bulb casts its circle on the patio stones. I leave for the children's center by 8:15, with the straps of my backpack over both shoulders and the straps of two purses of different sizes over those straps and across one shoulder. Together, all three bags carry the items I'll need that morning for work with Lakhan. The smallest purse has my essentials of glasses, iPhone, and apartment key lanyard. The larger purse is for essentials for Lakhan. It has two small-size paper diapers, a three-inch round tin with treats, his purple plastic water bottle, his size 7 boots,* and two pairs of clean socks—one to wear and one that I stuff into the heel of each boot to keep both securely on his feet.

By 8:15, I unlock the gate to go to inside the center, a ten-minute walk during which I keep to the side of the road, as motorbikes and cars zoom by. The children walking to the center at the same time as I am are apt to join me for a short distance—until in kids' conversations and playfulness they move ahead, increasing their distance.

The information below was taken from my daily children’s center notes about Lakhan.

Sat. 12/09

1. vocalizes several sounds, after only one for days

2. at the tall mirror, sticks out his tongue for the first time, repeats. I stick out mine that he sees in the mirror and turns to look at my mouth and tongue

Tues. 12/12

1. uses his fist first time to knock on the washroom door

Sun. 12/31

1. In the small room, I put him on his back on the single bed and toss both legs up. Surprising me, his legs lower, hold there, then drop. I repeat. This time his legs stay up. He begins swinging them open and closed kicking. He's smiling. He vocalizes "ah" then "a"

2. Lakhan on the bed, lying face up. I pick him up by his heels, hold them high, then move them toward his head, and he's doing a backwards somersault. Then pull him into position again and repeat. Each time he breaks out in a smile

Mon. 01/01

1. On the bed I toss his legs up and repeat, putting my hands on his feet in the air. Eventually he puts his hands on his feet holding them. I keep smiling, repeating "Good Lakhan." I say that a lot

2. I move his legs up and down, faster and faster. He grins and vocalizes

3. He "bares his teeth" as if trying to smile. His eyes also scrunch up. He's gradually developing a "Lakhan personality"

4. Throughout the morning he walks forward, then backward, one of his latest accomplishments he keeps repeating

5. At lunch, I feed him. Then I put his hand under my hand holding the spoon then put food on the spoon, and guide it toward his mouth. He catches on and puts it in his mouth

Tues. 01/02 6. Lakhan goes up to Patrick (staff) who understands and puts his hands out palms up. Lakhan slaps them. They do this repeatedly, slapping each other's hands

Thurs. 01/04

1. I put him on the bed on his back and blow on his stomach. He grins and vocalizes. I repeat his sound each time he makes one

2. There is a large plastic box on the bed. I put him on his knees and he begins slapping it. He takes my hand and pushes it toward the box repeatedly to make my hand slap the box. He wants me to keep slapping the box and I do

3. I take him to the bottom of the six steps to the entrance, and we begin climbing. On my hands and knees behind him, I move his hands up and then his knees. After other activities, we return twice more to practice climbing the steps

4. We return to the small room. I close the door and walk Lakhan to the far wall. I move to the wall opposite him and motion him to come on his own. We do this repeatedly

My realization is, "Where there is a difference between the experience one brings to a volunteer opportunity, and what the opportunity requires, it may be that one's simply being present, and open to inspiration in the moment, is the key to success."

* The site of Avatar Meher Baba's Tomb-Shrine (Samadhi) and of world pilgrimages as well as the Avatar’s early primary residence and ashram, and the headquarters of His activities until 1944; now overseen by the Meherabad Trust.

"One morning in the second week, I had suddenly become aware of a smaller boy in the group of children in the five-to-six age range. He was noticeably not listening to the teacher and didn't have the materials the other children had. This smaller boy was always sitting. Was something wrong with his legs? I thought that perhaps I could be of help if I walked with him. I stepped among several children to move closer, and as I looked directly at him, I noticed that my look was returned. Reaching my hand out, I watched as he stood up and took several shaky steps toward me, then took my right hand. Moving his left hand into my left hand, and now taking his right one with mine, I guided him to stand directly in front of me. Asking the teacher for his name, with my back straight, I leaned slightly forward so Lakhan's hands were by his waist. We would move only if he took a step."*

By his third step, I quickly moved to stand beside him, then stepped back a bit so he was aware that he was the leader. Each time he stopped I made a mental note of what had drawn his attention. Then later each night I entered my notes into my computer. The earliest few lines had rapidly expanded to full-length pages.

Three and a half months later, Lakhan was walking independently on the playground, with me keeping within a few steps of him. At first, his favorite activity was watching the older children fold paper airplanes then send them soaring. He followed the flights with outbursts of laughter. Then we began to have our own activities. Our games included badminton and kick-and-return the big ball. In the badminton rules, I held his hand tightly beneath mine on the racket, dropped the birdie in front of the flattened surface, then strongly flicked the frame upward to send the birdie flying. Laughing and excited, Lakhan ran to it and I followed, as he expected me to repeat this from the new location. In the game of big ball, he would sit on the dirt with his legs spread wide while at a short distance I kicked the ball between them. With rapid hand movements that surprised me each time, he’d put his hands on the ball, look up to see if I was in the same place or had changed places—which I would do—and then with both his hands give the ball a strong push. Almost always, by his successful aim the ball reached me, and almost always, I remained surprised! He was surpassing my hopeful expectations!

In late March, as my departure date approached, I knew that I wanted to return in September to continue working with Lakhan. We had created a strong bond of friendship in which his curiosity had found a home in my creativity. This had become the strong foundation of our accomplishments together. While my success came from my intuitive guidance, Lakhan's came from following his own guidance unquestioningly, as I did mine.

I'll add a new thought that had occurred to me while I was writing this account. Lakhan has a sister who is about three years older and a brother who is about a year older. In all the years since he had been a baby, Lakhan had watched them walk with their parents while he had been carried. He was five when I met him. His siblings had sandals, he still went barefoot. Because his family lacked an understanding of what to do with him, he had become a kind of permanent baby. The boots* I purchased for him to practice walking on the playground with he now wore home each day, finally joining the family walkers.

The information below was taken from my daily children’s center notes about Lakhan.

Thurs. 11/30

1. Recognizes my face, stands up, takes 2 steps to me

Tues. 12/05

1. Reacts to self in tall mirror, moves face closer then farther away

2. Lying on the bed allows leg and arm exercises

3. Repeatedly pounds, pushes washroom door to be bathed

4. When being fed, puts hand on mine guiding spoon to his mouth

Mon. 12/12

1. Knocks on the washroom door with knuckles rather than holding his hand upside down and tapping with his fingernails

2. Drinks water from my small thermos cup using two hands. I put a small amount of water in cup. When he is ready for more, he reaches for my hand, pulls big cup toward him

This year, in February, I received an email from a friend. After seeing some photos of Lakhan that I had sent to her she wrote, "[In] the first photo you sent of him, he looked like a rag doll in your lap. Now he looks so happy."

My realization is, "When we find a heartfelt engagement in an unanticipated experience, may we offer simple thanks as we continue deepening our learning there."

* "A Boy Named Lakhan Part One," January 1, 2025, www.purelyprema.com.

https://purelyprema.substack.com.

* Boots are Lakhan's family's name for his trainers, the British name for American

sneakers.

This is a story of self-discovery and determination. It is the story of a five-year-old autistic boy who I met at a children's center at Meherabad,* in mid-central India, in November 2023. Mostly it is a story of trust and love.

In January 2019, my spiritual teacher* of sixteen years had told me that I was to sell my home (it was 1400 sq. ft.) and build a small one. By March 2021, the sale was accomplished, a deposit made on land, and I was living in a temporary apartment. Every morning I awoke at 5 a.m. to walk to the plot. On April 20th, I had just turned back as the sun's first rays broke free of the horizon's dim light. After pausing to watch the orange curve slowly rise, I had started homeward when again I was stopped, this time by my inner voice.* "You are being permanently reassigned to America." On May 21st, I landed at the international airport near my family’s home in the Northwest.

By late October 2022, I had received new guidance to return temporarily to Meherabad. I left in late January 2023 on a ten-week pilgrimage. I felt deeply grateful to return to its spiritual surroundings and the daily step into Samadhi, the small prayer building on the hilltop. At 78, I had found a new way to offer service, joining those who gathered at 6 a.m. for an opportunity to take part in the supervised cleaning of the small, inner sanctuary.

It was on my second pilgrimage, seven months later, from October 2023 to April 2024, that from my arrival at Meherabad, I had become a daily visitor to a children's center. Each morning, I arrived at 8:30, excited and full of hope that on that day I would find my way to more fully participate and make a difference. My learning kept increasing—about the children's activities and the staff's responsibilities for teaching, food preparation, bathing the young children, and supervising their outdoor activities. So far, I continued to be without a discovery of that perfect opportunity for me to more fully engage.

One morning during the second week, I had suddenly become aware of a smaller boy in the group of children in the five-to-six age range. He was noticeably not listening to the teacher and didn't have the materials the other children had. This smaller boy was always sitting. Was something wrong with his legs? I thought that perhaps I could be of help if I walked with him. I stepped among several children to move closer, and as I looked directly at him, I noticed that my look was returned. Reaching my hand out, I watched as he stood up and took several shaky steps toward me, then took my right hand. Moving his left hand into my left hand, and now taking his right one with mine, I guided him to stand directly in front of me. Asking the teacher for his name, with my back straight, I leaned slightly forward so Lakhan's hands were by his waist. We would move only if he took a step.

My realization is, "There is a role that each of us may play, perhaps having appeared from an inauspicious moment, that brings forth our joy."

* The site of Avatar Meher Baba's Tomb-Shrine (Samadhi) and of world pilgrimages as well as the Avatar’s early primary residence and ashram, and the headquarters of His activities until 1944; now overseen by the Meherabad Trust.

* Colonel Dinesh Chibber, my retired spiritual teacher.

* My inner voice began in June 1990 with the words, "My cup runneth over." (Ps. 23: 14).

Children circled you, flower-like,
Rowena, wild brown-eyed daisy, born in July;
Charles, on Christmas night,
a winter violet opening in north light.

When writing the poem, I had intuitively chosen flowers that would later describe both my mother and uncle. She became the president of the Alumni of Farmington State Teacher's College in Maine, and learned belly dancing in her forties. He became an Anah Shriner, a participant in many philanthropic activities, and enjoyed riding on a small motorbike in the Arab Patrol.

In a memoir written by my mother in her sixties, she described the roles that she and Charles had had as children at Christmas time when getting the tree.              

Rowena's Writings

"About fifty years ago, when I lived in the middle of Maine, choosing
the Christmas tree meant more than going to a vacant lot where the

trees are bound, wired together, and brought to the markets. We had

a pony named Beauty and a little sleigh so my father and brother,
armed with an axe and a lot of anticipation, [would leave] to find

the very best one [that] year. [They] started up across the snow-covered

back field to our woods – sleigh bells jingling. If there had been a fresh

snowfall it meant shaking the snow from the branches while Beauty's

impatience showed as she pawed the frozen ground. My brother would

always see the best tree ahead. My mother and I would watch from the

back bedroom window and finally see them coming down across the field."*

                                                                        Rowena Cramer – Xmas 1983

When I learned that after my aunt had passed my Uncle Charles had moved into an apartment in a city near where they had lived together in Maine, I secured his new address from my sister, who kept in touch with our cousins. In the years that I lived in spiritual training at Meherabad,* in mid-central India,  during the month of Christmas, I made Christmas cards at my home there and sent one of them to my uncle who, living in Maine, the most northern state on the east coast of the United States, experienced weather that was freezing and snowy. By contrast, the temperatures in Meherabad were in the low 70s, the days sunny, and the sky a big, blue bowl.

I wrote the five lines of my address on the front of the envelope. That, plus the Indian stamp would surprise him—as was my intent. He surprised me, too, however, when his Christmas card arrived at Meherabad! We continued exchanging wishes for a Merry Christmas until he passed. It was then that I learned he sent out over three hundred individually signed Christmas cards each year.

"Gladys Buswell Titcomb"*

Grandmother, you were steel once
under milk-white skin. In waves
of sun your hair hung
to your waist.

Your hands seeded beans
in straight, long rows and freed
crisp, embroidered pillowslips
from the wind’s fist.

Children circled you, flower-like,
Rowena, wild brown-eyed daisy, born in July;
Charles, on Christmas night,
a winter violet opening in north light.

You wished your hair weren’t thin;
it was fine as talcum.
You marked Bible verses with ribbon,
grosgrain ironed by your thumb.

Geraniums, red-hot cinnamons,
bloomed inside the farm kitchen window.
“What would the neighbors say?” you worried
as you swept dust out the back shed door. *

                                                             PJC 1984

My realization is, "When within our own larger family there is a distance that does not allow for getting to know one another, fortune may unexpectedly bring the right circumstance that creates a new and lasting bond of love.       

* Meherabad. The site of Avatar Meher Baba's Tomb-Shrine (Samadhi) and site of world pilgrimage as well as His early primary residence, ashram, and headquarters of His activities until 1944; now overseen by the Meherabad Trust.

* A Flower for God: A Memoir, Prema Jasmine Camp (Seattle WA: Wilson Duke Press, 2021) 37.

There are not only stately pines, but fragile flowers, like the orchids commonly described as too delicate for cultivation, which derive their nutriment from the crudest mass of peat. These remind us that, not only for strength, but for beauty,
the poet must, from time to time, travel the logger's path and the Indian's trail, to drink at some new and more bracing fountain of the Muses, far in the recesses of the wilderness.

                                                Henry David Thoreau

It is a little before eight in the morning and already warm in the forest, especially in the higher reaches where the branches are bathed in full sun. Here, on a well-traveled pathway, an old gray squirrel makes her way to the end of a limb. Gripping the thin wood with her powerful rear paws, she raises herself upright and patiently studies the familiar route and the gap she must cross to reach a branch in a neighboring tree. She is more than forty feet above the forest floor. A few moments later, head lowered, body coiled, tail twitching in anticipation, she is fully prepared to leap when a strange sound from somewhere below catches her attention. Her body instantly stills.

Peering downward through the spiny needles of the ancient white pine she detects movement and then catches sight of a boy running the old logging path, the rhythmic thump of his sneakers on turf and his steady, breathy grunts growing louder as he nears.

The boy has both arms held out like wings. As he runs, his slim fingers sporadically brush through the softened tips of new spruce or silently slip across the pale green faces of young birch trees. He is grinning as only a nine-year-old boy can from the thrill of being in the woods alone for the first time! All his previous ventures into the forest have been in the company of the old woman. She has shown him the way, leading, teaching him about the intricacies and many of the secrets of this wooded world that she owns. For the old squirrel the threat diminishes, but she patiently remains still—undiscovered—watching as the boy passes below.

Less than a minute later, the boy half-circles a large rock and runs straight into a thicket of young fir trees. He bends his arms at right angles, holding them up in front of his face as he squeezes through and emerges into a small clearing. At the center of the opening stands a Christmas tree-shaped blue spruce. Beyond is what he has come for: one of his most private, special places in the entire forest.

With a girth the width of a back and covered by a thick coating of moss, a long-dead cedar trunk projects horizontally into the clearing. Flopping onto the tree with his arms and legs slung to either side, the boy lowers his face onto the pungent soft surface and closes his eyes. He relaxes into the moment, gripped by an unexpected, tingling sensation that reaches the core of his thin body. The sensual and certainly pleasurable feeling is something he has felt before but still can't explain.

While momentarily affected by the sensation, in the fashion of most nine year olds he quickly gives in to an eruption of lethargy. He can only think, "I could stay like this for ...what ... forever? Well, maybe not. But this sure feels good right now. I just love it out here."

My realization from Paul's story is, "The woods offer sensory details to be felt by those who've never rambled there but who may feel their immediacy from these childhood memories."

* Henry D. Thoreau, The Maine Woods.
* Paul Sherburne, One Tree at a Time (Seattle, WA: Wilson Duke Press, 2011) vi–viii; see www.aboutpaulsherburne.com.

I love the mornings of sun that brighten and deepen the varying tones of green—of the leaves on the trees and bushes, the green skins of the apples hanging not far above my head as I walk through the neighborhoods near the boulevard. Between the lanes of traffic and the sidewalk, the border of grass is green almost year-round, with white clover heads and yellow hawkweed and the small flowers remembered as blue, or perhaps violet.

Having lived here for almost two years, one day the lyrics of a song came to mind. When had I last sung it? My parents were seven and eight years old when Irving Berlin wrote "Blue Skies" in 1926. Along the way, I had learned this catchy melody of love's power over sadness, when the heart once again becomes aware of the birds' songs and above—the big blue sky. 

Blue Skies

Blue skies smiling at me
Nothing but blue skies do I see

Blue birds singing a song
Nothing but blue skies from now on

Never saw the sun shining so bright
Never saw things going so right

Noticing the days hurrying by
When you're in love, my how they fly

Blue days, all of them gone
Nothing but blue skies from now on

Blue skies smiling at me
Nothing but blue skies do I see

Bluebirds singing a song
Nothing but blue skies from now on*

The day arrived when I moved from my temporary stay at my daughter's home into my apartment. In two rooms, with wide windows that opened to the east and to the west and provided a relaxing view of distant hills, I arranged a few carefully-selected pieces of new but basic furniture that faced what next needed my attention— uninterrupted white walls.

Wanting hominess, I asked my sister-in-law to paint the sun and my older daughter to take photos of the birds in her backyard, perching on their feeders, as seen through the double sliding-glass doors of her office. Both had agreed. My son-in-law brought the tools he needed to hang the art. "Golden Sun in a Blue Sky" went to where it is visible from behind the kitchen counter. "Eastern Bluebird on the Metal Perch" went above my bed, where every morning on waking, I tilt back my head and gaze.

My realization is, "The art of creativity can harmonize two seemingly unrelated situations experienced during vastly different periods of time."

* Information about Irving Berlin can be found at https://www.irvingberlin.com/. In his early years, he collaborated with lyricists, but for most of his catalog of over one thousand songs, he was both composer and lyricist. He is considered to be one of the greatest composers and lyricists of the twentieth century.

* A short history of "Blue Skies" may be found at: https://www.jazziz.com/short-history-blue-skies-irving-berlin-1926.

Well-loved country music singers Willie Nelson and Kenny Rogers sing "Blue Skies" at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nqjepfQZwzY

* Information about Virginia Cramer can be found at: https://virginiacramer.com/

Returning from India to live in America in May 2021, I found it to be a foreign culture for which I needed to make strong adjustments. I became both my counselor and my coach, as I was certified in each discipline.

National Public Radio (NPR) had been an important part of my earlier life, and now back in America, when in the kitchen I returned to listening. As I washed the dishes one morning, I also casually listened to an interview of a musician, finding it mildly interesting. I noted that he was about to play a song on the piano—serendipity, for Dave Frishberg,* the well-known American jazz pianist, composer, and lyricist, was about to capture my heart. His lyrics told a story, and within seconds, almost in disbelief, I said aloud, "I could memorize his songs." On the following day my daughter put his Classics album on my iPhone. Wearing headphones, I sing "Dodger Blue," naming all the baseball players. But my favorite is the romantic lyrical counseling of "Our Love Rolls On!*

Our Love Rolls On

The skies grow dark and the winds do blow and counting on tomorrow is at best touch and go but our love rolls on, our love rolls on.

You and I have a reason to try, we'll make it over the hill.

We survive and our love is alive cause our love grows stronger still, and it always will.

So, it's rain or shine, as the Fates decide, even though some trouble comes along for the ride, still our love rolls on.

We can rise above it cause our love rolls on, and on, and on.*

Another of his songs caught my fancy for its very difference. Across more than one generation, I was drawn to the assured voice of the extroverted young man in "I'm Hip." As he tells us about his life, I imagine his words as answers to a coach's open questions. In some way, those answers had reached Dave Frishberg, who shared them as a lyrical best-seller.

I'm Hip

See, I'm hip. I'm no square.
I'm alert, I'm awake, I'm aware.
I am always on the scene.
Makin' the rounds, diggin' the sounds.

Every Saturday night
With my suit buttoned tight and my suedes on
I'm gettin' my kicks
diggin' arty French flicks with my shades on.

I'm too much. I'm a gas.
I am anything but middle class.
Like, dig! I'm in step.
When it was hip to be hep ...*

My realization is, "Counseling by lyrics may comfort us, while lyrics drawn from coaching let us into another's life. Both may invite an exploration of ourselves." 

* “Long known as one of the outstanding jazz pianists, Dave Frishberg has, since the early 1980s, established himself as an internationally recognized composer and lyricist as well as a solo performer with a loyal following in both jazz and cabaret circles. Four of his albums have won Grammy nominations for best jazz vocal.” https://www.davefrishberg.net/long_bio.php

* Classics by Dave Frishberg: https://sonichits.com/video/Rebecca_Kilgore_&_Dave_Frishberg/Our_Love_Rolls_On?track=1.  https://lyricspond.com/artist-dave-frishberg/lyrics-im-hip.