PYPX

Clementine recently completed her final project for the primary years program on water scarcity. Elise and I visited the school to watch her and her classmates present their final theses. 

The exhibition comprised several components, one of which was a visual presentation. You can see Clementine's spoken word here.

"Start Your Engines!"

Yesterday, I took Peter and Clementine to Sri Lanka's brand new water park. It was a total blast. They also had a go-cart track, much to Peter's delight.

And a video of them driving can be seen here!

The Golden Hour

When the sun is just above the horizon, its rays hit Earth at a lower angle and those rays of sunlight travel through more of its atmosphere to reach us. On their way to the surface of the planet, they encounter atmospheric particles, dust and water droplets, which filter the sunlight, ultimately making it less bright. 

At the same time, the thicker layer of atmosphere the sunlight passes through scatters the blue and violet wavelengths, allowing more light in the orange and red spectrum to reach Earth. This scattering decreases the sunlight's color temperature and makes it take on a golden or reddish hue.

In Sri Lanka, the spring heat and humidity fuel thunderstorms which are created in the island's mountainous interior before they steadily March westward, often reaching Colombo right around sundown. Towering cumulonimbus clouds crowd the eastern horizon, lightning flashing in the them, thunder rumbling in the distance, stretching into the heavens. The upper tendrils of those clouds loom over the city, trapping the sun's dying rays. 

At dusk, the city is bathed in a peach-hued, golden light more evenings than not. The golden hour. The last fading rays of the day, an apt metaphor as we are in the last fading days of our time in Sri Lanka. 

We spent spring break at our home away from home, the Amba farmstay in Ella. The tea farms sits on the ledge of a broad valley framed by Ella Rock to the west and Eagle Rock to the east. The valley is filled with palm and pine, fronds touching needles and visa versa. We spent many holidays over the course of several years exploring the valley and the surrounding hills, despite the omnipresent threat of leeches lurking in the tall grass. 

Our first night, as Clementine and I were walking from dinner to our room to brush our teeth, we stopped and gazed up at the heavens. Every star and planet was out, in full view. We could just see the ephemeral band of the milky way spanning across one dark corner of night sky. Fireflies danced above our heads, having descended from the upper boughs of a tall clove tree along the path. 

Elise and I rise early and run along the rolling mountain road. Street dogs take exception to our passage but never complain for long. Their vociferous remonstrances soon devolve into muted whimpers as we pass. Wild cows graze in the wiregrass on the steep hillsides. We pass shops just opening for the day, wooden shutters lifted and tied off with a length of rope. The shopkeepers make their living selling crackers, sodas, and candy to the local villagers. The smell of fried onions and chilis follow us as we trudge uphill and glide down. 

There are four dogs and three cats that live at Amba. Baloo is a large, shaggy, black-haired wolfhound. More bear than dog. He is joined by Tig, Mouse, and Tommy. Most of the allure of the stay is to allow the kids to have adopted pets for a week, alleviating the pressure of getting a dog or cat of our own. 

The valley is cut by a shallow stream. Locals wash their clothes and bathe in small pools formed between slabs of rock. A short walk from the farmstay is a larger pool with rock cliffs on two sides tall enough for the boys to scale and leap from into the creek's not-quite-warm but, yet, not-quite-frigid waters. Cold enough to make you pause at the edge of the pool for more than a minute, contemplating the wisdom of jumping in. 

Lazy afternoons are spent reading or playing games. Peacocks cry across the valley. One afternoon, I sat and watched dark clouds roll down from the peak of Eagle Rock, pushing the smell of rain before them. The mist filled the valley floor. The temperature dropped precipitously.  Then, rain splattered against the corrugated metal roof, followed by the low rumble of thunder. 

The storm would not last long, though. The clouds would pass. A rainbow would light the green hills. And the sunlight in the valley would take on the color of peaches. The golden hour. 

Palimpsest

This weekend saw Elise hold her first gallery show at The Lionel Wendt Gallery in Colombo, "Palimpsest", a noun, a manuscript or piece of writing material on which later writing has been superimposed on effaced earlier writing, or something reused or altered but still bearing visible traces of its earlier form.

The days and months, years, really,  have led to this moment. Of which I am certain there are many more to come. 

The centerpiece of the show were Elise's portraits of Colombo's street sweepers. 84 of the hundreds who are the hardest workers in the city.

Trot On

Every Sunday morning for the past year or two, I take Clementine to her horseback riding lesson. 

We used to drive about 45 minutes outside of town to the stables with the corrugated aluminum roof hidden in the jungle, tucked next to a rice paddy on the edge of town. 

About a year ago, the riding club moved to Port City, the Chinese man-made island that was exumed from the ocean floor like Atlantis risen. The island has little infrastructure, and what infrastructure there is constantly shifts like blowing sand; we have to re-learn how to navigate the half-paved roads every time. 

The location isn't as scenic, but, if anything it may have prepared Clementine for horseback riding in the desert.  

Chicken Bones for the Teenage Soup

Though he's likely to deny it if pressed, Peter has an affinity for the stage. It does seem like an unlikely pairing for a boy so usually reserved around others. Getting Peter to speak above a mumble to others is a daily chore. And for a boy who rarely remembers to brush his teeth in the morning memorizing lines may seem like a bridge too far. 

He's been blessed with the voice of an angel, but it's a gift he is reluctant to share with others. That's okay. That's his prerogative. It only makes it that more special when he does. And acting is more than reciting lines and hitting marks, something Peter -- somehow -- seems to understand.  

"Chicken Bones for the Teenage Soup" was a collection of comedic vignettes, black humor, if you will, teenagers behaving badly, as though illustrating the exact opposite of the lessons we take so much time and effort to instill in them, taking those lessons to their opposite logical extreme. What would the opposite of caring, empathy, kindness, patience, acceptance, helpfulness look like? This play showed you in a way so as to remind you why practicing those traits is so very important. 

In many ways, comedy is so much harder to hit than drama. Which is what made me appreciate Peter's voice, mannerisms, and timing all the more. 

Now, if he would only sing.