The Harm of Plagiarism (Asteya: Do not steal).

 When I was in first grade (this is a true story), one of my classmates forgot to do – didn’t do - her homework assignment. I’ll admit, I was a kid who liked homework. I loved it, actually. First grade homework involved crayons and markers, wooden #2 pencils, their gratifying erasers, and ditto sheets or stapled paper booklets. It’s basically why I went into education. :)

Anyway, that previous night’s first grade homework assignment given to us by Mrs. Cowan was to think about our favorite fruits, write about what we like about them, and to draw a picture. Again, writing and illustrating, everything I live for. So I had picked an apple and banana. Uncreative choices perhaps, but what I knew and loved.

At the top of the page were my drawings. Apple on left – a red circle drawn in my signature fashion of dark pressing hard with the wax crayon till it lightly stuck onto the paper around the edge and colored in more softly on the inside with a dark stem and two leaves. And a lopsided lemonade-yellow banana on the right. My written description of my appreciation for them involved maybe 3 sentences on dotted lined paper – the kind to help us with our De’Nealian handwriting.

So my classmate began to panic that she didn’t do the homework assignment. She used to wear a bow in her hair every day, and I always liked her kind of aloof vibe though we weren’t particularly close friends (our last names were far apart in the alphabet, as were our seats). She came up to me before the start of class and urgently asked me what the assignment was. I had the prompt rewritten at the top of my paper, so I showed it to her. She asked if she could borrow it, and I said yes. Given that it was an open-ended question, I would never have thought what happened would happen.

My classmate returned my homework paper to me before class started, but when I saw Mrs. Cowan was coming around to collect homework from each of us, from across the tables I saw the paper my classmate handed in on top of the homework stack – a giant red circle, dark around the edge and lighter red in the middle with a dark stem and two leaves, and a lopsided lemonade-yellow banana on the right.

At first I was confused. Wait. What? And then I felt sick. Then angry. Then scared.

Mrs. Cowan came around and picked up my table’s homework assignments, and I didn’t know what to do. I would hand mine in I decided, but as a 6-year-old, I didn’t know that I was not in the wrong. I just knew that now two identical assignments to an open-ended question made no sense. And I was so afraid of getting in trouble. But I recall the strongest sensation of something that was then unidentifiable to me: a feeling of theft. That was MY work. I loved drawing that apple and banana, and I thought and worked hard on writing about why I loved apples and bananas the most of all fruits, and how could you steal that away from me. And now the teacher would have no idea if I had copied my classmate, or if she had copied me. I went back to a feeling of terror.

At some point, maybe between reading groups, I actually went up to my classmate. I was a pretty quiet kid back then, and I remember absolutely wanting to throw up. But it must have been how much I loved my work that walked my feet over to her desk. In a first grade way (I can’t exactly remember), I said to her, “How could you copy me? It doesn’t make sense to draw and write the same thing to a question that doesn’t have one right answer.”

And this was the part that was utterly disorienting. Her response to me - and I’ll never forget it – was, “I didn’t.”

Now, you’d think that my reaction would be retaliation, “Yes you did!!!” But my classmate's nonchalant demeanor and the way she appeared to really believe her own statement without a trace of guilt – her “I didn’t” - made me question myself, imagine if I was seeing things, if I had falsely accused. I was suddenly voiceless.

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This is a true story that comes to mind as I handle a lot of things right now as an adult. I didn’t sleep much last night. Or for the last week since becoming aware of a published and republished 2018 article by an author who plagiarized my words, my voice, my researched facts and stories – down to order - of a 2017 article of mine that took me months of reflection to frame and word just right with my editorial team. And I wonder why, and but how could-?, and I worry about the aftermath, my inability to control added harm in spite of trying, and I wonder about the multitude of connections, voice, and credit that for nearly two years has been attributed to someone else, and I empathize with all the people that this has happened to far too many times in our history. The blatant irony of how this has happened to Yoga itself as I write to stand up for it.

How confused. Sick. Mad. And scared I am.

Because of this, I’ve felt myself concerned about losing grip on my writing and the values I stand for, and yet one thing I know - one thing I’ve wanted to be since I was small - is an author and illustrator. So this morning, I turned to writing to tell you this story.

I imagine you’re wondering what happened in first grade that day. Or maybe you’re not, but I like imagining you’d like to know thanks to my effective build of suspense, ha.

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Mrs. Cowan began checking our homework, and as I looked over to her desk, I wondered if I should say anything. If I did, what would I say? I was still learning how to build a basic sentence. Until suddenly, I saw Mrs. Cowan’s eyes pause on the page in her hands. And then what I feared the most.

“Rina,” she called. Then my classmate’s name called in succession. “Both of you, please come see me at my desk.”

I fumbled and furied and fretted and I wanted to say Mrs. Cowan I swear I didn’t know she would copy me and I swear it was my work. But the time my classmate and I arrived at Mrs. Cowan’s side, I had nothing but blankness in my mind.

Mrs. Cowan said nothing. She turned the identical papers around to face both of us. And looked at us both.

And then, my classmate started to cry. Heave. Sob. Her confession was wordless. Mrs. Cowan acknowledged me with a warm look, placed my homework paper back onto the stack with a check plus, and I was sent back to my seat.

I didn’t ever receive a direct apology from my classmate. And this story was never erased from my memory. I can still even see my classmate’s green and white striped skirt outfit and her matching bow. She was a child who didn't know better. And Mrs. Cowan helped us both.

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I am really angry, hurt, and tired right now. Partially because of the belief that of course an adult would steal my work. But another thing I know is that Yoga never claims that life is easy. Wrong and harmful things like this unfortunately happen, which is why some guidelines can help us as we deal with them. Don’t steal (asteya). It creates fires of ongoing pain. And fire won’t put out the fire (ahimsa). And impermanence tells me, I’ll probably feel shitty (and perhaps those who love me will feel shitty) for a bit longer. I will feel tired as I take energy to be mindful in my communication as I still advocate for long-term justice (because it does take a lot of energy to not just advocate, but to do so consciously and for the marathon, not the sprint), then after that it will hopefully feel more ok, then this will likely rear its head again in some way, and then I’ll feel ok to move forward again till it possibly comes up again. Messy. Not avoidable. But something I can anticipate and prepare for at least a little, thanks to the true meaning of Yoga.

For now though, there is a burning question in my mind that also relates to Yoga - conscious directing of our attention elsewhere to prevent depletion. So I’d genuinely love to know:

What is your favorite fruit or fruits, and what do you like about them? Optional drawings welcome. :)

Love,

Rina Deshpande

<3 @rinathepoet

Thank you for reading and for your support.

Theory of Chaos

I'm tutoring an awesome Frenchman in English who happens to be a mathematician. He brought up in our last meeting the Theory of Chaos. "Tu connais?" he asked. I didn't know it, but he explained:

"The Theory of Chaos is that anything, anything even so small, anywhere on the planet that's happening, affects you. For example, a butterfly flying in Polynesia can ever so slightly affect the wind, which changes the way an ant may be walking and stumbles upon someone's foot and gives it a bite; the person starts to itch and need aloe cream, which affects the time the cashier at the store makes a call to her cousin in the U.S., which affects the time the cousin goes for a jog that evening, which affects a car that waits for her to cross the street, in which car you sit as you wait to make your way to a theatrical play, which affects the seat you get by the time you get there, which affects how you perceive the play, and so on, and so on, infinitely."

Is that not amazing? First, that he explained the above Theory of Chaos in English after only beginning to learn English as a grown man in 2015 (I have polished it for this purpose, but wow - worthy of an entirely different blog post). And second, that when you really think about it, this feels irrefutable. Even the most subtle, tiniest, imperceptible decisions are touching the collective chaos, like a bunch of marbles clicking and clacking together over and over again. While this also underscores that Life can feel so unpredictable, it makes me realize that the more of us do small things with positive energy, the more the shape of the Chaos and its energy overall does change.

Individually, I am part of our giant, chaotic Collective. In Yoga, this is explained as drops of a large ocean. Each drop of an ocean - how do you define what makes a drop? the size? the shape? we don't really have one, there are so many kinds of drops - each drop of an ocean is the ocean, and the ocean is all of the drops. We- natural beings, big and small - are the drops. How we think, how we act, how we behave shapes ourselves, shapes our immediate circle most obviously, but we often forget that it shapes the Collective in its Entirety. For those of us who believe in Divine intervention, this does not conflict with the concept of an Intention, a Plan, but that we have been granted Free Will. It's a question of using our Free Will well.

If you're like me, sometimes when I'm looking at Facebook or newsfeeds to educate myself about the world's atrocities and how to help, my heart and body and mind start to cave in: betta fish stuck in isolation in plastic jars like props, people killing people, sexual abuse, bears trapped in rusting cages to make unnecessary beauty products, mounds and mounds of plastic and trash on the side of the road, in our forests, in our oceans, in our water, our food, our Everything. I'm a sensitive person (always have been, and finally understand that it's a strength and not a weakness I should apologize for; I just needed to learn how to harness it and transform it while creating boundaries for myself - something that I'm learning to do better each day), and as a sensitive person when I look at the world all at once and see all of the bad, all of the shit, all of the indifference and lack of deference, I'm just like, what. hope. is. there. at. all. It is absolute chaos.

And it is exactly that. Chaos we are a part of. Chaos that we have the Free Will to shape.

My mathematician tutoring student just rolled me this marble, which has just clacked into my brain that anything, any small thing that I choose to do with a good heart, does have an effect. It does. It might not be something I perceive. The butterfly in Polynesia might not affect the ant's direction much, but its position affects the wind on its wings without question - imperceptible to me, yes, but not imperceptible in the grand scheme. It has not just one effect, but so many - the sunlight casting a shadow of its wings on the grass depending on the time of day, how it affects the growth of the grass, etc., etc. When I think about this as just a set of action verb after action verb, I'm still unsettled that a deed I see as helpful may not only have positive ripples, that it's just a sea of unpredictability of actions. But when I consider this as an energetic concept, it's hard to deny that any small act of good that I observe or receive positively shapes me. Perhaps the formula isn't perfect, perhaps we can't control everything and that can bring us down, but most of the time, good energy yields good energy. And that is something we can control.

Now that this marble clacked a marble in my brain and heart, I hope my writing this and sharing clacks a marble (or few) in you to feel hope and possibility when it all looks like Chaos. To do what you think might be too small, not a big enough thing, whenever it calls you. Just do. You don't have to have some kind of weekly resolution to be the person who picks up a piece of litter. You don't have to be the perfect environmentalist or animal activist to opt for the more expensive humanely-treated eggs whenever you can. Little by little. Every little bit of good energy counts shifts the chaos - our Collective - for the better.

Thank you for sharing, Ali.

My friend, Ali Fadlallah:

You don't know how by your social media share months ago you've shaped me. Somewhere in my core you have really, really shaped me. I mean I suddenly broke. And I break and break again. And it was needed and I didn't even know.

You shared a news clip of a little baby child in Aleppo covered in debris and blood, whose aunt and only surviving family member - also covered in dust and blood - cries and yells in hysterics at octaves much softer than I ever could imagine bellowing myself at the gruesome loss of her own entire family in a bomb - brothers, sisters, children, husband, cousins. I have seen and read many things and I want to imagine myself as an empathic sensitive being - it is what I practice - but what you shared, Ali - it showed me myself.

This little child's eyes, lips, hair, face...looked just. like. mine.

On Sunday mornings lately (now realizing for a few months), I have been consciously leaving my phone at home and find myself walking in Brooklyn - often, now regularly, into the church around the corner. It is not to be identified in religion, or because I'm forced; the Reverend - a refreshingly authentic speaker at a podium in front of hundreds from all races, ethnicities, ages, long-time followers in flowered hats and their Sunday best, new attendees, non-followers - gives me reason to believe and sculpts new insights in me. This Reverend, just to stay aware of what our minds might have been conditioned to imagine, is a She. And she not only offers her words, but she invited her Muslim colleague and scholar to share his in advance of the election with the group. She had Buddhist mindfulness meditation offered. She most recently had her friend, a rabbi, lead a service. I am not going to be surprised when various other sects, cultures, religions - my own of Hinduism - are welcomed and invited to speak and be felt, heard, absorbed, honored.

This Reverend - also happens to be black. And she is likely naturally grounded, but also so very clearly committed to practicing daily, how to be FUCKING awesome. Apologies if the language offends - the word really offers me the utmost positive spiritual release.

The first Sunday of this January upon coming back to NYC from family, teaching New Year's Eve yoga, I thought I was tired, but then came in late to service to receive and set intentions. And boy did I.

Reverend Adrienne Thorne had placed pieces of papers face down around the room. And during her service, she asked those sitting near one of those papers to lift it high to be seen. On each, the name of one of forty countries (more?) that have experienced suffering, political oppression - some current, some within last centuries - to acknowledge, to realize some we've never even heard of, and to know. "Talk to people. Commit to even just one. Read," she urged. We brought to mind people we may have never met and honored their pain. We offered our silent and collective good will through her prayer.

And there in my mind, Ali, did I see the face of the little one you posted - covered in fresh grey dust, wanting to cry or speak to healthcare workers but sitting with puckered lips, big brown-black eyes like mine were as a child, wide and in shock, silent having just lost mother, father, sisters, brothers, family, home. I didn't know I would, but like vomit I began to sob. Heaving, heaving, HEAVING sobs. Heaving, heaving, heaving. For the little one. Who could be me. Who could be mine. Who IS me. Who IS MINE. Who IS OURS. I am sorry for your pain, Little One, and I am committed to do whatever I can, in whatever capacity I can, whenever I can to make sure that you are going to be ok.

My friend, Ali Fadlallah: I thank you. Sometimes I want to turn off the Facebook feed. And sometimes I want to fold up the paper, shut off the radio, and turn off my phone to escape. Goodness knows I do these things Sunday mornings. But I understand why I do it now. Not to flee. But to reflect in wholeness, and to restore to continue with full heart, strongly, fully forward for the little one in Aleppo, and for the little ones in us All.

The Heckler

There is a man who sits at his 2nd floor window on Pineapple Street - white hair that could use a wash, upper 60s perhaps - and heckles.

You walk by? You're a candidate. 

Parking your car? Get ready. 

Feeling like a cup of joe this Sunday morning from the coffee shop below? Oh man, you gonna get it.

It's one of my favorite things to sit on the sidewalk bench when the weather's right on Sundays, sipping coffee and admiring the Cosby Show-esque brownstones, observing unaccustomed passersby react to his hateful comments:

"Ohhhh I just looove my coffeeeee like I've never had a coffeeeee before today it's the first time I got a stupid coffeeee oooooohhhhhhh."

"I have an ideaaa, lemme ignore the street signs and clog up the street with my car just so I can make life miserable for everybodyyyy, oh YEAH that's a GREAT idea." 

"I loooooove my phone ohhh I'm just walking around back and forth talking on the phone ohhh I'm SOOO special and have such important things to say."

The Heckler has probably had to deal with watching newbies infiltrate his neighborhood but the truth is, it really ain't that bad. You can hear the sound of crisp leaves graze the asphalt on the breeze. People typically stop their cars briefly to read the signs to avoid a ticket. Most are walking in a quiet smile to themselves just wantin' a coffee, wondering if they'll get the raisin bran muffin today. And then, they're suddenly slammed by the echoing voice from upstairs.

Sometimes, a novice thinks, "Wait, am I a horrible person?" Others furrow their brow in genuine confusion. If it's a lucky day, you get other white-haired guy who drives past and yells back up at him, "Ahhhhhhh shut up you f#@%ing nut!" Ultimately, everyone laughs.

If the Heckler takes a day off, I kinda miss him. Or maybe I miss the laughter practice. Goodness knows he's helped me learn to laugh off the dark-haired heckler, mid 30s, who echoes from upstairs in my head.

Dirty Laundry

Dear Friends,

I feel like writing from a place of pure, messy honesty. I worry about it because my cultural training is not to air any dirty laundry, but to me, laundry more often feels sweaty than clean and I believe it's important to acknowledge times that feel tough. Because they're human. The practice is not just for times of pretty, shiny stability. It's for all the times.

Research grants and savings serve me and there is no moment when I have taken it for granted. But in the next month or so, I'm down to the end of my financial sack. Somehow (how?? Ha, I love that it's unclear and yet) this last year, I have managed to pay my Brooklyn studio rent, eat, and even travel on my earnings and previous savings from work in ed reform the previous five years and until I write it, I forget to be proud of that. If you ask me how I made it work, I'm not sure I'd have an answer that would satisfy. I honestly don't know. With a lot of ups and downs on the emote-o-meter? With friends and family who have stood by me (thank you). With yoga.

For the first time in life, I have not been on a moving track. The momentum has not come with an "on" button and rubbery treadmill moving my feet. But I wanted to know what it's like. To be my own Boss. Do I have enough capacity to take on a 9th project? Check with the Boss. Want time off? I ask the Boss. HR problem? Talk to the Boss. Shit that's me.

Sometimes, my pay takes weeks or months to arrive, and when it does, it can be for $20 (thank God yoga teaching fills my spiritual well). Other times, it's for a few hundred. I dance a jig for both. I joke that I am my own personal assistant, and let me confirm on behalf of all of you who think you're crazy for suddenly looking up from your desk and realizing it's 2:00 and you haven't even begun to work on your important deadlined task but you really really swear you've been working, we greatly underestimate the amount of time it takes to email, plan, and confirm before the content creation even begins. This is not side stuff. This is entree stuff. Often, I have to follow up multiple times to see income not because of any ill will, but because I am a work visitor and the routine of pay never gelled. Travel comes from creative options- using airline miles and renting out your living space. The times when pay comes easy, well you can imagine how it feels like ice cold pink lemonade seaside on a summer day. An obnoxious, flowery description, but seriously. It feels that good. Perfectly cubed ice clinking like chimes on the side of the glass. Crisp, chilly lemony liquid sweetness. You get it.

Interestingly, though, the sensation of sharing something I so firmly believe in is what carries me. I have made the active choice to live away this year from really intensive, full-time employment that I had for a long time because I wanted to remember what it was like to sleep and eat foods that nourish me...and create. My mantra for a long time was "Nourish others, give to others," and it has slowly transformed to "Nourish self to give to others." And for the most part this year, I have really begun to understand what the airline stewardess with fake nails means when she models the oxygen mask. I wake up and eat first. Who knew? I hit the coffee shop and write. And read. And write some more. And draw. I teach. And have energy to date for fun. I practice yoga, meditation. And I jump on the train to Boston and crash on couches overnight with generous people I love. I see family. I teach some more.

Do I regret taking risks? Not even for a blink. To have the freedom to do so, well that in and of itself is a gift. And to be granted money to research and be a writer in NYC? It's been what I've dreamed of before I could dream. I have gotten to meet so many, teach from a place of relaxation, write curriculum, share myself through articles, and most importantly, practice the practice that I so often preached from a stabler, younger place and learn that it still always holds me up.

Why I write this is to acknowledge that in and throughout all of this goodness, I am also often afraid. And that is ok. Facebook, pretty shiny Facebook, how I truly do love you and also want to throw away any unintended mask or blip-free graph and just share with you. That wherever you are, I understand. And wherever I am, I know you understand, too.

Just because. :)

I’m thinking of my child self.  The days when unfilled hours were simply filled with whatever I felt like.  When the concept of purpose was not a course or a noose.  When I drew just to draw. Who cared why or if it ever got finished?

For hours, I would stare at an object, glance at paper, draw, stare at object, glance at paper, draw, stare... With friends. With family. Mostly by myself. For hours.

There was no goal sheet I set up. No tick mark to say I had done the task for the day, good job me.  No contest I was hoping to win.  Sometimes the drawings were fine. Sometimes they were great. Frequently they were bizarre and maybe not so good at all, crumpled into a ball and thrown into a bin.  Most often the reason why I drew was not necessarily to get better, but just because.

I did it just because. 

I felt like it. 

Remember when those were reasonable responses as children? 

“Hey- why you doing that?”

“I dunno? Just because?”

“Because why?

“I dunno? I feel like it?”

“Cool.”

I remember arguments with a man I loved in my 20s and considered settling down with: "but, Rina, why do you want to move somewhere new? What’s the reason?"  I never had an answer that satiated him.  “I dunno? Just because?”  I empathize with his then-frustration.

But I still can't help but feel that as adults, it is still reasonable to just feel like it.  Sometimes it seems like a part of ourselves we’ve lost.  For many of us, the inequality somewhere between adolescence and adulthood switched to Think > Feel.  

Let’s offer feeling back to ourselves. Between the duties and rent. At least sometimes.

Just because.