On my Profile Photo

Yes, those are my hands. They're covered in mehendi, which is henna paste applied and allowed to dry. It's a decorative art that's thousands of years old and is practiced in many countries for different reasons. In India it's typically associated with special occasions having to do with transecndence and transformation. When I've asked about it, some people have told me it also has to do with warding off the evil eye.

Mine was done in India for the occasion of the reception that Mowgli's parents threw for us last year. A cousin's 13-year-old daughter did the honors; she had a book of patterns with her and let me pick out what I liked, then did the work freehand. She had premixed tubes with tiny tips; she did my hands and feet in the space of an hour.

On my wrists are gold bangles; some are mine, some are my mother-in-law's. I also wore a combination of necklaces, some hers, some mine. The mix appeals to me both in terms of the symbolism of the joining of families, and the trust implicit in letting someone else wear your special-occasion jewelry.

The last of the mehendi wore off three weeks after it was applied. It was still clearly visible when we came back to the States, and a lady in one of the airports asked me if we had just gotten married when she spotted it. I think I said no, it was just a reception, even though it was tempting to say yes. It certainly felt like a wedding to me.

Ring

A while back I did a post on my Indian hey-I’m-a-married-lady necklace, so today I’m giving my ring equal time.

To call it a ring is somewhat inaccurate -- it’s actually two rings fused together. Ring One, the engagement part, has the diamond in it, and as you can see, it's not a traditional engagement ring. That’s one reason I love it, and it’s also why the wedding band is a duplicate -- there was just no way to get a regular wedding band to go with it.

Ring Two was made by a talented local jeweler using the trusty and ancient lost-wax process. The sapphire was cut to match the diamond, but I selected the color of the stone, which was surprsingly dificult, as sapphires come in a wide range of blues as well as pinks, oranges, greens, violets, browns, and clear. A few days before the wedding, the jeweler fused them together, leaving me feeling disturbingly light-handed. Silver just can't match the reassuring heft of platinum.

Speaking of platinum, the majority of it comes from South Africa. The sapphire is most likely from Thailand, Sri Lanka or Madagascar; the diamond, again probably from South Africa. The origins of these materials are difficult to trace, however I can tell you that Mowgli made sure the diamond was not a blood diamond.

From various parts of the world, the ring was cobbled together, made its way to St. Louis, and was selected by my husband. With no help from me, I might add.

Ah, the symbolism, where do we start? Two becoming one, a meandering loop of metal joined to another meandering loop of metal, a light stone and a dark stone, the imperfection of the joint that’s only visible from the inside. Mowgli chose one part, I chose the other. I wasn't there when he selected it, but he had my guidelines in mind -- no huge stones, bezel or flush setting because I'm klutzy, white metal.

And we have me, born and raised in the United States, and my husband, born and raised in Southern India, and somehow meeting and melding. It’s as much of a mystery as exactly where the stones and metal of the ring originated, and I care much more about the fact that it all came together than the whys and hows. Now it’s on my hand, and he’s in my life, and he and it make me happy pretty much every time I look at either one.

Lunchtime Walkabout

On Friday I made good on my promise to myself to stop paying ridiculous prices for mediocre produce, and went to Soulard Farmers Market on my lunch hour. It’s in one of the oldest sections of the city, a French-steeped enclave of three-story, Mansard-roofed, all-brick wonderment. For $10, I bought 10 pounds of potatoes, three pounds of Fuji apples, two pounds of sweet potatoes, two zucchini, seven bananas, a dozen brown eggs from chickens that don’t live in cages, and a beef stick.

Back in the car, enjoying my salty, meaty snack, I realized I’d only been away from the office for half an hour, and wasn’t ready to go back. There’s been some stress there lately, and I need my midday break more than ever. Also, Terry Gross was interviewing Leonard Cohen on the radio, and there was no way I wanted to miss that.

And that’s how I decided to go lunchtime walkabout. Be a tourist in my own town.

I pointed my car north on Broadway and started driving. Office buildings and freeway entrances quickly gave way to 18th-century warehouses with antiquated loading docks facing the street and company names painted on their brick flanks in massive block letters. There were a few “gentlemen’s clubs,” a motorcycle chop shop called “Biker’s Paradise,” a tattoo parlor, and many more warehouses. Then the brick buildings gave way to more modern structures, and I got bored and decided to turn west.

I spotted a beige-colored church and made my way toward it, doglegging to find a way over the highway between me and it. Holy Trinity, a German Catholic establishment dating to 1898, and still in great shape. I thought about going in, but felt more inclined to keep driving.

I spotted another church, and as I got nearer, I could see windows broken, including some in the huge rose window that is now only partially stained glass. The shutters of the belfry in disrepair, even some of the stone newel posts out front worn down to nubs from their original cone-shaped prettiness. But even with all that, church buses, a healthy building next door, signs of a community.

Another church, another meandering drive toward it. Plywood sheets over most of the places where stained glass used to be. The lettering on the sign out front indicating a soup kitchen, maybe. No buses, no real signs of life, German etched in stone and the year 1896.

And that’s when I started to cry. Not bawling, mind you, just weepy sadness, thinking about the people who built these places, the hope they must have had, the slow slide into decrepitude that must have led to the plywood, the death of countless communities all over this area of the city.

I was married in a church not far from these – St. Stanislaus Kostka, completed in 1880, built by Polish immigrants, and saved during the 1970s by a community of stubborn Polacks who poured their hearts into renovating the church and building a community center – with little help from the Archdiocese. They all live miles and miles away, and they come into the city every Sunday, and many other days, to celebrate Mass, hold Easter egg hunts and meetings, and plan for the future.

Why? How? So many churches in the area are dead – what made this one, and the first one I saw, different? Was it the collective temperament of the community? One charismatic leader? General histories are available online, but timelines and blurbs can’t possibly capture the alchemy that must have been necessary.

I knew I was near St. Stanislaus, but I wasn’t sure which direction to turn, and at any rate, my time was up. It was enough to know it was there, and feel grateful that it lived. I found myself going south on Jefferson, still a bit sad, but refreshed.

Wedding Traditions Masala

Last night, we were happily included in the wedding celebration of a friend who is of Lebanese descent and was marrying a Turkish man with whom she operates a wonderful restaurant.

We were running late due to an unfortunate combination of scant sleep, a canine incident, and concern over our appearance (the event was at the Ritz, yikes). Fortunately, my on-the-way observation that I've never been to a wedding that started on time proved accurate, and we arrived just in time for the bride's entrance to Handel's "Entrance of the Queen of Sheba."

The ceremony was brief and power-packed with meaning and tradition. There was a reading from Kahlil Gibran -- the slightly counterintuitive one about don't stand in my shadow, you can't grow in the shade and so forth. Next, there was a repetition of traditional Western vows over the exchange of rings.

But then, in succession, was a pair of traditions that were moving in their depth and simplicity. First, a Turkish tradition: the red ribbon that was attached to the rings was cut into pieces by the bride and groom and given to the members of the wedding party. If there was an explanation, I didn't hear it, but I took it to be a literal binding of the couple to the support of their closest friends.

Just now, my husband Mowgli (not his real name) brought me the program, which thoughfully explains that the cutting of the red ribbon makes the marriage official.

Then, a Lebanese tradition: A call-and-response blessing involving the entire audience. The officiant told us that we should stand and raise our right hands, and repeat the phrase, "God bless you" when indicated. We the audience were called upon to say it three times, and each time, it felt both powerful and meaningful.

Whenever the assembled witnesses are asked to give their support of the couple being joined, I am profoundly moved, because I think couples need all the help and love they can get. Last night was no exception, and I think it may have been the most elegant occurence of such a tradition.

Thali

Jewelry looms large in South Indian culture, and marriage is perhaps one of the easiest places to see exactly how large. Among the rituals that take place around betrothal is the groom’s family’s presentation of a thali (TALL-ee) to the bride. It’s a necklace, a long, thick gold chain connected to a string of beads and amulets that signifies the woman’s married status as well as the traditions of the family she’s marrying into. Mine has two discs imprinted with the image of Lakshmi, the goddess of material and spiritual wealth and prosperity.

Mowgli and I have done many things out of sequence, and so I received my thali from my in-laws three weeks after our Western wedding. On the other side of the world, my mother-in-law had purchased it, along with another necklace, several saris, bangles, earrings, and an outfit called a churidar, in anticipation of the wedding. These preparations were comforting; I had been worried about the family accepting me, but the moment I heard my Amma-to-be was going shopping for me, I realized I could relax.

Here in the U.S., a co-worker of Mowgli’s recommended a sari blouse seamstress. Because they are tight, they tend to be custom-made from fabric purchased at the same time as the nine yards that comprise the majority of the garment. Once the blouses were ready, I got a sari-wearing lesson, and the in-laws, Mowgli and I went to the local Hindu temple on a date that was selected for its auspiciousness, with me in an auspiciously yellow sari and Mowgli in new clothes.

As on any other temple visit, we removed our shoes, washed our feet (there’s a low shower for that), and went up to the main altar, where a priest said a special blessing over the thali and Mowgli put it around my neck. The whole process took perhaps five minutes, a far cry from the usual days of ceremonies around Indian weddings. But the brevity didn’t make it any less momentous for me; even without understanding everything about thalis, I know they symbolize commitment just as surely as my wedding ring does.

And just like a wedding ring, a thali is worn constantly. When I asked a masseuse in India if I should take mine off, she very excitedly said “no, no, no, don’t do that,” waving her hands around and looking horrified that I would suggest such a thing.


Recently I’ve been unable to wear my thali because of a (harmless, non-contagious) rash, and its absence has been unsettling after over a year of wearing it nearly 24-7. It has heft and presence and even sound (the two tiny-tiny Lakshmi, as my niece calls them, make a nice friendly jangle against the central bowl-like piece). The soft gold beads bear the marks of wear, just like my wedding ring. And similarly to my ring, I look at it and noodle with it throughout the day, often semi-consciously. It reminds me of my commitment to Mowgli and his family, and it takes me back to the moments in the temple just before he put it on me.

At the temple, I sometimes see women touching their thalis to the four sides of an altar as they walk around it, and that makes me want to know more about its religious functions. But for now, I’m content in the knowledge of what it means to me, and what it says about my mother- and father-in-law’s faith in their son’s choice.