Dear Girlfriends,

On October 10^th, 2008, I boarded a plane with 14 strangers for a two-week adventure. But this was no Caribbean cruise we were taking. Having been selected to be part of a documentary, I was one of seven women who would take part in an experience of a lifetime - in India. This team of women, with nothing in common with the exception of our willingness of spirit and love of learning, would be followed by a camera crew as we were challenged to come to grips with the contradictions of India, our views on poverty and injustice, and what - if anything - we would personally do about it.

After a 20-hour plane ride from Dallas, we landed in Mumbai, previously known as Bombay. Affectionately referred to in India as "Bollywood," this would be the most cosmopolitan city of our four-city tour. As we drove out the gate of our luxury accommodations near the airport, we were immediately confronted with debris, poverty, and some of the most inhumane living conditions we had ever witnessed.

As I sat in the air-conditioned bus, I looked out the window at men, so skinny you could see their ribs, sat helplessly and hopelessly with their heads in their hands. I watched out the window as a beautiful woman, dressed in her immaculate hot-pink sari, emerged from a gray lean-to slum home; she gracefully walked around the human waste spilled out on the ground. But I looked away as children walked the crowded streets alone, some totally naked.

As extreme as these conditions were, it was still not quite real to me as I peered through my impenetrable window. Until we stopped and stepped out of the bus.

On the ground there was no buffer; the experience - first witnessed as someone else's misfortune - became personal. Life in India became real. Real fast.

As we enter a brand-new year, I would like to share with you what I learned about the world - and about myself - during the most enlightening two weeks of my life. And to challenge you to step out of the bus with me, in 2009.

Life is your current view of things. Change your view, and you change your life.

 - Virginia Satir, New People Making

Forever changed,

Ellen

Posted by Ellen on January 13, 2009 6:01 PM  |  Category: On the Ground

 Dear Girlfriends,

Growing up, compared to a lot of folks, I guess our family was considered poor. Unless I sized us up against some other families in town; then, of course we were probably thought of as rich. As a kid, it's hard to tell. As an adult ... it's even harder.

I didn't always have lunch money to eat at the downtown diner with my friends - but I had lunch every day; I never went hungry.

I didn't live in a 3 bedroom, 2 bath, brick home - but our small frame house, with one busy bathroom, was always clean and tidy; and it was always warm on winter days.

I didn't get a car of my own when I turned 16 - but I did get a set of car keys; Daddy and I shared a 1966 used, red Ford Mustang, and I only remember having to walk to school a time or two when I missed the bus.

I didn't have a closet full of clothes - but in addition to my few store-bought things, I did have some awesome hand-me-downs; outfits sent on to me by my older, much cooler, way-hip cousins. Diane von Furstenberg had nothing on my Aunt Barbara - that woman could sew!

I didn't have a college fund set aside with my name - but I did have a good work ethic and a scholarship; I managed until my senior year.

But regardless of where I sat yesterday or where I sit today on the bus in the U.S., I am filthy rich by India and other third world countries' measure. I am now painfully and unforgettably aware.

As we drove through Mumbai, I saw makeshift homes lining the sidewalk (in front of the InterContinental Hotel, no less). "Structures" made of four poles or sticks securing a tarp that served as an outside wall and roof. Looking through my bus window, the scene was sad. But standing on the ground, face to face with mothers begging for food to feed their babies, poverty moved from a sad scene outside my window to a personal problem. Not just her problem, but now mine, too.

As we drove on the outskirts of Mumbai, I looked out my bus window and saw miles and miles of slums with garbage and waste floating in their canals, and learned that this slum, with alleys paved in broken and cracked concrete, was considered more upscale. While standing on the ground with the smell of human waste hanging in the air, I locked eyes with a smiling, impish child as she reached for me. At that moment, poverty moved from a landscape of gray slums to a warm little hand. Her challenges became my own.

Looking through my bus window in Chennai, I saw villages of thatched-roof huts, considered middle-class as these homes had concrete floors. Some homes even had toothbrushes - their prize possession, hanging on a wall in a position of prominence. On the ground following behind the working-class village women, as they delicately lifted their saris, we walked single file along a flooded path of water 10 inches deep - and poverty, with all the challenges she throws at these entrepreneurs, moved from being just another working woman's problem to a personal challenge for me.

The issue of poverty is not a statistical issue. It is a human issue.

 - James Wolfensohn, former World Bank President

If we'll all just step off the bus and into the real world - either here at home or abroad - we'll realize that, regardless of the size of our stock portfolio, our job situation, or our living conditions, we're filthy rich. If we'll all just step off the bus and connect to another human being's suffering, our perspective will change. As will our willingness to do something about it.

Are you feeling poor today? Step outside your bus. Wealth awaits you on the ground.

Richer for the journey,

Ellen

Posted by Ellen on January 20, 2009 5:42 PM  |  Category: On the Ground

Dear Girlfriends,

I had never experienced prejudice up close and personal. Before India, I hadn't even seen it through a bus window. I was raised in a primarily white southern town by parents and grandparents who considered the few African-Americans who lived down the road part of our own family. So much so that my parents entrusted my physical and emotional development to their care. For the first six years of my life, I think I probably spent more time cuddled up to the 44DD bosom of my sitter Lerlene that I did in my own mother's lap. To put our relationship in perspective, Lene sat proudly next to Mom in the mother's row at my first wedding.

But just 'cause I hadn't seen it looking out my bus window doesn't mean it didn't and doesn't still exist. My girlfriend Mary Jo has experienced prejudice since New Year's Day, 1954 - when she was not allowed to stay in the nursery at Gatesville Memorial Hospital simply because she was born black. Her mother, without a car or taxi, walked home with her New Year's Baby in her arms. The prizes and gifts reserved for the first baby of the New Year were given to the white mother.

Of the six other adventuresome women accompanying me on the trip, three were African-American. As some of us marveled at our "rock star" welcome in the slums and city streets, my "sisters" commented that they knew exactly why the children reached out to touch us. My African-American girlfriends had been "on the ground" with prejudice their whole life and knew immediately what was happening. "It's because you're white," Froswa said. Not disgusted. Not hurt. Not mad. Not anymore. She just made a statement of fact that left me confused. Froswa, Traci, and Star quietly explained their life-long, front-row seat at the play of favoritism and hate. But I still couldn't relate until it was me who was on the ground.

A few days later, shopping in Chennai, our merry band of Americans joined throngs of Diwali shoppers. Diwali, known as the Festival of Lights, is similar to our Christmas. So, there we were, the night before Diwali - out shopping with 1.2 billion Indians who were looking for the perfect Diwali gift for their loved ones.

As we entered the open air market, strung with lights, the excitement hung in the air like NorthPark Mall on Christmas Eve. A display caught our collective fashion eye as we strolled into a shop that had the most beautiful shalwar kameez (traditional Indian ensembles) we had seen during our excursion. As I shopped on the south side of the corner store, I visited with the young English-speaking merchants. Intrigued by the brightly colored merchandise, I had meandered further into the store when an elderly man, standing behind the counter, began speaking to me in Hindi. Animated, he motioned for me to move; I thought he wanted me to look at the clothes on another rack. But he continued to flap his hands and arms wildly and his voice grew louder. His expression turned angry. I looked around, confused, trying to understand what he wanted me to do - until a man, standing outside the shop, looked me in the eye and said, "He wants you to get out of his store."

I was shocked. Why? What had I done? It became glaringly clear.

I was hated simply because I am an American. I am white. I am Christian. I am a woman. All I could think as I walked away - embarrassed, by the way - is that 'I know he would like me if he would just stop hating me for a moment and give me a chance.'

Left. Right.

Jew. Muslim.

Gay. Straight.

Black. Hispanic.

Male. Female.

Rich. Poor.

Standing on the ground, I now know what hate really feels like. And, as perverse as it sounds, I wish the same for you. For until each and every one of us has experienced the gut-wrenching feeling of being despised for simply where, to whom, and what we were born to be, we will not overthrow the evils of prejudice.

Let my heart be broken by the things that break the heart of God.

-         Bob Pierce, founder World Vision

Better for being bounced,

Ellen

Posted by Ellen on February 6, 2009 5:51 PM  |  Category: On the Ground

Dear Girlfriends,

Before my adventure to India, hope was a pretty generic, overused word as I looked out my bus window of life. I hoped to land a new client. I hoped the kids would enjoy their vacation. I hoped Steve would rub my feet (yes, hope springs eternal).

But on the ground in India, hope took on an altogether new meaning for me.

Meeting with 36 women who had built home businesses with the micro-loans they had received, hope was no longer a vague noun or an overused verb, but a face. Speaking with these women, with the help of a translator, I learned about their business successes. Each was in her fourth level of lending, meaning that each of them had been loaned, and had paid in full, three other cycles of advancements. Having borrowed amounts from approximately $100 U.S. in cycle one to over $2,000 in cycle four, these women, once starving, now provided for their families and community.

With the confidence of Fortune 500 presidents, the women stood, one by one, and shared with us how they started their businesses and their plans for expansion. Just a few years earlier, these Dalit women (once called the Untouchables, the lowest level in India's caste system) would not even make eye contact with other humans because they believed they were unworthy. But on this day they exuded both confidence and determination, as they shared their accomplishments and future strategies with their new American girlfriends. A fruit stand. A flower shop. A seamstress. A fish hatchery. A basket weaver. A retail store - with a newly expanded assortment. These women, representing hundreds more just like them, were inventive; impressive; and inspiring.

The small audience of American women sat in total silence, each of us holding our breath, for the presenter. At the end of each presentation, we outwardly cheered with enthusiastic pride for what these women, of all ages, had accomplished. And no doubt, more than a few of us wept inwardly for our personal reunion with hope.

"Here is what I know: all people are created equal.

Given the tools and incentives for success, they will succeed,

no matter where they are or where they live. . ."

- Former U.S. Secretary of the Treasury, Paul O'Neil

As the women shared their stories with us, two beautiful little girls, dressed in their school uniforms, peered in at us through the open doorway. "What about your daughters; are you teaching them business skills?" I asked them. "Yes," replied one woman. "They are learning our business with us." The little girls giggled and ran away - only to return minutes later but this time in new, brightly colored short sets. It appears that the concept of "FASHION SHOW!" knows no international boundary. And neither does hope.

Today, I no longer struggle to remember what hope looks like, because now she's a person to me. She is alive and well in a slum in Chennai, providing for her family and growing in her confidence.

If this note finds you wrung out, worn out, and hanging by your last thread, you might have forgotten what hope looks like, too. If so, please step to the nearest mirror and allow me to re-introduce you. You've pulled yourself up by your bootstraps before, you can do it again. Hope is alive.

Hopelessly hopeful,

Ellen

Posted by Ellen on March 5, 2009 10:59 AM  |  Category: On the Ground

Dear Girlfriends,

In Dallas, I look out my car window as my son, Scott, walks briskly to the car. He looks like the picture of health. But looks are deceiving. As he folds himself into the car, I know that my strapping young son is pumped full drugs as he fends off AIDS. He's HIV infected.

While I was in India, I saw others infected and affected by the disease; mostly women, some who came by their illness via "clients," others gifted the disgraceful disease by their husbands - only to be rejected by her family. Like my Scott, they are responding well to their potent cocktails of modern medicine. Through my tinted windows, the death sentence just looked like a chronic disease. Until I stepped off the bus and was on the ground at an AIDS Orphanage.

Visiting an organization dedicated to the care of children orphaned by and dying with AIDS, the reality came crashing home in the form of a slight 8-year-old child. Sitting on the floor to play with V (please allow me to protect his identity), the death sting of AIDS became personal. As I lifted the 40-pound child onto my lap to read him some of his favorite stories, my past flashed before my eyes. I remembered holding and reading to Scott, just like this. Twenty years ago seems like just last week.

V held my hand as we walked to the clinic for his daily treatment. We donned our sunglasses as we strolled under the hot Indian sun and pretended we were movie stars as the cameras rolled. Hamming it up for the camera, V and his quirky sense of humor made me forget he was dying­ - until I looked into his tired eyes, as we entered the clinic. The treatment is losing its effectiveness. This is not a chronic disease. We must be reminded that this is a death sentence, especially for the children who are too weak to fight.

Across southern Africa, the AIDS epidemic has left more than thirteen million

children with neither father nor mothers. . . How does a person begin to

understand the reality of thirteen million orphans?

Maybe like this: Put the population of Los Angeles and New York City together.

Let that combined metropolis be made of only children.

In that whole city, let there be not one mother or father.

Let there be a ramshackle home where a nine-year-old boy is the head of the household.

Let his six-year-old sister leave home every morning to find food.

Now let these children be yours. - Bruce Wilkinson, The Dream Giver

Just as I saw my past, I stared into the reality of the future - not just for my own child but for millions of others. When we step off the bus of denial and ignorance and experience atrocities first hand, reality sets in. And only when we accept reality can we collectively solve the real problems of this world - both here at home and abroad.

Out of denial,

Ellen

Posted by Ellen on March 24, 2009 10:53 AM  |  Category: On the Ground

Dear Girlfriends,

Whores. They don't rank very high on our list of respectable professions, do they? Oh, let's see: doctors, professors, lawyers, nurses, teachers, business women, writers, social workers, clergy. Nope. Call girls just don't make the cut.

As a woman - prostitutes disgust me. As a professional - they insult me. As a mother - I am appalled.

Before India, I had never personally met a woman of ill repute (at least that I know of). Before India, I had never walked the streets of a red-light district. Before India, I had only viewed the women behind this shameful profession through a window, where it's much easier to judge and condemn than to understand and love.

On the ground, as I walked through the streets of Mumbai where women posed at the front door of their brothels, I locked eyes with their pimps and glared at them with disdain for their business practice. But as I looked into the eyes of the women, both young and old, waiting to begin their trade of service - with as many as 20 men a night - my disgust quickly gave way to anguish.

Sitting in a half-way house that rescues these women, many who have never learned to read or write, I heard their stories as, one after another, they told of how their uncle, their father, their mother, sold them into the sex trade at the tender ages of 12 and 13. This is not the exceptional story - this is the story. When I looked into their tearful, shame-filled eyes as they wept, I was no longer insulted by their choice of work, but found myself enraged that they had no choice.

Nearby, my traveling buddies and I visited an orphanage full of little girls dressed in their Sunday best. We sang and danced the Hokey Pokey with these fresh-faced little cherubs whose mothers have tucked them away from the ugliness of their world... mothers who long for a better life for their daughters. As I sang and played with these happy, gorgeous children, I was no longer appalled by their mothers' line of work, but in awe of their courage and creativity to provide for these babies an escape from the destiny that could so easily befall them.

Looking through a window, it was easy to be judgmental. But on the ground, these women become real people. As my senses awakened in listening to their stories, I was quickly transported in my mind back to the States, wondering how often I have misjudged others, too.

As a woman, a daughter, and a mother - I am no longer disgusted with the acts of others but rather I am heartbroken at my own judgmental spirit. It's easy to point fingers, isn't it? Before jumping to conclusions, I hope you will join me in learning more of the back story on others you judge, too. Because on the ground, things are never as simple as they seem.

Giving up the robe,

Ellen

Posted by Ellen on April 6, 2009 4:13 PM  |  Category: On the Ground

Dear Girlfriends,

On October 24, 2008, my excellent Indian adventure came to a screeching halt. As my documentary girlfriends and I parted in the airport it was bittersweet: so hard to say goodbye to those with whom we had experienced so much for the last fourteen days, and at the same time, so good to know that we wouldn't be pitching our tents three to a room, that night!

We were an unlikely crew. Star is an entrepreneur who makes a living working a wide variety of jobs - everything from providing manicures to acting; Toni is a successful and focused litigator. Sue and I have each been married for 19 years; Jayna and Star are single. Froswa and Traci are active Christians who are raising kids; Sue is Jewish, with a recently empty nest; Jayna at 32 was the youngest in our group and defines herself as "quasi-new age unhippie pseudo-intellectual with skeptical tendencies and a secret supernatural bent." Kids are not in her immediate future. We all possessed varying degrees of understanding of India's culture, laws, and religions, while Nanci, our facilitator, having visited India over a dozen times, was an expert.

We were women of all sizes, from petite tiny-hineys to voluptuous va-va-va-booms. We were women of all colors, from nearly translucent to luscious dark chocolate. Our personalities spanned the gamut of slightly shy to in-your-face. At first blush you'd think we'd have nothing of importance in common. But in reality we possessed one critical, common bond.

We all knew that to live intentionally, we had to get off of the bus.

We knew that in order to fully capture life, we would have to do more than just watch it roll by as we looked through a window. And we all agreed that to make a difference in our world sometimes we're going to be hot, cramped, stressed, and - well, there's just no such thing as a good hair day in India. We knew that we could not be afraid to question and debate. And although we all had been selected to participate in the documentary, we also chose to accept the challenge of the adventure.

Every minute faithfully lived is a chance to practice the art of living. A life of magnitude does not just happen; it is consciously chosen. - Marianne Williamson

For fourteen days I lived intentionally and dreamed dramatically with six insightful, daring strangers as we became more than life spectators. I was blessed to be amongst the India Seven who hit the ground running.

So what about you, Girlfriend? In this rat-race world, do you find yourself thriving or just surviving? Maybe it's time for you to get off the bus, too. Gain a fresh perspective. Impact your world. And choose a life of magnitude.

Looking for my next adventure,

Ellen

Posted by Ellen on April 27, 2009 11:29 AM  |  Category: On the Ground