POLLY SIMPKIN'S JOURNEY
TO MOTHER THERESA'S MISSION

I was thrilled when Susan asked me to speak about my experiences working in India for Mother Theresa's Missionaries of Charity. Not only am I excited to share my experiences in Calcutta but also I am feeling very fortunate to have the opportunity to speak to other Hospice volunteers and express my gratitude to Hospice for changing my life. Hospice really is the sole reason I was able to help the way I did in India, and without Hospice my life would not be as full and wonderful as it is today. 

Before I describe my India experience please let me back track a bit and tell you my story, and the journey that led to this monumental trip. When my mother was diagnosed with emphysema in 1993, 1 was finishing up my master's degree in Special Education at Columbia University's Teachers College. I was 9 months pregnant with my first son and I was newly married. 

My mother's prognosis was good- it could be years yet, she had energy, and the disease was hardly noticeable. My mother attended my graduation from graduate school carrying my newborn son Justin, proud as ever and full of life. As I began to learn about what it meant to be a mother and became even busier than I knew possible, my mother's health began to slowly deteriorate. We talked constantly, never about her or her sickness, but about motherhood, teaching, politics, relationships and all the wonderful conversations mothers and daughters have- about anything, really. She was my touchstone, my life, and I couldn't imagine any of it without her. 

When my son was one we moved to Connecticut from Manhattan. I think those were the hardest few years of my life. Feeling isolated and alone as a new mother in a new place, I missed the city and I missed my mother terribly. I felt far away from who I was, and who I wanted to be - as my mother continued to grow sicker and sicker. But my mother, as mothers tend to do, helped me up, she supported me, she listened to me and she loved me as no other person could. She helped me through such a hard time and was always there to lean on , to remind me that life is hard sometimes, and I would make it through. 

I think the first time I saw my mother on oxygen in her wheel chair was when it really hit me that I needed to look outside myself a little bit and begin to try to understand what she needed. I began to realize how involved I was in myself, almost overlooking the pain and suffering she was in. 

In 1996 I called Connecticut Hospice and decided to volunteer. I knew if I could get close to what she was feeling I could help her more. My parents exposed me to the concept of death and dying at an early age. My father and I spoke frequently about death and how natural a part of life it was, and my mother was a huge advocate of children being involved in funerals - as she was forbidden to attend her own father's funeral. By the time I had come to Hospice I had read all the Elizabeth Kubler Ross I could find and felt quite open about the dying process. 

However, I still had never experienced any of it first hand. As I began to learn about the many facets of the dying process, my mother's health continued to worsen. But, as her spirits declined I began to gather strength. I began to feel more comfortable with what she was going through and surprisingly, I think it helped her too. My volunteer coordinator at Hospice who knew of my mother's situation did me the favor (now I know) of assigning me to my first patient who - surprise, was in the last stages of emphysema. The day I walked into that first room that so many of us have walked into- was the day my life changed. When I saw for the first time the look in that woman's eyes that I have seen so many times since- somewhere between this world and another- I knew this work was something that must be part of my life. 

Being a teacher I asked to work with children as much as possible. I worked with many dying children, young women, and older men and women. Each and every patient I had the fortune to know at such a huge time in their lives became so sacred to me- because not only were they teaching me about living, but they were teaching my mother as well. She would ask me daily about each and every patient I worked with. I told her every detail, every conversation, every death. She was as closely related to them as I was. Of course the direction of our relationship changed as well. I became a connection to the unknown for her, someone who understood, who was safe to talk to about the vast world of death. 

My mother was a brilliant, vibrant mind that because of her limited resources and the time she lived in lived a life that was largely based in "SOMEDAY". She put herself aside as many mothers do and told herself someday she would do and be who she wanted to be. As we began to talk about her death ... about unrealized dreams and paths not taken, my mother's many "Someday I'd like tos" began to turn into "I wish I hads" as she began to accept her inevitable death. 

We talked about so many things but one of them was that she had always wanted to go to India and see the Taj Mal. Finally she asked me if I would go for her "someday" and I said of course I would- and I would take her with me. In the first week of January, 1999 my mother developed pneumonia and was hospitalized for the last time at the hospital on Martha's Vineyard, where she was raised and had lived a lot of her life. I was due to have my second child that same week on January 7th, by cesarean here in Connecticut at Norwalk hospital. Because of my pregnancy I wasn't able to go visit her as much in the last few months. I spoke to her mostly by phone and when we did talk it was very tiring for her. On January 6th, after my mother had been in the hospital for a few days and doing pretty well overall, I called my husband at work and told him I had to be near my mother. I just knew that I was called to be with her- I called the hospital where she was, spoke to the only OB at the hospital and explained my situation. He told me to come at once and he would schedule the cesarean for the next morning and I could surprise my mother with her new grandson. So we got onto the highway in a new snowstorm, gridlock traffic and accidents everywhere. 

Finally we made it up to the boat in Woods Hole and at about 11 pm checked into a bed and breakfast a block away from my house. While we were traveling my mother had decided to come home to her house and was transferred to her own bed at around 4 pm that same day. With surgery scheduled for 8 the next morning we all fell into bed and I wrote a letter to my mother and father to be delivered to them that next morning after my son was born. 

At 3 am on the morning of January 7th there was a knock at our hotel room door and a note slipped under the door that said "call home" of course I called home and my father told me the news that my mother had just died a block away. My son Finnegan was born a few hours later that same day. Because of my work with Hospice I had the resources to connect my father with a Hospice counselor who has helped him a great deal. He himself is now a volunteer and continues to be a model "griever". 

I took a year off from volunteering after she died as is recommended and worked hard at loosing her and gaining my son, and working on what that meant for me. I still reach for the phone to call her once in awhile, to tell her about a new word Finn has learned, or how well Justin is learning to read in first grade. The depth of the loss is so huge. A year ago a newspaper article caught my eye- about a high school girl who had gone to Calcutta to work for mother Theresa's missionaries. "Someday" I thought-" I'll go. I will help the dying and the poor and will take my mother with me just like I told her I would. But not now, with the kids little, I could never leave them ... people don't just do that" And then it happened one day; when I was looking into my bathroom mirror. I stared at myself for a long time, and I was thankful to know who I was, to be healthy and happy. I took an eye pencil from my makeup drawer and I wrote on the mirror "SOMEDAY IS NOW". 

I went to the phone and booked a flight to India 10 months from that date. I won't say anything about my trip to India was easy. It was horrifying from the beginning. But my mother was always there, every step reminding me someday is now for you, you can do this. I didn't visit the palaces of Rajastan or the pristine beaches of Goa. I had three goals and they were clear from the start: I . 2. 3. would work for the dying in Calcutta would visit a fellow Buddhist friend at a monastery in the Himalayas would take my mother's ashes to the Taj Mal And I was determined to do it all- alone; just me and my mom. 

The journey was long and arduous. Leaving my children and my husband was hell. I was scared the minute we touched down in Delhi- I called home the first night in my hotel which was surrounded by men with machine guns. I told my travel agent I had to come home ... I felt unsafe and scared and everything was so different. I think I might have turned back if it wasn't for the little um of ashes I had with me that sat silently beside my bed in that hotel room. I knew I had to keep my promise. As scared as I was I would take these ashes to the Taj Mal and that was that. After that I could leave if I wanted, but to Agra I would go. Well of course the Taj was a monumental experience and it was there I fell in love with India. When I saw the great monument and gently tapped my mother's ashes under a beautiful little tree in a garden overlooking the Taj, I said to myself for the first time "I know I can do this". 

India does that to you-it quietly tests you every day, in so many ways- like it's asking- can you handle it? Are you capable of this or what? every day I was tested and wrote a lot about the concept of being familiar with our environment. I was overwhelmed with the realization of how much we surround ourselves with comfort- people and things and pets- we make it so easy to be comfortable. But when all that is taken away, it is like a death of sorts- a death of comfort, where we are forced to rely on who we are-alone. Of course I read City of Joy and lots about the work Mother Theresa had done in her lifetime, but again no one can prepare you for the real thing. Calcutta sort of sweeps you up and you get lost in it all, for better or worse. This quote by Joe Roberts sums up my experience in Calcutta-" After awhile I stopped trying to make sense of Calcutta and let the whole thing roll by like images in a dream." 

On my arrival to Calcutta I forged my courage and made my way to the Missionary of Charity's "Mother House" where Mother Theresa and her fellow sisters lived and prayed together and where her tomb is now located. The day I first stood in front of the "Mother House" was a day I'll never forget. I was afraid. Just getting there was a long, hot, dirty ride in an old taxi through Calcutta's streets. The images alone as I drove through the streets will stay with me forever: people defecating in the streets, big groups of cows, chickens and goats being herded through the traffic, unbearable black exhaust in every pore and up my nose. I was shocked at the streets full of tiny shacks, filled with families sitting and wandering around. 

But within the chaos Calcutta somehow settled me, and soothed me-I knew I was safe there. I rang the bell beside this tiny unassuming door I had finally found down a dirt alleyway. It didn't take long to see a tiny Indian face peering around the door. I was surprised for some reason to see her white habit with the blue stripes around her face- seeing the habit on mother Theresa and her order in photos and books they always looked so far away- almost make believe to me. But here I was, about to enter the place where Mother Theresa dreamed her dream and helped so many-and I felt the peace at once. The woman's smile led me to many others who welcomed me and took me to Mother's tomb. I took off my shoes and entered a tiny room dwarfed by a dense, beautiful marble tomb. I laid the flowers I had brought on the tomb among the many offerings from travelers and friends, having come to love mother even after her death. I sat for a long time in the room alone, just thinking. I began to read the writings covering the walls of this room. Quotes from mother, letters, her whole life story was laid out in handwriting on the walls.

I spent the afternoon reading about her life, how she received the calling to help the poor and destitute. I was fascinated reading her story as I sat beside her tomb. I loved the story of how mother heard her calling. She wrote: "The message was clear. I must leave the convent to help the poor by living among them. This was a command, something to be done, but something definite. I knew where I had to be but I did not know how to get there..." I could so relate to those walls that day; and they reminded me I had come to the right place. I was told to come back at 6 am for sunrise mass with all of mother's sisters and then I would be sent to work. 

Mass that next morning was another surreal experience. Surrounded by a sea of the signature blue and white habits, I heard the strength of their prayers, their energy and their commitment. I could feel a sense of passion flow through the crowd on that steamy morning. I got the message that it would be hard, all right- but worth it. 

After mass I joined a group of 30 or so volunteers from all over the world in the courtyard of the Mother House. I heard so many different languages and saw so many different colors, all having come just to help. People began to discuss their destinations for the day- I didn't realize until then that Mother Theresa had so many homes in Calcutta alone, serving many different people in need. I hardly had realized the magnitude of her work until I heard all the options for service that day. 

There is a home for the mentally insane, a home for retarded teenage girls, a home for lepers, Kalighat-the home for the dying and destitute, and almost next door was Shishu Bhavan- the orphanage. The sisters would spill out of the Mother House each morning, bound for their many destinations, determined to love, pray and care for the less fortunate. I decided to work at Shishu Bhavan that first morning upon the recommendation of 3 Fordham students who had been there the day before- and would be going again that day. 

"It will blow you away" they said... so I followed them out and down the street. As I walked toward the orphanage I saw the city around me beginning its day. Groups of people bathing in puddles of water in the streets, children squatting everywhere as if in the privacy of their own bathrooms. Cows lying all around, just waking up. As we reached the orphanage and climbed a flight of stairs to a second floor room, I hardly had time to react as I read the sign on the door I was about to enter. It read: HANDICAPPED AND MALNOURISHED WARD. 

As I was asked to take off my shoes and given a blue and white checked smock to put on, children began to grasp at my legs, pull at my clothes and cry, reaching up to be carried. As I looked around the room not much bigger than a large hotel room, I saw 20 to 30 cribs jammed together, most with crying toddlers in them as I picked up child after child I realized most of them hadn't been changed since yesterday when they were put to bed the night before. 

Now that we had arrived, that offered a possibility of comfort for them and each one wanted to be first in line. As I looked into their faces I couldn't believe what I saw. Many of them were deformed beyond belief. Some had no eyes, no legs or arms. Almost all of them had lice and/or scabies and most little heads were shaved to prevent spreading. Many of the children were filthy and had open sores or wounds on their bodies. Many were lying in their own excrement and vomit. As we began to circulate around the room and do our best to help whoever we could, I was swallowed by the children's need for contact. They were starved for human touch. 

I wiped bottoms, cleaned up the dirty cribs, and got as many as I could changed into clean clothes. As soon as I would put one down the next one I picked up had a dirty diaper, a runny nose or was throwing up. My heart ached for them and all I could think of was my two healthy children at home. There were also 5 or 6 older children with severe deformities- most just lay in their beds but were still very responsive to attention There were 6 tiny bassinet type cribs for newborns. They were all extremely malnourished. One baby in particular was a little boy who was 8 months old, but was the size of a preemie. I looked down on him and his mouth was wide open, crying a silent cry. I touched his forehead and he was burning with fever. He had bites all over him and on top of it- the chicken pox. I went to pick him up and his blankets, bedclothes and dressings were soaked straight through. I fixed him a bottle and changed his clothes and linens the best I could. His fever was unbelievable. He was so hot and of course he wouldn't eat. 

At one point I sat down on the floor with him among many toddlers crawling around and reaching for help. One little girl who had no legs and deformed arms dragged herself along the floor toward me as I held the baby. She climbed her way onto my lap as another toddler still in wet, stained pajamas came over to me. I sat with the three babies and tears began to fall from my eyes and I just couldn't stop them. As I looked around there were several more just like them still crying in their cribs looking for help and attention. Many were banging their heads, twitching and rocking back and forth ... 

We did eventually fall into a routine and I began to see that this is all they know, and for them just a new face to love them made all the difference in the world. The next day I decided to go to Kalighat, mother's home for the destitute and dying. This was really the work I had come to do and I looked forward to seeing what it was like. I had come a few minutes late that morning and when I had arrived most of the volunteers had already left. Sister Nirinala, who Mother Theresa had asked to take her place when she died, asked me where I was headed that day. When I responded "Kalighat" she grabbed my hand and rushed me out the door- "maybe they haven't left yet!" and she took me out to the street where an ambulance was waiting, about to leave. It was full of nuns, all holding rosary beads. 

Sr. Ninnala threw me in and off we all went to Kalighat. That ride is one of my favorite memories of the whole trip. Sitting in the middle of an ambulance full of sisters from missionaries of charity- all chanting prayers as we drove through the streets of Calcutta. "Hail Mary full of grace the lord is with thee... " They all chanted in unison, over and over as we made our way across Calcutta. When we arrived I was thankful to them for their love and grace and the courage they gave me on that one small trip. 

At once I saw Kalighat was mother's pride and joy. It is a big old building in the heart of the slums of Calcutta. It is open and airy and clean. One side of the ground floor is for men who are dying and the other is for women. I jumped right in that day and I loved every minute of it. I was happy to be among the dying and to be of comfort to them. 

During the rest of the week at Kalighat I served meals, scrubbed laundry and laid it and hung it to dry on the rooftops under the hot Indian noonday sun. I soothed tired bodies, cleaned up vomit and feces. I spoke with other volunteers; some short term and some that had been there for months. The outpouring of love and caring by all involved was so inspirational. When I first arrived, I spoke with one volunteer nurse at length about all the different patients. She slowly explained each situation. One woman had a huge open head wound, which was infected. She described the worms they took out of the wound as they changed the bandages each day. One woman was hit by a taxi and had many broken bones, just laying there waiting to go. Many had Tuberculosis and other diseases. They were similar to the children at the orphanage ... they were always reaching out for contact. 

For many of the men and women who come to Kalighat it is a very last resort, and socially it is considered a place where only outcasts go. However, because hospitals and other medical facilities are virtually inaccessible to most lower castes in India, there were even several people considered of higher castes staying when I was there. I can picture them now in my head, lying in two rows on either side of a middle aisle, most with their heads shaved, reaching up, with sunken faces bone thin limbs ... wanting and needing so much. I was reminded many times in Kalighat that there certainly is no caste system among the dying.

Without being able to communicate by words most of the time, we spoke to each other with the universal language of spirit. It is amazing how much you can understand a dying soul without saying a word. Not much medicine was administered if any- mostly disinfectants and dressings to wounds which I wondered if they really did much at all. Mostly they were administered their dignity-the most precious gift a dying person can receive. Each was bathed privately every other day, clean linens and nighties every day. Hot fresh meals were given out three times a day and there was always someone there to help if they needed it. 

A few actual deaths occurred while I was there- which always seemed pretty uneventful. The deceased was wrapped in a white sheet and taken out the front door and taken to the morgue by the very ambulance I rode to Kalighat in on that very first day. Actually it isn't really death that takes center stage at Kalighat, much like the Hospice philosophy- it's the living that counts. 

The day I left Kalighat for the last time I was helping a woman who was so sick, most likely with TB. I helped her struggle to the bathroom ( a hole in the ground behind a wall) and I could see she so badly wanted her privacy and her dignity. She wanted to be able to stand up in front of her dying companions and walk to the bathroom. I felt the strength of her spirit as we walked so slowly together. As she would stop every few steps to vomit, I would wipe her lips and offer her a smile during her struggle. I wanted her to know I understood and she was right to want to reach the bathroom, to find heir dignity. 

As we finally reached the bathroom and she was finished, we turned around and began to head back. I could feel her strength begin to fade as she fell back into her cot. I wiped her mouth one last time and as I looked at her I saw the faintest, most exhausted smile dance across her lips and I saw that we both understood that the journey was worth the effort, as I have come to realize it almost always is. As I left that room that day, the women were getting ready for their afternoon nap. I had to pull myself away from the outstretched arms and looks of desperation. 

As I walked out, I was the only one standing in the room. As I turned to take one last look at the women in the room and say goodbye, I was struck by an image I still hold in my head; the rows of those same eyes I saw that day I met my first Hospice patient, all those dark eyes reaching out to me from somewhere beyond us, waiting .... not really here nor there. And as I looked into the sea of faces in need and in pain, I found myself searching for my mother among the empty brown eyes, wondering if I could reach through and find her somehow- on the other side. 

How if I could, I would tell her I made it to India finally for both of us, and I would thank her for teaching me the secret of life ... that we only have this very day to live our lives and be who we want to be. I would thank her for teaching me to savor the blue of my sons' eyes, to savor the way the wind blows through my hair on a sunny day in spring, and to savor holding the hand of someone I love. I would let her know that what she taught me will never be forgotten and I will teach her grandchildren and they will teach their children never to forget that someday is now.

Polly Simpkin

Recent news reports (CNN, 26-Feb-2001) have said that the Taliban government of Afghanistan has decided to destroy Buddha statues, including the oldest Buddha statues in the world, located in Afghanistan.  They believe that Buddhism is a religion based on idol worship, and that Buddhism is an evil religion. As a Tibetan Buddhist, I have to say that this is a wrong judgment!  It is a result of ignorance.

Why have Buddhists made Buddha statues?  Buddhists need to visualize Buddhaís image when they meditate.  By means of visualizing Buddhaís image, Buddhists can realize the essence of the Buddhist teachings and practice the noble actions of the Buddha.  This is why you can always see many retreat caves around giant Buddha statues carved in the side of mountains, such as the Bamiyan giant Buddha in Afghanistan.  Buddhist teachings use symbolism to help practitioners memorize and gain understanding of Buddhist truths.

Buddhists believe that every sentient being has a Buddha nature.  By means of performing special practices, every sentient being can attain the realization of the Buddha.  The Buddha is the ultimate model for all Buddhists.  He was a very great spiritual practitioner.  By  practicing noble actions, such as great kindness, great compassion, selflessness for the benefit of all sentient beings, and equanimity, the Buddha acquired thirty-two major physical marks and eighty minor physical marks.  For example, Buddhaís eyes are beautiful like a lotus petal, because the Buddha was always kind to, and saved the lives of many young girls. In the past, and, in fact, up to present day, young girls were treated very badly, and many were sacrificed during some religious ceremonies in the world. Visualizing Buddhaís image, studying Buddhaís teachings, and practicing Buddhaís noble actions are very useful to change those kinds of evil behaviors.

When making Buddha images, one must follow exactly these instructions about the Buddhaís physical form.  There are complete descriptions of the Buddhaís physical form and noble actions in the Tibetan version of the Maha Prajna Paramita Sutra.  (Please see the appendix at the end of this essay for the English translation of this text.)

Why do Buddhists prostrate to Buddha images?  Prostrating to the Buddhaís images is a means of showing respect for the Buddhaí noble actions.  Prostration is an Asian custom of showing respect to someone.  When people meet the king, for example, they prostrate to him.  When lay practitioners meet a monk, they prostrate to him.  When a young member of the family sees an older member, the young one will prostrate to his/her elder . If you think that people prostrating to Buddha images is idol worship, then by the same reasoning, prostrating to a king would be king worship, prostrating to a monk would be monk worship, and prostrating to an old family member would be elder worship.  It is very clear that this judgement is mistaken.  We cannot predicate good or bad just from superficial appearances.  This is very simple commonsense.

Followers of one religion should not force followers of another religion to change their faith or religious practice.  Religious people should respect each other.  During the seventh to twelfth century A.D, in the Middle East and Southern Asia an Islamic army destroyed Buddha images, burned Buddhist Sutras, and killed thousands of Buddhists who refused to change their faith.  Many monks carried the Buddha images and Buddhist Sutras over the Himalayan mountains to Tibet and spread the Buddhist teachings to the Tibetans.  Tibetan Buddhists remember this history, but they do not use it as a reason to persecute Moslems in Tibet.  His Holiness the Dalai Lama saw a Moslem doing Islamic prostration showing much devotion.  The Dalai Lama decided to allow Moslems to build the Islamic temple in Lhasa.

Until now, some religious fanatics use incorrect opinions as the reason to destroy Buddha statues, burn Buddhist Sutras, and kill Buddhists who refuse to change their faith.  As a Tibetan Buddhist, I cannot remain silent when I see such tragedy.  The reason I write this article is not to create a struggle between different religions, but I wish to correct some wrong opinions and tell people the truth.

May this world forever be peaceful.

Serdo Rinpoche