​          A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
          Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
          Mother of Exiles. . . .
                   “. . . Give me your tired, your poor,
          Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free . . .”
                      - Emma Lazarus, “The New Colossus”

In the late 1960s I spent a year on a high plateau seven thousand feet above the Red Sea. For most of a century, goods shipped from Europe had passed from the Mediterranean into the Red Sea (and on to Asia) by way of the Suez Canal. Unfortunately for us, the canal had been closed in 1967 as a result of Egyptian/Israeli war and would not re-open until 1975. Our supplies came by the long route around the southern tip of Africa.

Had I visited the nonfunctioning Suez Canal—there was no reason to do so—one thing I would not have seen was a colossal figure of a draped woman holding a torch aloft. French sculptor Auguste Bartholi had intended it to stand at the northern entry to the canal, which opened in 1869. He showed his design, called “Egypt Carrying the Light to Asia,” to the Egyptian viceroy Ismail Pasha. However, already deep in debt on the canal project, Egypt rejected the plan for reasons of cost.

Seeking another buyer, Bartholi tweaked his design to appeal to Americans. The title changed to “Liberty Enlightening the World.” The flowing robes of an Egyptian peasant became the garb of a Roman goddess. After mixed reviews, private appeals raised enough donations in France for the statue and in the United States for the pedestal, which cost nearly as much. Emma Lazarus wrote “The New Colossus” as part of the fundraising effort. Best known as the Statue of Liberty, the ”mighty woman with a torch” was dedicated in New York Harbor on October 28, 1886. The opening of Ellis Island six years later to process arrivals from Europe made Lady Liberty a symbol of welcome to tired, poor immigrants for all time.

Images, cropped: (left) Bartholi’s design for “Egypt Carrying the Light to Asia; (right) the Statue of Liberty.

Once upon a time, a boy sat before a plate piled high with his favorite foods. Large bowls of the same foods and more were strewn across the table. He stuffed forkful after forkful into his mouth at first, relishing every bite. When his plate was half empty, his glee faded. At three quarters empty, he burst into tears.

Asked the problem, he replied, “My plate is almost empty, and my stomach is almost full. Soon it will all be gone. Even with serving dishes all around, I won’t be able to enjoy another bite.”

I first heard this tale on the last evening of a summer camp, when teens were fretting over having to leave the next day. They’d had a magical week, making new friends in a safe new setting where no one knew their baggage and they felt free to be themselves. The camp director reminded them the week was not over yet. If they could dry their tears for now, hours of delight still lay ahead.

It’s natural to grieve the pending death of a loved one after a terminal diagnosis. It’s natural to grieve the imminent loss of a house that’s been home for thirty years. But to become grumpy halfway through a vacation because the vacation will end is worse than useless. I don’t know where and how to draw the line. I do know that more joy is here for the taking than we sometimes remember to take.

Image: Chinese banquet in a banquet hall (cropped).

It’s getting to be high season for fall conferences, meetings, and book launches. Pet peeve: events that start with an announcement of disappointment that so few people chose to attend. What a downer! The only people to hear it are those who did show up. Low attendance is hardly their fault. The message is that they don’t count, or at best they are insufficient.

​You don’t have to believe everything happens for a purpose in order to suggest that the number in the room or on screen is exactly the right number, with exactly the right people. Make it part of your quickly revised plan. Move the chairs closer. Adopt a more conversational style. Take advantage of  the intimacy instead of bemoaning it. Dinner with close friends can be as meaningful as a banquet. When attendees feel honored to get up close and enjoy individual attention for their questions or comments, they’re more likely to leave on a high.

Duty is not a word to fill me with joy and sunshine. Like work, it conjures up doing what’s obligatory rather than fun. Granted, I dislike some duties and enjoy others; the same holds for work. But as a guiding life principle, duty—or dharma—attracts me far less than love and compassion, or even curiosity.

I’ve been watching a lecture series on mythologies, including the Bhagavad Gita. In it, Krishna teaches a prince about dharma, the imperative to do one’s duty according to one’s place in society, without investment in the results. Our related “let it go” and “accept the things I cannot change” remind me how little my strivings can achieve. Dharma goes one step further: Do the right thing without striving toward any goal. Just do it.

My vote won’t swing the upcoming election, but voting is my dharma as a citizen. When my close friend pleads for advice I’m sure she won’t follow, my dharma as a friend is to treat her with love and respect. Instead of debating whether I’m bound by a promise to one now dead who won’t know, to stay bound is my dharma as part of a society that honors promises.

Of course, results do matter. I wouldn’t call doing laundry or dishes part of my dharma if they never come clean. And it will matter how the election comes out, and whether my friend finds comfort in her troubles. Stress hormones of caring can energize and motivate. But tight shoulders and knots in the stomach can also paralyze. I’m little use to anyone when I’m paralyzed by anticipating ends beyond my control. I wouldn’t choose dharma as a guiding life principle, but at the moment it’s a useful tool to have in my toolbox.

Image: Krishna and Arjun on the chariot, Mahabharata, 18th-19th century, India.