What's in the Back of Your Closet?

The bridesmaid’s gown you really won’t wear again (even though you said you would), the prom dress you once adored, and the sparkly gala outfit and earrings everyone has seen (twice) could put a roof over a young woman’s head … and a meal on her stove… and a solar-powered street lamp on her lane for safety and security.

Please contact Carol or a member of the Rotary Club of West Chester Downtown to donate your gently worn dresses and jewelry for “Dress for a Good Cause.”

The fundraiser “Dress for a Good Cause” sells gently-worn party wear and picnic sundresses. All proceeds go to projects that benefit survivors of slavery. While local girls who might not be able to afford prom or graduation festivity attire—or simply may not want to spend a small fortune—end up with fashion statements, dresses stay out of landfills and provide funds for a worthy cause. When you donate your dresses, you can reclaim space in your closet and feel great about making a significant difference.

 

Funds from previous “Dress for a Good Cause” events have helped provide: motorbike and SUV for a boys’ rehab center and a small herd of cattle and a bio-gas oven for a women’s shelter in India. This year’s goal: a pavilion-type outdoor shelter at the center for survivors of human trafficking and sex slavery.

Worth Ten Thousand Words

If a picture paints a thousand words, a video is worth ten thousand. May the following two touch your heart and move you to action.


The first--a short but not sweet film about child slavery--left me with tears. 
http://www.rotary-ribi.org/districts/committeedetails.asp?DistrictNo=1080&DistSubCtteeID=437


The second, a chronicle of my November trip to India, shows what can be done to uplift humanity. Let it leave you with hope. The image of the vehicle presented at a slave-rehab center, within the video, is a prelude to my next blog entry: a request for you to help by looking in the back of your closet. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T9S21FrpS20

Reflections on the Ganges

Like images of the sun rising or setting on the Ganges River, it is reflections—not direct observations—that enable me to make sense of my November trip to India.

True, reflections are imperfect. They are influenced by friends’ perceptions and feedback, reshaped by pain and happiness, and clarified by insight. Yet they are no less valid than the imperfect immediate perception of the experience.

After our team’s visit to Bal Vikas Ashram and meeting with Rotarians in Pratapgarh, we stepped off the river bank at Chunar and into a motorboat. We raised our pirate flag—a pretty red and black scarf tied to the pole our guide used to push us into deep water—and headed down the Ganges. It was my first opportunity to relax, enjoy the sunshine and allow the breeze to carry my thoughts whichever direction it pleased.

We passed steep banks with little temples and tall grasses where vultures soared overhead. We waved to boys in small fishing boats. I cringed inwardly at the sight of large pipes that channeled sewage and toxic chemicals into the Ganges. I watched with fascination funeral pyres with dead bodies—wrapped and covered in orange marigold petals—and thick, acrid, gray smoke rising into the air.

“Mother Ganga,” the Ganges River, grants new life, our guide told us. Indians commit the ashes or bodies of their loved ones to the river. In Varanasi—the final destination of our boat ride—people bathe in the water and perform religious rituals at its edge.

Just before we reached Varanasi for aarthi (evening prayers), my water bottle landed in the river. Unhooked from the carabiner that tethered my pure drinking water to my backpack and essentials, it floated in the muddy gray-brown water. Knowing I could never clean and sterilize the bottle for my use again, I mentally released it.  Who knows whether it ended up in the home of a fishing family, was sold to an unsuspecting tourist or became a vessel for the Ganges’ holy water? Only Mother Ganga knows the new life it was granted.

So it is with my experiences, reflections, my memories. Letting them go—through written blog entries or conversations with friends—is giving them new life.