The Present World
When I was a little girl growing up in New York, I was told never to tell lies. My parents, both of whom had immigrated from India several years before I was born, told me a white lie themselves as a way of teaching me not to. If I insisted that I was telling the truth when my mother or father suspected otherwise, I was asked, "Amisha... are you sure you're telling the truth? Because if you're not, a hole will burn through my hand." With those words, a hand was held out to me, palm outstretched, and I'd quickly surrender. "Ok, I did do that," I would admit, and take on any punishment offered, consoled that no holes were burned through any hands on my account.
I hadn't realized, til I became close to these children, how my own ethic of honesty had pushed me into a place of unsympathy for those who have a different nature. I thought honesty was the only method of non-deceit, and that honesty was love. If a friend called and told me she wanted us to go shopping after telling me she was having financial difficulties, I would tell her, "No. I love you too much to let you get into more debt." But sometimes, compassion is wiser than truth. What if, instead of putting down my friend, I suggested, "Actually, I was just making lunch. Why don't you come over and eat with me?" Or, what if I just accepted her for who she was? I've been learning, through the hard work of almost-motherhood, which has boomeranged into my life because I fell in love (I've come to believe that this is a status that never, ever "saves you" in the way of fairy tales, but challenges you to become better), that honesty is love: quiet, accepting, and patient.
My name, "Amisha", means "honesty", in Sanskrit. Beyond the lessons of my childhood, I am that. In the way names have of taking on subconscious power, my own name has come to define an ethic of kindness and honesty that I uphold in both my personal and professional life. As a child, my experiments with honesty had more to do with getting out of trouble or earning and keeping friends. I observe the same push and pull between what's right and what's easy in the actions of my future stepchildren, an eight year old girl named Elise, and an almost-ten year old boy named Malachi. Malachi experiences the world through the universe of Asperger's syndrome and ADHD. He doesn't know what lying is. When asked why he's lying, when he lies, he becomes defiant. He believes you are supposed to say what an adult wants to hear so they will leave you alone. He has become an experienced actor amongst the rest of us, who so easily know how to maneuver the planet Earth. Despite this difficulty, he has many virtues and is well-loved.
I hadn't realized, til I became close to these children, how my own ethic of honesty had pushed me into a place of unsympathy for those who have a different nature. I thought honesty was the only method of non-deceit, and that honesty was love. If a friend called and told me she wanted us to go shopping after telling me she was having financial difficulties, I would tell her, "No. I love you too much to let you get into more debt." But sometimes, compassion is wiser than truth. What if, instead of putting down my friend, I suggested, "Actually, I was just making lunch. Why don't you come over and eat with me?" Or, what if I just accepted her for who she was? I've been learning, through the hard work of almost-motherhood, which has boomeranged into my life because I fell in love (I've come to believe that this is a status that never, ever "saves you" in the way of fairy tales, but challenges you to become better), that honesty is love: quiet, accepting, and patient.
me & Elise
Malachi
my fiance, Ryan, posing in his "Three Wolves & a Moon" shirt
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