A Lotus Grows in the Mud

by Goldie Hawn

  In Lima I am met by Paola, a twenty-five-year-old volunteer who has helped organize Juan’s return. Accompanied by two psychologists, we journey by plane to Trujillo to find our troubled boy. We arrive at the orphanage, a former convent, which sits slumped in the middle of the small town, dilapidated and sad. Hundreds of children run wild in the cloisters and corridors, with no one apparently in charge.

  “We have come to speak with Juan,” Paola tells a woman we finally find in a kitchen.

  “He’s not here,” she replies. “He’s in the mountains on a field trip. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  Shattered by the news, I take myself off to a bar in the town’s square. Sitting there, sipping strong coffee, I laugh at myself. What are you doing, Goldie? You’ve come all this way, and you may not even find him.

  Paola draws up in a car and rolls down the window. “We’ve found him, we’ve found him! Come on.”

  Armed with illegible directions, we wind our way up through the hills, toward a mountain pasture. Seeing scores of children playing in the pasture, we bring the car to a halt. Getting out, I can see kids playing soccer, running wild. Others are swinging on an old tire, attached to a tree. My eyes scan right and left, looking for Juan. Finally, frustrated, I yell out his name: “Juan! Juan!”

  I suddenly spot him, surrounded by his friends. He looks up, stops what he’s doing and runs toward me. He slams into my body and throws his arms around me the way he always did. Hugging him back, I can’t speak.

  But it doesn’t last long. Juan pulls away quickly and runs back to play with his friends. He doesn’t want to abandon them; he doesn’t want to be different. So we wait for him to finish playing. When he eventually comes back, more shyly this time, I bend down and ask him, “It was your birthday last week?”

  He smiles.

  “Did you have a party?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Come on,” I say, holding out my hand. “Let’s go and buy you a birthday cake.”

  We drive back to Trujillo and take him to a bakery. Juan won’t speak to me; he won’t speak English and Paola translates.

  “But you can speak English, Juan,” I remind him.

  He just smiles and stares out the window, saying nothing. We tell him to pick out a birthday cake, and he has such fun choosing the one he wants. Then, speaking only in Spanish, he tells Paola he wants to take it back to the orphanage later and share it with his friends. Sitting at a table, we laugh and play and draw pictures with crayons. Juan draws a picture of himself with a big smile on his face and only one arm. He draws a picture of me with all my arms and legs and a smile on my face. He then connects the two of us with a little red squiggly thing that emerges from the top of his head and links to the top of mine.

  “What’s that, Juan?” I ask.

  “Love,” he replies in English, without looking up. It is the only word he’s spoken to me all day.

  Taking the picture from his hand, I press it close to my heart and smile. “I love you too, Juan.”

  We return to the orphanage with his birthday cake in its box untouched. We all gather around and sing happy birthday, and Juan shows off the wooden top that I bought him. When there are only crumbs left on the plate, he grabs me by the hand and takes me to the dormitory where he sleeps. Furtively, just like a little Russian girl did once before, he reaches under his bed in his special corner of the room to show me his hidden treasure. They are books, Bible books, brought all the way back from Virginia.

  All too soon, it is time for us to go. I turn to him, a lump in my throat. “Juan, I have to go now.”

  He doesn’t say anything, so Paola translates.

  “Juan, look at me.” I bend down and stare into his face, locking eyes. “I want you to understand something, Juan. Even though I don’t live near you, I will always be here for you. Do you understand me?”

  He looks away.

  “No. Look at me. Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Juan? You can trust me. Do you believe me?”

  He nods.

  “All right, then.” I kiss him. God, it is so hard to leave. “Good-bye, sweetheart.” I walk away, and turn around to see him one last time, but he is gone.

  I leave Juan, and I leave Paola, and I leave the psychologists who have promised to work with him to help him control his anger and his fear.

  Back home, I keep in constant touch with Paola, who is trying to find new adoptive parents for Juan. I send Juan a computer, and money for computer lessons. I pay for him to have more speech therapy to improve his communication skills. Paola works tirelessly to get Juan adopted. She fights endless bureaucracy, filling in multiple forms, and she parades him before countless parents who are looking for a child. But nobody wants him. Nobody wants a nine-year-old boy who can’t speak properly and who has serious emotional problems.

  Finally, Paola calls me up one day. “I don’t know,” she tells me, half laughing, “maybe I’m crazy, but I’m so in love with Juan, I’m going to adopt him myself. I know I can help him.”

  “Are you sure about this, Paola? This is a lot for a young girl like you to take on. I mean, this is a huge commitment.”

  When Paola tells me she is sure, I promise that I will give her all the help I can, that my love and bond with Juan extends to her now too. I pay for her apartment. I pay for his schooling. We speak constantly, and I offer every encouragement and incentive I can. This has to work. It must.

  Juan moves in with Paola and her mother as she carries on with her regular job at the bank. Her volunteer work for Operation Smile continues, and Juan participates eagerly. He sees a child psychologist and a speech therapist every week, and he thrives under Paola’s love and attention. Things are not easy for her, but both of us refuse to let go of the optimistic belief that this child has so much potential that we will overcome any obstacles to his success.

  The following summer, I invite Juan to our lake cottage in Canada. We have so much fun together, I can hardly wait to get up and play with him each morning. We fish for hours and take paddleboat rides. We fly across the lake on our Ski-Doos and wave runners and watch movies together at night. He makes a plaster likeness of his face, so that I can keep him with me always. His little face that he is now so proud of.

  One day, we take a wild Ski-Doo ride in the middle of the lake, him sitting behind me, his arms around me holding on tight. Jumping the waves, the wind takes my hat. I switch off the motor to see where it went, and, without a moment’s hesitation, Juan jumps into the deep, cold lake and swims for it. Holding it triumphantly up in the air, my little street urchin swims back with hat in hand. He climbs back up onto the Ski-Doo like an athlete and squashes it, dripping, back on my head. My little Juan, my helpless little boy whom I thought I was protecting, is suddenly my hero.

  That night, our last, I get into bed with him and stroke his back, just as Mom did for me. I want to give him some of the love he never had, some of the independence and the security. His English is getting better and better, and we begin to talk more and more.

  “What happened to you when you lived on the streets, Juan?” I ask him gently.

  A cloud passes over his face.

  “Did people treat you badly?”

  He looks up at me with the eyes of an old man, and I know the answer.

  “When was the best time?”

  “Night.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Because no one could see my face.”

  Our time together over, I take him back to New York to be reunited with Paola, where he undergoes a frightening transformation. Gone is the happy little boy on the lake. In his place is a child who completely flips out. Going on a walk in Central Park with Paola, he throws a tantrum in the street, kicks her, runs away from her and threatens to leave her forever. They return to my apartment hardly talking, Paola in floods of tears, Juan pale and silent.

  “I can’t take much more of this,” she sobs.

  I see the look of anxiety on her face, and it jus
t kills me. I understand, I understand completely. His fear and anger are so deeply embedded into his fiber. I wonder if she’s going to make it. This isn’t going to be easy.

  Kurt sees what’s happening and takes Juan’s hand. He asks Paola to translate. “You can either control your emotions and stop ruining everything or you can go back to the way your life was on the streets,” Kurt tells Juan firmly. “It’s up to you.” Juan listens to him quietly. “Now I want you to apologize to Paola.”

  Shamefaced, he does as he’s told, and behaves much more courteously for the rest of the time they are there. A little discipline goes a long way. He and Paola fly home the next day on much better terms.

  Over the next year, I speak regularly on the telephone with Juan, and I can tell his English is improving all the time. I know he is still having problems with his anger. I know that he is testing Paola constantly. The older and the bigger he gets, the more frightening his outbursts become. He is now living with Paola’s mother in Lima, and Paola is attending the London School of Economics, chasing her dream to work full-time with underprivileged children and build a secure life for her and Juan.

  When she calls to tell me she’s going to be in Washington, D.C., to work for the World Bank and that Juan is flying up to join her, I drop everything and jump on a plane. Arriving at my hotel, I get all dressed up as if I’m going on a date. Sitting by the telephone, waiting for the two of them to arrive, I have butterflies in my stomach. It’s been a year since I’ve seen Juan, and I wonder what will happen.

  When the telephone rings, I jump on the elevator, run to the lobby and there they are. Juan looks so handsome, all dressed up in a little V-neck sweater and a shirt and tie. He is at least two inches taller, much more mature, but not quite as demonstrative as he used to be.

  He first takes my hand and then Paola’s, and the three of us walk into the dining room and sit down for dinner. He handles himself so beautifully, winning over all the waitresses with his seductive personality. I also notice that he is much deeper, more contemplative, perhaps because of his therapy and self-reflection. For the first time, we talk about serious things.

  Sipping his Coke, he looks up at me and says, “Where does anger come from?”

  I explain to him in the best way I know how about fear and what happens to us when we are afraid and how it changes into anger. “Fear is not a good thing,” I tell him. “The fear of having to go back to where you came from, the fear that someone is going to leave you, or not love you anymore. That can make you very angry. And often fear can turn into anger, Juan.”

  He looks at me with those big eyes of his with a wisdom way beyond his twelve years. “Do you believe that we have white angels and dark angels in our hearts?” he asks.

  “Yes, I do, Juan. We’re only human. It’s how we deal with them that matters.”

  “I want to get rid of my dark angels,” he says, his voice almost a whisper.

  Placing my hand on his, I look into his face. “One day you will, Juan. I truly believe that.” Paola and I look at each other and share a knowing look. “All you have to do, Juan,” I add, “is trust that you are loved.”

  He looks up and smiles his new smile at me. It is a good smile. It is a nice smile. It’s a hopeful smile.

  I was taught it is our moral duty to give back something to this world, to say thank you for our gifts. I can still hear my mother say, “For every dollar you make, honey, I want you to give at least ten cents to the needy.” Donating money to charity is one way of giving back, and it is a good way, but sometimes it can feel hollow, and you don’t always really know if it’s going into the proper hands.

  Personally, I like to have more of a hands-on experience. It’s not all altruistic. I guess I feel, selfishly, that if I can help one or two children directly, then I’m getting something from it too, a new love experience and—perhaps most important of all—a shot of humility for me and my family.

  I involved my children in Operation Smile from the outset, to try to make them appreciate their own great good fortune, which landed on them through absolutely no effort on their part. Being born to wealthy and famous parents can have its own problems unless we make our children see that this is not so for everyone.

  I want them to cultivate compassion by going out and standing in somebody else’s shoes. I want them to interface with people who don’t have what they have, or who have been damaged, physically or psychologically. It is a wonderful way of developing a compassionate heart, which is something that is good for everyone. If everyone cultivated more compassion in their lives, the world would be a very different place today.

  My involvement with those I have come to care for along the highway of my life has been deeply rewarding, but it has also offered me a salutary lesson. It has taught me to accept that life doesn’t always have a fairy-tale ending—it just isn’t that neat. Sometimes, you’ll find that there really is nothing more you can do for the people you’re trying to help, that you have done all you can, and at least you’ve given them some good memories before you walk away.

  The problem is that when you build a personal relationship with a child like Juan, it’s so vitally important to follow through. It isn’t in my nature to walk away from difficult situations. I see Juan more and more. At this time, he lives in my beloved India with his adopted mother, Paola. I like to call her my angel from heaven. Juan just turned thirteen. His English is impeccable now, his sense of humor is flourishing and he has become a great student. There are still many of life’s challenges ahead of him. That’s where we come in. As long as I am able to, I will continue to try to save one life from the agonies of this world.

  The doctors may have fixed Juan’s smile, but they can do nothing to fix his heart. Perhaps no one can. But as long as I am able to, I will continue to try.

  lotus

  How can we count our moments of joy one by one? Isolated from one another? They should accumulate and be worn throughout life like a mantle of wealth in which we can drape ourselves, at any given moment.

  postcard

  I am ushered into a lovely room with a low table, at which I sit, cross-legged on the floor, with my son Oliver, and my stepson, Boston. I quiet my mind and inhale the pungent incense and listen to the bells of the monastery gently ringing out all around me.

  Looking out the window, I see the snowcapped Himalayas towering over us. We are in Dharamsala, India, nestled into the foothills of these majestic mountains. Our breath makes clouds of steam as we exhale.

  A monk in orange and maroon robes appears at the back of the room and steps through a soft Tibetan curtain that covers the doorway. It is the color of saffron. He has a young and gentle face, which lights up the room.

  “I am Kutenla,” he tells me.

  We all nod shyly and say hello.

  I have been told that Kutenla is a man of wisdom and prophecy and incredible kindness. I feel so privileged to meet him. We have walked into his world, another world, the Nechung Monastery, a beautiful Buddhist temple in the most heavenly of settings.

  Kutenla is the current Nechung Oracle. Chosen by the Dalai Lama and deemed to be a reincarnate of the original Oracle of 750 A.D., he is the spiritual protector of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government in exile. Several times a year, he adorns himself in an elaborate costume weighing more than seventy pounds and a huge hat weighing more than thirty. Despite being almost crushed beneath the weight, he goes into a spirited, trancelike state during which he dances and speaks his wisdom.

  Having had a normal childhood in the Tibetan Children’s Village, a Montessori school that I help support, he had a hidden purpose that none suspected. But as a young monk, he suffered severe headaches from which he could find no relief. Then one day he had what looked like an epileptic seizure. Much to his own surprise, he began to recite ancient Tibetan that no one had ever taught him. The Dalai Lama heard of this and appointed him the new Oracle. Now here we are being granted an audience.

  I am living a mother’s dream
, on this most special of journeys with my sons. Boston, a practicing Buddhist and a Buddhist scholar in his final year at the university, is very much into his stance, wanting to share his knowledge. Oliver looks more at peace than I have ever seen him.

  When Kutenla first walked in, I was shocked. I expected to see an old, wise mystic, not this young, round-faced, joyful man. He sits down and takes tea with us and asks us about our day. We feel aglow, sitting in this place of peace, with the sound of chanting and bells coming from the temple, and monks coming and going noiselessly. We are ripe and alive and in awe, our hearts and minds open to the unknown. I love witnessing my sons’ experience, as much as I am enjoying my own.

  “I understand you have something to ask me,” Kutenla says with a warm smile.

  “I do,” I say, nodding reverently. “I would like to know what ‘joy’ is to you. How would you describe it? Of all the people I have ever met, the Tibetans are the happiest. They seem to have a secret of some kind.”

  Kutenla looks at me and laughs his big, open laugh. “Let me see if I can explain this,” he says, resting his hands on his knees and looking for all the world like a young Buddha. “I believe that we are born with the seed of joy.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. Every human being comes into this world wanting happiness and not wishing to suffer.”

  His words ring so true to me. I think of my childhood wish to be happy, or further back to my own bubble of happiness that I was born with. I can’t help but think of those who try to attain levels of happiness through an altered state, and how that usually only ends with sadness.

  “You see, we believe that through the quieting of the mind we are able to separate what is real and what isn’t, what is ego and what is truth. It is like making butter; you keep churning and churning until the cream begins to separate. You must really work at churning a chaotic mind, learn to separate your thoughts from your true nature, and become a witness rather than a party to your destructive emotions. What you are left with is a natural state of joy.”