Learned Helplessness

Author Paulo Coelho talks in his Blog about the issue of "Learned Helplessness," which seems a very fascinating subject.

For example, a person should be able to quit an abusive relationship or a stressful job, but a psychological condition known as Learned Helplessness may cause a person to feel totally powerless to change these circumstances.

The elderly may also express Learned Helplessness as they age and become passive towards life's circumstances, such as aging and illness.

This condition seems also very apparent when expressed by youth who are unable to cope with life and become unresponsive to their circumstances. For example, gang members, or those in extreme poverty who do nothing to overcome their life's circumstance, and instead accept it to their detriment. It is a very sad condition indeed, and it makes me pause, and become more compassionate towards individuals going through these challenges.

I savor glimmers of transcendence

By Ruskin Bond

http://www.csmonitor.com/2002/1205/p18s03-hfes.html

December 05, 2002

"If there be a heaven on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this!"

The words are inscribed over the entrance to the Hall of Special Audience, in the royal gardens of the Red Fort of Delhi, built by the Emperor Shah Jehan in the 17th century. It is a beautiful pavilion, the walls inlaid with jade and other semiprecious stones; and from the latticed windows one sees the waters of the river Jumna winding placidly across the plain.

In Shah Jehan's time, the river ran much closer to the fort, and I like to think that the emperor, when he found time, strolled along the ramparts of his palace while it was being built. And one evening, as the emperor gazed at the river, something happened to make him feel at peace with the world. He was so moved by the moment that he decided to build his private pavilion on that spot, inscribing on it those imperishable lines.

Such moments come to most of us - moments when we feel deeply moved or inspired, and when time seems to stand still so that we may savor and preserve in our minds a glimpse of eternity. They come but rarely, these glimmers - raindrops on a sunflower, or the fragrance of the first summer rain on parched earth, the song of the whistling thrush emerging like a sweet secret from a dark forest. Or the joy after hearing a child's laughter: moments when heaven is here, compensating for the irritations and petty disasters humans create around themselves. When all the wars are done, a butterfly will still be beautiful.

When I was only 17, I wanted desperately to be a writer. My early efforts did not meet with much success. No one encouraged me or raised my flagging spirits. At the time I was living with relatives in Jersey, one of the Channel Islands off England, and earning £3 a week as a clerk in a grocery store. Late one evening, when I was feeling particularly discouraged, I went for a walk along the seacoast. The tide was in, the sea was rough; and the wind, which was almost a gale, came pouring out of the darkness like a mad genie just released from his bottle. Great waves crashed against the sea wall, and the wind whipped the salt spray across my face. I felt like a small bird caught in a tempest.

And then something touched me, something from the elements took hold of my heart, and the depression left me. I felt as free and powerful as the wind - quite capable of building my own fort, my own private pavilion of words. And I spoke to the genie in the swirling darkness and called out: "Yes, I will be a writer, and no one's going to stop me!"

Well, more than 40 years later, the writing is still happening, though at times it's still a struggle. But whenever I feel like giving up, I try to recapture that moment when earth and sea and sky were one; and then the writing begins again.

Time, place, and emotion must coalesce, hence the rarity of such occasions. Delight cannot be planned for - it makes no appointments! Almost always, it's the unexpected that brings us joy. It may only be a shaft of sunlight, slanting through the pillars of a banyan tree; or dewdrops caught in a spider's web; or the sudden chatter of a mountain stream as you round the bend of a hill. Or an emperor's first glimpse of a winding river and the world beyond.

The Power of Invisible People

~ By Steve Roberts*

This Easter Sunday, April 16, 2006, is the 40th birthday of my younger son, whom I've never met. And it's more than possible that I never will. Yet, he is one of many people whose invisible presence continually encourages me to pay attention to who I am.

There are a number of old cellar holes on our farm. They date back well over a century and represent lives I can only imagine. I daydream of walking across America without a nickel. It's an expression of my heart's calling to give myself completely to the moment, moving through every fear of lack and need. Obviously I
needn't wear out a dozen pair of boots to achieve that goal. Still, I'm aware that if I actually did embark on such a pilgrimage, demanding as it might be, it wouldn't compare to the challenges faced by those who, 200 years ago, attempted to survive on a Vermont mountainside.

The most conspicuous of these early settler foundations—the remnants of a home and barn—is part of a several acre sweep of pasture and orchard in which, over the past few years, I have built an ever- growing family of sculptures out of stone. Among my motivations, I've discovered as I go, is honoring all who were stewards of this
land before I and my family took on the job. I know the names of virtually none of those who precede me, just as I don't know the name of my younger son, since at birth he was given up for adoption. However, what I feel in relationship to both them and him is gratitude for their part in deepening my connection to the entire
human family.

Please don't confuse my stone whatchamacallits with the creative expressions of artists like Vermont's Dan Snow, a master at building in stone without mortar. The Greek philosopher Pythagoras called a stone frozen music. That makes Dan Snow a composer of symphonies so jaw droppingly beautiful, if I were 30 not 60 I'd pester him like a drunken mosquito to let me be his apprentice. Fortunately, like just
about everything else in life, I don't have to know a whole lot about stones to experience the joy of playing with them.

As it is, Dan and I have never met, though that doesn't prevent me from feeling his influence. Patience, attunement, playfulness—these are but a few of the qualities his creations evoke in me as I dabble in my own frozen music.

Being an author draws to me the responses of untold numbers of people I'll never meet in person, every one of them a gift, believe it or not—even those who think I'm nuts.

Through these many so-called strangers, the universe showers me with kindness, one form of which is an occasional fat wink that sends a chill up my spine.

My younger biological son was born in a New York State village located about half way between Rochester and Syracuse. Some 20 years later in a Rochester restaurant, a waiter of college age approached me and said, "Boy, I've got a friend in Syracuse who looks just like you."

Then, about five years ago two friends of mine were having lunch in Amherst, Massachusetts (the home of my beloved alma mater, it so happens), when they became transfixed by another patron who was a youthful clone of me down to the way he walked, sat, gestured and ran his fingers through his hair.

I wish many things for this man whose invisible presence graces my life, including that he too hears the universe whispering: "Hello, playmate."


* Steve Roberts is the author of Cool Mind Warm Heart, a collection of essays, stories, and photographs of stone sculptures he builds on his Vermont farm. He can be found on the web at CoolMindWarmHeart.com and at TheHeartOfTheEarth.com.

Mussoorie's Landour Bazar

~ By RUSKIN BOND
Published in India Perspectives (Dec. 2003)

As in most north Indian bazaars, there is a clock tower. And like most clocks in clock towers, this one works in fits and starts. Almost every year the tall brick structure gets a coat of paint. It was pink last year. Now it is a livid purple. From the clock tower, at one end, to the mule sheds at the other, this old Mussoorie bazaar is a mile long. The bazaar sprang up about a hundred and fifty years ago, to serve the needs of British soldiers who were sent to the Landour convalescent depot to recover from sickness or wounds. The old military hospital built in 1827 now houses Institute of Technology Management.

One old resident of the bazaar, a ninety-year old tailor, can remember the time, in the early years of the century, when the Redcoats marched through the small bazaar on their way to the cantonment church. And they always carried their rifles into church, remembering how many had been surprised in churches during the 1857 uprising. Today, the Landour bazaar serves the local population, Mussoorie itself being more geared to the need and interest of tourists. There are a number of silversmiths in Landour. They fashion silver nose rings, earrings, bracelets and anklets, which are bought by the women from the surrounding Jaunpuri villages. One silversmith had a chest full of old silver rupees. These rupees are sometimes hung on thin silver chains and worn as pendants or necklaces of rupees embossed with the profiles of Queen Victoria or King Edward VII.

At the other extreme there are the Kabarl shops, where you can pick up almost everything - a tape recorder discarded by a Woodstock student or a piece of furniture from Grandmother's time in the hill station. Old clothes, Victorian brica-brac, and bits of modem gadgetry vie for your attention. The old clothes are often more reliable than the new. Last winter I bought a new pullover marked `Made in Nepal' from a Tibetan pavement vendor. I was wearing it on the way home when it began to rain. By the time I reached my cottage, the pullover had shrunk inches and I had some difficulty getting out of it! It was now just the right size for Bijju, the milkman's twelve-year-old son, and I gave it to the boy. But it continued to shrink at every wash, and Teju, Bijju's younger brother, who is eight, is now wearing it.

At the dark windy corner in the bazaar, one always found an old man hunched up over his charcoal fire, roasting peanuts. He had been there for as long as I could remember, and he could be seen at almost any hour of the day or night in all weathers. He was probably quite tall, but I never saw him standing up. One judged his height from his long, loose limbs. He was very thin, probably tubercular and the high cheekbones added to the tautness of his tightly stretched skin. His peanuts were always fresh, crisp and hot. They were popular with small boys who had a few coins to spend on their way to and from school. On cold winter evenings, there was always a demand for peanuts from people of all ages. No one seemed to know the old man's name. No one had ever thought of asking. One just took his presence for granted. He was as fixed a landmark as the clock tower or the old cherry tree that grew crookedly from the hillside. He seemed less perishable than the tree, more dependable than the clock. He had no family, but in a way the entire world was his family because he was in continuous contact with people. And yet he was a remote sort of being; always polite, even to children but never familiar. He was seldom alone, but he must have been lonely. Summer nights he rolled himself up in a thin blanket and slept on the ground beside the dying embers of his fire.

During winter he waited until the last cinema show was over, before retiring to the rickshaw coolies' shelter where there was protection from the freezing wind.Did he enjoy being alive? I often wondered. He was not a joyful person; but then neither was he miserable. Perhaps he was one of those who do not attach overmuch importance to themselves, who are emotionally uninvolved in the life around them, content with their limitations, their dark corners: people on whom cares rest lightly simply because they do not care at all.I wanted to get to know the old man better, to sound him out on the immense questions involved in roasting peanuts all one's life; but it's too late now. He died last summer.

That corner remained very empty, very dark, and every time I passed it, I was haunted by visions of the old peanut vendor, troubled by the questions I did not ask; and I wondered if he was really as indifferent to life as he appeared to be. Then, a few weeks ago, there was a new occupant of the corner, a new seller of peanuts. No relative of the old man; but a boy of thirteen or fourteen. The human personality can impose its own nature on its surroundings. In the old man's time it seemed a dark, gloomy corner. Now it's lit up by sunshine – a sunny personality, smiling, chattering. Old age gives way to youth; and I'm glad I won't be alive when the new peanut vendor grows old. One shouldn't see too many people grow old. Leaving the main bazaar behind, I walk some way down the Mussoorie-Tehri road, a fine road to walk on in spite of the dust from an occasional bus or jeep. From Mussoorie to Chamba, a distance of some thirty-five miles, the road seldom descends below 7,000 ft. and there is a continual vista of the snow ranges to the north and valleys and rivers to the south. Dhanaulti is one of the lovelier spots, and the Garhwal Mandal Vikas Nigam has a rest house here, where one can spend an idyllic weekend. Some years ago I walked all the way to Chamba, spending the night at Kaddukhal from where a short climb takes one to the Surkhanda Devi temple. Leaving the Tehri Road, one can also trek down to the little Aglar river and then up to Nag Tibba, 9,000 ft., which has good oak forest and animals ranging from barkingdeer to Himalayan bear, but this is an arduous trek and you must be prepared to spend the night in the open or seek the hospitality of a villager.

On this particular day I reach Suakholi, and rest in a teashop, a loose stone structure with a tin roof held down by stones. It serves the bus passengers, mule drivers, milkmen and others who use this road. I find a couple of mules tethered to a pine tree. The mule drivers, handsome men in tattered clothes, sit on a bench in the shade of the tree, drinking tea from brass tumblers. The shopkeeper, man of indeterminate age, the cold dry winds from the mountain passes having crinkled his face like a walnut, greets me enthusiastically,as he always does. He even produces a chair, which looks a survivor from one of Wilson's rest houses and may even be a Sheraton. Fortunately the Mussoorie Kabaris do not know about it or they'd have snapped it up long ago. In any case, the stuffing has come out of the seat. The shopkeeper apologizes for its condition:

"The rats were nesting in it." And then to reassure me: "But they have gone now."

I would just as soon be on the bench with the Jaunpuri mule drivers, but I do not wish to offend Mela Ram, the teashop owner, so I take his chair into the shade and lower myself into it.

"How long have you kept this shop?" `Oh, ten, fifteen years, I do not remember."

He hasn't bothered to count the years. Why should he, outside the towns in the isolation of the hills, life is simply a matter of yesterday, today and tomorrow. And not always tomorrow.Unlike Mela Ram the mule drivers have somewhere to go and something to deliver – sacks of potatoes! From Jaunpur to Jaunsar, the potato is probably the crop best suited to these stony, terraced fields. They have to deliver their potatoes in Landour Bazaar and return to their village before nightfall; and soon they lead their pack animals away, along the dusty road to Mussoorie.

"Tea or lhassi?", Mela Ram offers me a choice, and I choose the curd preparation, which is, sharp and sour and very refreshing.

The wind soughs gently in the upper branches of the pine trees, and I relax in my Sheraton chair like some 18th century nawab who has brought his own furniture into the wilderness. I can see why Wilson did not want to return to the plains when he came this way in the 1850s. Instead he went further and higher into the mountains and made his home among the people of the Bhagirathi valley.

Having wandered some way down the Tehri road, it is quite late by the time I return to the Landour Bazaar. Lights still twinkle on the hills, but shop fronts arc shuttered and the little bazaar is silent.The people living on either side of the narrow street can hear my footsteps, and I hear their casual remarks, music, and a burst of laughter. Through a gap in the rows of buildings I can see Pari Tibbaoutlined in the moonlight. A greenish phosphorescent glow appears to move here and there about the hillside. This is the "fairy light" that gives the hill its name Pari Tibba, Fairy Hill. I have no explanation for it, and I don't know anyone else who has been able to explain it satisfactorily-, but often from my window I see this greenish light zigzagging about the hill.

A three-quarter moon is up, and the tin roofs of the bazaar, drenched with dew, glisten in the moonlight. Although the street is unlit, I need no torch. I can see every step of the way. I can even read the headlines on the discarded newspaper lying in the gutter. Although I am alone on the road, I am aware of the life pulsating around me. It is a cold night, doors and windows are shut, but through the many clinks, narrow fingers of light reach out into the night. Who could still be up? A shopkeeper going through his accounts, a college student preparing for his exams, someone coughing and groaning in the dark.

Three stray dogs are romping in the middle of the road. It is their road now, and they abandon themselves to a wild chase, almost knocking me down. A jackal slinks across the road, looking to right and left, he knows his road-drill to make sure the dogs have gone. Yes, this is an old bazaar. The bakers, tailors, silversmiths and wholesale merchants are the grandsons of those who followed the mad sahibs to this hilltop in the thirties and forties of the last century. Most of them are plainsmen, quite prosperous even though many of their houses are crooked and shaky.

Although the shopkeepers and tradesmen are fairly prosperous, the hill people, those who come from the surrounding Tehri and Jaunpur villages are usually poor. Their smallholdings are rocky fields, and they do not provide them with much of a living, and men and boys have often to come into the hill station or go down to the cities in search of a livelihood.

But as I pass along the deserted street, under the shadow of the clock tower, I find a boy huddled in a recess, a thin shawl wrapped around his shoulders. He is wide-awake and shivering. I pass by, my head down, my thoughts already on the warmth of my small cottage only a mile away. And then I stop. It is almost as though the bright moonlight has stopped me, holding my shadow in thrall.

`If I am not for myself,Who will be for me?And if I am not for others,What am I?And if not now, when?'

The words of an ancient sage bear upon my mind. I walk back to the shadows where the boy crouches. He does not say anything, but he looks up at me, puzzled and apprehensive. All the warnings of well-wishers crowd in upon me – stories of crime by night, of assault and robbery. But this is not Northern Ireland or the Lebanon or the streets of New York. This is Landour in the Garhwal Himalayas. And the boy is no criminal. I can tell from his features that he comes from the hills beyond Tehri. He has come here looking for work and he has yet to find any.

"Have you somewhere to stay?" I asked.

He shakes his head; but something about my tone of voice has given him confidence, because now there is a glimmer of hope, a friendly appeal in his eyes. I have committed myself. I cannot pass on. A shelter for the night – that's the very least one human should be able to expect from another.

"If you can walk some way," I offer, "I can give you a bed and blanket."

He gets up immediately, a thin boy, wearing only a shirt and part of an old tracksuit. He follows me without any hesitation. I cannot now betray his trust. Nor can I fail to trust him...