Happy New Year!

We are human. We want to be good; we want things to be good. We want to be better; we want things to be better. Even if we don’t believe we are seeking perfection, we want to move towards bigger, better realities. Bigger, better realities as we see them in our mind. Our heart is full of possibilities, our head is full of dreams… We want to realize our potential, we want to draw out our potential… all good things, I’m sure. And that’s why we probably make New Year resolutions.

The perfect physique, the perfect diet plan, the perfectly organized home… okay, okay I’ve never gone that far even – the somewhat organized home, the somewhat good exercise plan… you get the drift.

And yet, now I cringe at such resolutions. Is it because, for the past several years, I’ve tried my hand at being disciplined in a bid to be healthier - diets of sorts (even water and liquid fasts), exercise routines, alternate remedies - you name it – boring, funless regimens that I’ve followed like a little robot trying to heal itself.

And each time something has not worked, it has seemed like defeat. A crumbling of the image in my mind of the person I want to be, and the life I want to live.

So has this been my search for perfection? It’s a rude reality for someone who does not even think of herself as a perfectionist. But maybe I am, and maybe I’m not willing to rest till I’m healthier. But is there anything I am sacrificing in this focused, goal-oriented bid to be healthy and seem healthy?

Now  I simply balk at New Year resolutions. These elusive, mirage-like things smell like defeat even before even getting started. And to make resolutions, means to take stock of the past year. And that has all the trapping of a great big existentialist crisis. Just cheery, huh? What better way to start a brand new year, than with the kisses of doom I seem to be blowing right at you? Sigh…

If you’ve just written out your resolutions, tucked them under your mattress, and have every intention of fulfilling them, more power to you! Ignore the words above. I sincerely hope it works out for you.  

Happy New Year everybody! Here’s hoping that the year ahead is happy for all of us. And here’s hoping we figure out what that means for each of us.

Here’s to wiping slates clean and having the hopefulness of heart to fill them with better things. Only the things that matter. Here’s to knowing those things, rather than seeking a global nature of perfection.

Here’s hoping that I can make most, okay scratch that, many days of 2015 count. That I smile more, that I feel at peace more, that I accept things better; that I sacrifice fewer days to worry or restlessness, or disgruntledness, or pressuredness,  (and ahem… that I make up fewer words. Sigh…)

That I be able to pick myself up after a defeat, dust off the hurt with compassion and plod on, awake and aware to the joys around me, able and willing to throw some light on them, and see them better.

Happy 2015 everyone! It’s going to be a great one!

Is the magic in the… believing?

The correlation between logic and magic is apparent. As logic rises, magic dwindles.

When you’re nine years of age (or younger), logic slowly starts creeping in. As it grips a steady foothold, many beliefs become shaky. Soon there seems to be a tussle between magic and logical reasoning.

The logic makes sense, but where is the fun in that? Where is the magic in that? Even a nine-year-old knows that. Steadfastly, she knows she must believe – firmly and resolutely – to make the magic last a little longer…


Santa's list - 2012. Some of her lists included stuff for the parents (necklace with gems was for mom). When those things didn't show up, she once said dismissively, "You grown-ups don't believe... that's why it doesn't work..."

This year was interesting. Santa has been on shaky grounds. But she didn’t want to take any chances – just in case. I can almost see her holding on tight – trying to believe – even when a part of her brain (and friends?) are telling her otherwise.
Besides, our Santa has always had some issues… She hasn’t quite said so, but…our Santa has some flaws.

Santa is lazy.

Some years ago, Santa left her a note saying that they were out of remote control choppers at the North Pole, so he would parcel her one through Amazon. Hmm…

Santa is not always resourceful

“How is it that Santa has the same wrapping paper as we do?”

“I think he used the one from our cupboard.”

Santa just plain forgets.

About eight months after Christmas - “Santa had said he would send me the quill and bottle of green ink by mail. He never did. He probably just forgot all about it. (eyeroll)”

Santa is cheap.

“I’m going to ask him for a big blue sapphire stone. He’ll probably get me a fake one. But that’s okay.”

Santa gets preachy

“Some parts of Santa’s letters are fun and some are just a little weird” (weird = full of advice).

How can Santa have so many flaws? Now parents, on the other hand… Blame it on increasing logic or whatever, Santa just seems more and more like the parents…

Yet she wants to believe. For not believing makes the magic go away. And where is the fun in that? Where is the magic in that? Even a nine-year-old knows that.

Although it makes me smile, I realize we don’t have to be only nine to do that. There are times and there are things we want to believe in, even when our mind is telling us otherwise.

And each time we are unable to do so, does a little bit of the magic get snuffed away? How powerful is believing? Does believing translate into hopefulness as we grow older? And is there magic in that?

So is the magic in the… believing?

Happy Holidays everybody!

Just receive…

I may have said this before. There may even be a blog post somewhere – I honestly can’t remember. But even if I may have expressed this earlier, I experienced it a few days ago and felt the need to write about it. I want to write about how it is sometimes feels easier to give than to receive. And about receiving in general.

I saw my naturopath (and friend) the other day. She had beautiful gifts, she had made – the most wonderful “luscious lemon lotion” and homemade soap. I was very touched. I remembered I had a gift for her and of course, had forgotten to carry it. (Hmm…fact aside, that I saw her again after that, and it is still with me. Sigh…). As I received her gift, I mumbled something about forgetting to bring her gift. About how scatter-brained I was.

She tapped me gently and with a smile, simply said to me, “Just receive”.

Words left my mouth. Thoughts left my mind. I became quiet and did exactly what she told me to do. It was a rich, short and beautiful moment in which I appreciated her gift, her gesture, all the love and effort she had put in making this absolutely fantastic stuff. (Side note: my nine-year-old captured the lemon lotion and now wants to open a store that will sell only that!!).

For me, her two words seemed more valuable than the lovely gifts. And I gave her a hug for the gifts, the words and the wise wise advice.

This is the season of giving and there is beauty in that. But in this season of giving, is it time to remember that receiving is an art in itself? One well worthy of cultivating?

Is it then easier for some to give than to receive? Does it sometimes make us awkward, does it make us wonder if we caused much trouble or inconvenience to the other person (I’m not talking only about gifts, but favors, or any form of effort another person puts in for us).

Giving on the other hand is free of such concerns. It puts us back in control. So does receiving make us lose that sense of control – just a teeny tiny bit? But again, my hunch is that joy and mirth and happiness often involves losing that sense of control – even if it is a teeny tiny bit.

I never imagined I would ever put myself in the control freak category. I still don’t know if I belong in there. I don’t know if there should be such a category even. I do get a sense though that there are times, when certain aspects of our life seem out of control, and we try to control what we can. But again, I digress… I want to write about receiving and all the beauty it can bring to us and the giver.

For when we receive well, we create beauty for ourselves in that moment, feel gratitude, connect with the giver; we create beauty for the giver by receiving well. And what a beautiful complete cycle that it.  

So, in this season of giving… is the best gift to give ourselves the one of receiving?

Taking responsibility… how much is ours… how much can we hold… and how do we know?

I like to take responsibility for things. Yes. It’s just the way I am. And it’s only recently that I’ve realized that I do so.

It doesn’t sound like a bad thing. No, it sounds responsible and reeks of all things good and honorable. But is it truly so? Has it been good for me?

Truth be told - at this point in my life, it sounds just plain exhausting. I feel exhausted at the mere thought. So then, can I just take off, buy that boat and leave life behind and sail into the horizon?  (I’m thinking of a short story by Daphne du Maurier, “Adieu Sagesse” (goodbye wisdom). I loved the title enough to remember it – and if vague memory serves right, it was a humorous story about how it’s never too late to fulfill your dream - an older man who lets go of responsibility and expectations, and buys a boat or something like that).

I know that won’t work for me. For I’ll keep thinking of people and unfulfilled responsibilities I left behind. Yes. The sail into the sunset will probably involve me pacing the decks. Just great. I can’t even think of a hypothetical sailing into the sunset, without ruining it. Sigh…  

I recently saw a dietician. The last time I saw her was between surgeries (when I was much better) and she was not happy to see the steps backwards that I seemed to have taken. “What do the doctors say?” “What are they doing? What is the prognosis?” She had a stream of questions for me.

I muttered things like – they’ve tried stuff, they’ve just asked me to stay on the antibiotics till whenever… That led to a gasp from her. And finally, she calmly said, “It seems like they’re just letting you be. You should ask them for better ideas”. I could see she was sad and frustrated and had my best interest. But I also felt that the doctors had done their bit and now it was my responsibility to figure out how to feel better.

But her words got me thinking. She believed it was not my sole responsibility to figure out how to be better. That I shouldn’t be trying one thing after another (again) – alternate treatments, diets, etc etc… I told her I didn’t think I would, for I simply don’t have much fight in me anymore.

Yet, I thought to myself, I will. For I believe it is entirely my responsibility.

I suppose I feel responsible for the things that happen to me. Some time back, I saw my doctor when things worsened. I could pinpoint a weekend after which things had gone south. It had been a busy weekend and I was convinced I had done something wrong. I badgered the poor man into helping me figure out what I had done wrong – too much activity…a little alcohol…Diet… everything else I could have possibly done wrong. My doctor finally joked, “It’s all your fault…” For the first time, I saw some humor in the situation, but I only went on to badger him with more questions… sigh… it’s the dog with the bone all over again – remember the first blog? Sigh…

Now you see how I wouldn’t be able to set sail in that boat? Even if my behavior has a whiff of “Adieu Sagesse” in general?

Sure, taking responsibility is a great thing. But how much is ours… how much can we hold… and how do we know?

It exists in other areas – relationships, parenting, projects, career… How much responsibility is ours? Who decides? How do we determine? How do we know at what point to let go?

By taking more responsibility than we should, are we actually doing a disservice to others? Are we preventing a better situation to arise by trying too much? Trying too hard?

Just where is that fine line of balance and who the heck are the people who get it – and how the heck do they get it? And why the heck can’t I??? Hrrmmphh…

Maa..aaa... Maa..aaa...

Kids are often proud of their parents. There is one thing that makes my nine year old, particularly proud of her mother. Yes, her little heart swells with pride at her mother's ability to bleat. Yes. You heard right. And yes. I am sufficiently *palmfaced*.

Just today she proudly bragged about her mother's exceptional skill to six team members whilst working on a skit for a lego competition. Seven kids begged me to bleat for them. Sigh...

"Okay okay," I announced, "if you guys do your entire skit without interruptions, I will bleat for you" ahem... Trust me, just typing that out makes me want to never remove my palm from over my face again. Fact aside, that I actually kept my promise... Sigh... 
Although I can never put this skill down on any resume, seven kids looked visibly impressed. Just for a brief moment, my net worth may have rocketed in their wide eyes. 

"How can you even do that?" questioned one kid. "I don't know," I replied. "Lots of practice, I suppose." I told them briefly of one of my childhood homes which had an empty patch of land at the back with a well. Goats would come and graze there (this was not the countryside, just a random patch of land with a well in an urban area).

I spent a chunk of one summer vacation, on the wall between our house and the well, perfecting my bleat and scaring away the goats that came there to graze. Ahem... I tried the same with crows, but didn't quite perfect that one - the crows just got annoyed and flew away. The goats on the other hand, would look around, confused and bewildered. (I always wondered what I had just said to them in goat language - profanities possibly, for they always looked startled and displeased before they ran away.

Apart from the fact that I sufficiently embarrassed myself today, given that other parents heard me bleat (which is why I would post this here... Sigh...), it got me thinking about kids today. 

I wondered if any eight or nine year old would spend their time perfecting their bleat. I can't imagine any of them would have the time to do so. I want to question how busy we keep our kids (mine very much included). Everything they do is focussed. Everything they do serves some kind of purpose - music, sports, art, schoolwork... Everything they do, develops their personality, their interests - or so we imagine.

Sure, the value of the things I focussed on are widely  dubious. Whether is was bleating or whistling - not just tunes, but very ruffian-like - with my fingers in my mouth, by rolling the tongue - loud and shrill, and ruffian-worthy - oh well...

I doubt these skills have helped me in life - not to say that I am doing anything particularly noteworthy, but I suspect you may remember similar "skills" you may have developed in your childhood. 

Will our kids remember any such skills? Are we robbing them out of something intangible, something unexplainable by not giving them the free time to learn to ahem... Bleat? Oh well, bleating aside, I am referring to the tenacity to learn something entirely by themselves, without any instruction whatsoever, without any lesson, without any YouTube video, without any purpose... for no reason whatsoever...

Sure, my daughter is acquiring her own skill sets - moving around the wood floors by sliding on all fours, playing the guitar lying down on her back. But she often gets frowned upon for doing so. Yes. By the same mother who spent hours learning to bleat and scaring away poor goats.

Truly, where is the fairness in that?

Sent from my iPad

Lights out!

A part of the Bethany neighborhood has been in the dark since 6 a.m this morning. It is about 8:30 a.m right now and the morning rays are unwillingly, grudgingly trying to seep in through the windows, throwing light on the dark house, waking up each room one by one, turning dark blobs of furniture into more recognizable and familiar shapes. The hallways and staircase remain in the dark - unaware of the morning that has commenced in the rest of the house.

Our nine year old was beyond excited. It was all a big adventure for her. She came to my room and excitedly whispered, "this is just like your childhood. Can we make wax flowers?" 

"No. You have to get ready and go to school," was my killjoy reply. "Schools are open," I said thankfully and dryly.

Still excited, she wore her headlamp and danced about the home, trying to be a human strobe light. Fun? Yes. For a little while. Till we got bustling, trying to get her to school on time. 

She seemed tad disappointed. For we had recently chatted (over candle light dinner,mind you, with all the lights in our house turned off), about the frequent power cuts in my childhood.

 I told her of frequent power cuts, of having studied for exams using candle lights and flashlights. My mind went back and told her how kids in the neighborhood would get together in candle light, and play games, especially song games (bhendya), which involved singing (badly - so perfect for me), bollywood songs in teams. It was loud and noisy and fun even if it ended mostly in arguments.

I told her of how my sisters and I would make wax roses from the candles that were lit. (I have one very creative sister). We would tilt the candle (the long stemmed ones) and make a drop of wax, then scrape it off quickly and carefully, while it was still warm and malleable and pinch it into a petal shape. Once we made a bunch of petals, we (my sister mostly) would join them together by melting the ends and binding them together quickly and deftly to form a flower. And there was our beautiful translucent rose. Some got stems, some were painted... I believe my sister made beautiful candles with wax roses soldered on the sides.

These were the fun/creative memories my daughter heard about. 

But our morning was not such. Even if it started fun, I turned into the customary repeating machine - eat your cereal, eat your cereal, eat your cereal, don't dawdle, don't dawdle, don't dawdle, wash your face, put some lotion, you have food stuck... 

No we didn't make wax roses she requested. I don't know that we'll ever make wax roses. I don't know if I have that kind of patience or calm or creativity in me anymore. If anyone is inspired to make them, do invite my daughter.

But I felt a little bad as she went off to school and I wished I were as fun as before, as calm, as not-so-overwhelmed, as not-so-tired or flustered.

No. We didn't make wax roses. I mostly shooed her around, got flustered with trying to light the stove, worried about the food in the fridge, the garage door opener, fussed her to layer up and stay warm... You get the gist.

Is it the sense of responsibility or overwhelm, or lack of energy that has turned me into this "let's-not-make-wax-roses" person? Do I see more of the problems now than the possibilities? Am I more in touch with the lets-now-deal-with-this-crisis? Is that making me view more things as 'somewhat crisis'?

I charged my phone using the car charger and have a small gnawing worry about the food in the fridge. Hmm... If it weren't this cold, and if the heater were working, I suppose I could plod through every tub of ice-cream in there. Why in the world do we have so much ice-cream anyways?

And I just realized that although I'm typing this away on my iPad, I can't post it till I get my wifi back... Hmm... The coffee shop will serve me coffee and wifi and will have the heat on. And going to the gym... ahem... only to shower... Yay! I finally see some value to that gym membership.

And there I go again... Looking at the problems, sensing the worries, being more in touch with the problems than possibilities. But being aware of it, and seeing the humor seems to be helping - even if only for this moment. For after all, that warm coffee shop with its promise of twirly pipes of steam from a mug and wifi followed by a nice hot shower in the gym make me smile - well, at for now...

Sent from my iPad

What is indulgence anyways?

I wondered if the blog was self indulgent. I still haven’t made up my mind. But it got me wondering about indulgence, in general.

I wonder where the line starts and stops with doing something, enjoying something and then indulging. Hmmm… and why does that jar of Nutella in the pantry and its rapidly receding line, instantly flash before my eye?

But truly, where is that point when a relatively enjoyable activity we may be engaging in get frowned upon by us, in our own mind?

Now I am not referring to obvious ones like that jar of Nutella, or the turkey tomorrow, or that night of tequila shots… or any darker realms of addictions or substance abuse, or even over indulging our kids.  

I’m referring to indulgence from the standpoint of time and value of our actions or even the matter of doing so – for I doubt our ancestors did anything like that.

I’m simply wondering if our generation as a whole has become preoccupied with getting stuff done, with doing the right thing, with high expectations, with being oh-so-disciplined, with measuring the worth of things we do.

Has that turned us into some sort of moral and time police, evaluating, critically viewing the value of everything we do. What does time mean to our generation?

And has this made us more suspicious of indulgence in general? Have we added more stuff to the indulgence category than before? Things like simply staring out of the window and watching the rain fall, noticing red and yellow leaves swim down the sides of the road on a treacherous journey to an uncertain future.

True, you can’t do that all day. True, it wouldn’t be fun all day. But like me, have you ever chided yourself for “wasting your time” or “indulging” or tried to assign a value to an activity? And watching leaves swirl by in murky rainwater can only get a tsk…tsk... And what’s worse, is that I’m unlikely to stop doing so either… more tsk… tsk…sigh…

Perhaps, it’s time to question my attitude towards time and worth I allocate to my actions. I suppose it is easier if you have a job and have demarcated lines (of purpose or otherwise). It is easier if you’re healthy and can have demarcated lines of energy and its allocation to activities.

So does this mean we can give ourselves the permission to indulge if it seems healthy (who decides, right?) and not chide ourselves for straying from the path of the dutiful or responsible?

So does this mean we can stare at swirly leaves all day? Probably not. But a few moments here and there of nothingness and purposelessness and indulgence should be fine no matter what we do and how busy we are or aren’t.

As for that jar of Nutella, here I come... You and I are going to share a moment, for sure.

 

Self indulgence?

The blog came to a screeching halt. Unplanned, unannounced it stopped. Did I not have enough energy? Perhaps. Had it run its course and there was nothing new to say? Perhaps.

Something about the blog was bothering me. A lot. Was it all a little mad and a little random? Perhaps. Did it lack any particular sense of direction, and was so in the moment of the thought – of that particular thought, that it may not make any sense later? Perhaps.

But what made me stop writing… suddenly… quickly...almost permanently, was the following question:
Was it all just plain self indulgence? 

What was this whole exercise? What was I trying to unearth? Why in the world was I staring at myself and my thoughts? A zillion ‘more important’ things that needed to be done (for which I hardly have the energy) flashed before my eyes.

Surely, other people think thoughts and feel feelings… but they don’t sit and write them down. They just get on with their lives and (unlike me) get everything on their list done. Just why am I staring at these thoughts in the eye… some make me gape, some make me look away, some make me laugh, while some make me wonder. But is this a normal thing to do? Maybe I should try and be more normal and just get on with my life. Does that mean the blog has to go?

But again it made me a little sad. And I decided to sit down and question it. And what did I do? Of course, write a blog about it!

So is this self expression? Or is it self indulgence? Nothing seems clear. Even if I may have given up on clarity (of sorts) a long time ago, like a hopeless romantic, I still go searching for it.  
I got no answers (remember the lack of clarity bit from before?)

Had I started the blog because I felt I was turning into someone I could no longer recognize? I was plodding on, thought life and situations – hard, difficult situation, without taking the time to reflect or grieve some of the crummy things that were happening, and the crummy feelings they were leaving me with. Again, had I done that all my life?

Would I wake up a decade later and feel sorry for the way I had tried to handle things without trying to understand what was going on.

No. I have no clue why I started the blog. One day I got up and decided that is what I was going to do, and wrote out the short, brief intro.

Maybe it was my fight to be who I want to be, despite everything I can’t do and be. It was my facing the fact that even when I can’t do everything I want to do, I can still be me. And I was giving myself permission to be weak, or miserable, or strong, or scared, or brave, or happy, despite it all.

True there have been times when I’ve wondered if there has been much wallowing. And I questioned if I was doing a Baudelaire? Remember Baudelaire?

http://www.lettinggoexperiment.blogspot.com/2014/05/in-hidden-shadows-of-mind-do-there-lie.html

In the next few blogs, I decided to do the “opposite of Baudelaire” – whatever that was.  

http://www.lettinggoexperiment.blogspot.com/2014/05/letting-go-memories.html

http://www.lettinggoexperiment.blogspot.com/2014/05/want-to-be-crime-journalist-part-one.html

 

Are these blogs reflections of the moments, rantings of the moment, aspirations of the moment? Or just plain self indulgence? 

I am not going to edit this post (not to say that the others get much editing either). But this can read like a stream of consciousness, or ahem… lack of clarity… for clarity seems far far away…

One of my reasons for doing this was to get unstuck and get moving. But does reflection really do that? Or will reflection prevent me from living my life?

And will I remain in some strange nebulous area of thought - far removed from reality? Sigh…just great, right?

Or am I just plain tired physically from illness, and can only do only little. And hence want to question the relevance of everything that doesn’t seem necessary?

Or does it set me free in mind and spirit. And yet physically, I don’t feel so, and hence feel restless with this disparity of being? Frustration with the polarity of existence? And does that open up a new can of questions?

And beneath it all, lies the question:

Is this inquiry or introspection or self expression? Or is it just self indulgence?

little bubbles... big bubbles...hidden bubbles...

Once when I was a teenager (about 14 or 15), we had dinner in a revolving restaurant in Ahmedabad. I was quite enthralled by it all. There was beautiful live music playing in the background, the food was good (I think, I suppose, I assume – if I even noticed. Interesting that – for I’d rather eat in a place without frills, but which serves great food; than in a fancy place that serves mediocre food). The architecture fascinated me. The fact that we moved a little, with my every bite, fascinated me. The fact that we crossed all the bridges in the city by the time we were done with our meal, fascinated me. Everything about it fascinated me.

I was awestruck. I was also a little tongue-tied. Perhaps I felt it was all too fancy for me. Perhaps I didn’t quite know how to express what I felt. Perhaps I wasn’t quite sure even of what I felt. Perhaps the ambience was so formal, I didn’t want to seem over-excited and gauche in an elegant setting.

I was definitely taking it all in, but in a sense - on the face of it, I was brushing it all off – with poise (okay, the limited amount of poise I’ve been blessed with).

I suppose I took it all in, felt all that I had to feel, made conversation with my parents – all the while internalizing what was going on inside.

And although this is a somewhat embarrassing story, I will go ahead and say it. For I think it offers an insight into our psyche and how some of us operate when we internalize things.

When we returned to the hotel, I must have fallen asleep right away. In a few minutes (still asleep), I sat up in bed, clapped my hands and said “Oh… such great fun!! Oh… what great fun” (in Marathi – I understand a lot of sleeptalking happens in our first language/native tongue). Then, I rolled back in my sheets and disappeared into a deep sleep. 
My parents had a good laugh and I, of course, was very embarrassed the next day. And each time the story was repeated.

And although I can laugh it off now, I get it. For even today, several decades later, there are times, I still get tongue-tied. There are times and situations when I don’t know what to say. There are times when I don’t know how to react to things that are said to me. Of late, I even notice myself talking away, rather than listen, stop and show emotion. Awkwardness aside, I suspect there is some kind of internalizing going on.

Does this happen to people who are more emotional? Who have learned over time, and for whatever reason, that it is wiser to remain guarded and not express all the emotion inside – at least in certain situations? People who are not sure how much emotion will come rolling out? People who are not sure they want so much emotion to roll out. To show? Funny that, for at times, even when we try to hide it, it must show – or appear as nervous energy.

This is no Freudian analysis of any sort. Simply because I have little or no knowledge. I don’t suppose we can even tell all what we internalize. And that makes we wonder, how much of our life goes by… unsaid, unheard. Words and thoughts and feeling that get muffled when we don’t quite know how to express them.

Do we muffle them because we don’t quite know what to do with them? Or they are not clear enough for us to understand them? Or is it uncomfortable to feel them, look at them? Or do we lack courage? And so we brush them off, or try to?  

Do they then come back later as stray thoughts? Or do they melt into nothingness? I have no clue. I understand we can never express everything we feel. Thankfully!! But there may be certain things that may be small enough, but important enough that they be expressed.

Now only if someone will point those out to me, and tell me how… Sigh…

 

Festivals, customs… in context and out of context…

Today is Diwali, the festival of lights. This morning over breakfast, I reminisced of the festive atmosphere in India. I told my daughter of scented oil massages, and beautiful patterned rangoli; of shiny new clothes and overall bonhomie; of the acrid smell of fire-crackers, and the delicious aromas of faraal (diwali treats).

I told her of the days of faraal preparation, of the bustle in the house, of how good the whole house and the neighborhood seemed to smell, and of course, of tiny hands sneaking into the large jars containing goodies. I told her of the stories my mom would tell me - of her fierce grand-mother who would not allow anyone to touch the treats until Diwali day, and how different Diwali was, when my mom was a girl. I told her I wanted to make ladoo, and wished I could simply keep her home. Her eyes gleamed. Oops had I said that out aloud? Hmm… thankfully it was picture day and off she went.

Recreating Indian festivals outside India is a bitter-sweet affair. Loaded with nostalgia and best intentions to recreate our favorite memories, we come face to face with school and work, activities and classes, homework and bad weather. Hrrmph… a beautiful silk sari that you (ahem… at least I) bunch up inelegantly with my hands to protect from rain and muck; or finding a break in the weather to light firecrackers (a few judiciously saved from 4^th July); or finding the time to do something festival related as a family, without being rushed… The festivals in my mind and my past were after all, national holidays, and everybody had the time and peace to enjoy them.

Realized I didn't have curry leaves whilst making chiwda. So went to the yard and got rosemary, French tarragon, thyme and sage - and it went straight into the chiwda...

Maybe we can clean our house before we do our little Laxmi pujan, I suggested to my daughter. “Sure,” she replied. “But can we keep my playroom out of all this?”she inquired. “I don’t think Laxmi (an Indian goddess) will want to go in there”. That makes the two of us, I thought wryly. And while the playroom seems out of question, I doubt our house will be cleaned either.

Now, I don’t come from a religious upbringing. So there is no sense of right or wrong or any rigidity that makes me follow a few customs. In fact, this cherry picking of rituals and customs may sound tad irreverent to traditionalists. But I simply want to pick the ones I have pleasant associations with and try and keep them alive, and share them with my girl.

Dassara went by recently. The festival marks the victory of good over evil, when the mythological God Rama destroyed the demon with ten heads, Ravana. As a child, I remember streaming golden marigolds and placing flowers and offering prayers to all ‘instruments’ that allow us to be powerful and help us defeat evil and ensure the victory of good. Even as a child, I liked the thought and enthusiastically placed flowers on books and pencils and my school bag and vehicles and devices of sorts. I still like the idea of taking the time to acknowledge and offer this respect.

This year, I was thrilled to have marigolds in our yard at Dassara and I told my daughter we would take the time to honor the tools that make our lives better, the devices that give us strength and wisdom. With that goal, we placed some books, pencils, erasers, computers – ahem – technology really took over that table – I-pad and laptops and kindle… oh well… my childhood was spent in the dark ages, I suppose. 

Marigolds for Dassara

We had a little friend in tow – who joined in cheerfully, even if she thought it was all a little mad. The two girls wanted to be done with it so they could go to their friend’s birthday party.
Was it done with any particular reverence? Hmmm… unlikely. But there was a lot of giggling, and prancing around as the girls ran into the garage and back and put flowers on the cars and bicycles and the scooter and the soccer ball may have got one too. But, of course. And some flowers got tossed in the air for the bicycle that was now on the roof.

Reverent? No. Giggles? Yes... many.

Will my daughter’s memories concur with mine? Unlikely. She will have her own memories, I suppose. Of the fuss her mom created (that she didn’t always understand) over Diwali. Of the times, her mom insisted on shoving away the Halloween skeleton to make room for the Diwali lamps. Of the sweets made – whether her participation was in the making or simply the eating. Of the time, her mom tried to get them all to make the killa, a fort for Shivaji at Diwali-time (this year – it’s still not happened. Sigh…)

Shivaji and his men wait patiently on the coffee table for their killa (fort) unlikely to happen this year 

I am sure that oftentimes, the ghosts, ghouls, and gravestones in our front yard, will watch us light Diwali lamps and mull over our rangoli attempts (Diwali and Halloween are mostly around the same time). Those will be my child’s memories.

And although my mom’s fierce grandmother would strongly disapprove, our festivals will be celebrated as time permits, to the extent possible, blended with American festivals... And these, I suppose will be her memories. And as long the memories are sufficiently fond, that’s all that really matters.

And on that note, I shall probably keep the killa for next year.

A wish…

Some time back, we had a wishing tree in front of our house. Here’s a link to that blog – just so you know, what I’m talking about…

http://lettinggoexperiment.blogspot.com/2014/07/the-wishing-tree.html

On this wishing tree, on bright blue paper, stood a wish. Every time I passed the tree, I sneaked a peek - to make sure it was still there, to make sure the wind hadn’t swept it away, to make sure ants hadn’t gnawed on it. But mostly, I sneaked a peek – because the wish made my heart sing – just a teeny tiny bit.

Each time I looked at it, I felt a little flutter inside. Each time, I looked at it, I made a quick fervent wish that the child’s wish be granted. If there were any such thing as wish reinforcement, this would be it, I suppose. Finally when I noticed that the ants or whoever had started chewing on the paper, I clicked a picture. So I wouldn’t forget it.

It was a wish that spoke to me. It was my wish too. Perhaps it still is (except unlike this child, I am already grown-up. Darn it…). I clicked a picture so I wouldn’t forget it. The child had made my wish. A wish I didn’t have the courage to make.   

So this was my vicarious wishing?

Perhaps. It made me marvel at how unadulterated the child’s wish was. How unpolluted. Mine on the other hand would be full of doubt, hesitations and skepticism - about my writing skills (if any), tenacity (to complete a project) and commitment (mostly to not giving up). And that sadly enough discourages me from venturing out or daring to make that wish or even take any steps in that direction.  

Sure. I would like to be an author when I grow up too. But do I dare to make such a wish?
I do like to write and it clears my head. Journalism seemed more within reach. There was a topic and you decided the thrust of the story. There was a deadline and an editor breathing hot air down your neck. Go ahead - use your imagination to decide which of the above was most effective in getting the story done.

But creative writing, or writing a book, or children’s stories or whatever else…exists in a certain vacuum. And in this vacuum creep in, effortlessly - self doubt, the crisis of the day, anxiety about random things, and other unnecessary, mundane things, that push and shove their way in.

All that can only pollute the writing (not to say my life – or whatever else I may choose to do). And writing requires a clear unpolluted mind, in a sense. Odd thing though. It requires it but it can also create it. And therein lies hope. My hope. My wish?

I am still not convinced I can dare to wish this wish. Perhaps I can piggyback on this beautiful blue note that flutters freely with fierce optimism. A child’s sense of wonder and optimism. An optimism that is untouched by even the faintest whiff of adult cynicism.

Maybe some of the child’s optimism and sense of wonder will rub off on me.

And to this wonderful child, all I say is, Thank You.

Funny that...

I used to have a better sense of humor. I must have lost some in the evolution process. Pity that. For my sense of humor may have come to the rescue many a times in my life.

But let me explain what I mean. And yes, I would be just the person who would have to explain something like that. For I am just the kind of person who explains a joke. And if you’ve ever heard me attempt to tell a joke, you’ll know exactly what I mean. For most times when I’m trying to tell a joke, I forget either the punchline or remember only the punchline. Yeah yeah… not all of us have continuous coherent thoughts, and if you’ve ever spoken to me, you probably know what I mean.

Hmm... Now would be a good time, to stop pointing out to things that I would rather not have people notice in the first place. Let me, instead, tell you what I mean.

By sense of humor, I’m not even referring to the “ha ha…funny” or humorous. Sure, that helps too. But I’m mostly referring to the ability to laugh off, the not-so-funny situations in life. To be able to find the funny or the ludicrous even - in situations that seem crazy or disaster-like, out of whack or out of our control. The ability to laugh, to lighten up, and to not take it all so seriously, no matter how serious, it truly may be.

I’m not sure I can do that as easily anymore. I tense up in a doctor’s office. I stare through jokes, even if I get them (especially when they are health related). I can almost see my sense of humor dry up and disintegrate right in front of my eyes.

Sure it pops up every now and then. I can remember my husband and I cracking (really bad) jokes in the ER. Sometimes, it pops up when there is nothing else to do, but to laugh. Like the time last year, when I got shingles a week before my surgery.

At the pre-surgery appointment, I nonchalantly mentioned to the nurse that I had very painful rash on my abdomen, and asked if they were to make incisions, right there. She took a look and leapt - out of her skin and out of the room. Only to return with a doctor. Her eyes were so wide, I wondered if they would ever restore to their normal size.

The doctor announced I had shingles and that surgery would have to be postponed. Shingles? Seriously? Who gets shingles? Moi, apparently. Sigh… Well, there had been a lot of stress related to some events, and then there was the upcoming surgery. But even then…

It was all mad. It was all exactly something that would happen to me. And right there in their office, I laughed at how crazy it all was. The doctor and the nurse looked at me (disapprovingly??) and drove me out of there.

The reason I remember this story so well is because other people involved laughed too. I called my naturopath. She laughed. We both laughed.  Then she told me to get some hypericum oil for the nerve pain. My doctor called. I asked him if he had heard the news (the nurse with the big eyes was quick). He laughed (even though I had wrecked their surgery schedule -- again). We both laughed.

I was grateful and relieved that everyone around me had the ability to laugh it off and see the humor (that really didn’t even exist) in the situation. I waited till the evening and told my husband, in person, with a solemn face (I think). He looked at me, shook his head, and just laughed. We both laughed.

Again I was grateful and relieved that we could laugh it off. There really was little else we could do anyways. And that’s the sense of humor I’m talking about.  

For although this laughter doesn’t necessarily change things or make anything better, it helps puts things into perspective, and allows us to notice the hilarity of how unexpected, and how out of control, our lives truly are. It lightens the situation and helps us plod on through the situation, no matter how sticky.

It also makes me appreciate our species, and our evolution on the whole. We must truly be a powerful species if we can laugh at life (even when it seems like the last laugh belongs to life). And as we evolve, I hope we never let go of this ability… For it makes letting go so much easier…

Eat that, Occlusion!!

Because hospitals are so much fun. And because I landed in one yesterday (nothing serious - they just like me so much, they wanted to keep me here for a couple of days). And because there is so much to do when you're sitting by yourself in a hospital room, I thought I would write my blog.

Hopped up on enough pain meds and the like, I am quite sure the blog post would have been a very interesting one. But as I embarked on my entertaining post, my IV thing started beeping away.

"Beep beep" "beep beep" it quietly stated initially. I rang for the nurse. She came and reset it.
"Beep beep" it seemed way more assertive next time. The nurse came back and reset it.
"Beep beep" "beep beep" it screamed in my ears, "What the $!/@$#*€ are you doing?" I swear it sounded so angry and the green panel flashing 'occlusion' was flashing ever so fiercely and accusingly at me...
I called the nurse - again (you now know the favorite patient on the floor tonight, right?)

Not meant to be a vision test... but if you look closely, you can see "Occlusion" in the top right hand corner

I smiled at her and apologized sheepishly, "it doesn't want me to type". "You're trying to type?" (Tone translation - woman, are you crazy? Can't you just go to sleep like the rest of them?").

But instead of saying any of that, she smiled sweetly and said even more sweetly, "well, it's just going to keep beeping then. And the IV site could get occluded and we'll just have to find a new IV site on a different arm maybe..." Seriously, how could anyone sound so sweet and so sinister all at once? Touché, I thought. She sure knew how to get me to shut up.

I was visibly ashen I suppose. I'm here only for another night. I really don't want them digging through my veins to find another site. If only I could tell you how many eyes have looked disapprovingly at my small, uncooperative veins.

"You could type with your left hand," she continued with her sweetest smile. I just stared at her. I watched her leave. I looked at the IV thingie, I looked at the IV site, I looked at my half typed blog. It no longer made sense. I deleted the whole thing. All I could think of was the annoying occlusion and all the other annoying occlusions in my life that prevent me from doing everything I want to do.

And I started typing with my left hand. And no, I'm not the inspiring dancer who lost her leg and now dances - very beautifully - with one leg. I had tears in my eyes, the first time I saw her. No I don't have that kind of grit or grace or gumption. What I have are mostly glares and grumbles and grrrrrs...

But I continued typing with my left hand. (Have I mentioned how stubborn i can be? I know...it's a terrible thing. And what's worse is that I'm a scowly kind of stubborn. Sigh...)

But I continued typing to get those grrrrs...moving. So they won't remain stuck inside me forever. For there will be times (and there are times) when there are no 'occlusions'. And in those times I want to be free of all the grrrrs and grumbles...

As for you, my friend, occlusion - Eat that! You can't tell me what to do after all!

Clutter

I don’t think I would qualify as a neat freak. But there are times when I get overwhelmed by clutter; when my eyes do not want to see more things; when my brain feels burdened at having to process anything more. One of my letting go goals is to have fewer things, less clutter and make room for the things I truly want.

That has not happened yet.

And when I sporadically try, I wonder if there is any hope even. I look in despair at the scraps of colored papers (ahem…art pieces, notes, rhymes, jokes…). Yikes! They must be hermaphrodites! They seem to follow some self fertilizing system. How else do they multiply and reproduce so rapidly and seem to be everywhere… the closet, the car, the floor, in the deep abyss of my handbag…

Ah… my handbag. Last week I decided to clean out my handbag. And since I was feeling particularly brave and ambitious, I decided to clean out…five. Yes. You read right. My moment of insanity? Not that any of them were stuffed. But all of them had in their deep voids, stray remnants of a time that had flown by, of moments that were to never return… In other words – trash.

Toothpicks, gross looking candy, hairpins, safety pins, shimmering, shiny leftovers of something, piece of putty, ticket stubs of sorts, art pieces made by a then eight-year-old…you get the gist…

It should have been a quick task, right? Throw away the dried up stick of gum, put the pen away, shred the old prescription, dust out all unpleasant matter at the bottom of the purse, and recycle the chewed up, rolled up scraps of paper.

Now perhaps, if I had given the task to my husband, it would all have happened – with lightening speed even – in ten minutes or so, I imagine.

Not to suggest any gender stereotypes (I’m not a fan of those), but even if you twist my arm, I will not divulge how long I sat amidst those bags. Now, now… don’t judge… these were after all, interesting flashes from my past… sigh…

Here was a receipt of something I bought in India. So of course, my mind wandered to that day and continent… An old lipstick - of course, I had to check if that color still worked for me… Returning from the mirror, now wearing bright lipstick, I found a note from my naturopath with suggestions… wow I never tried those out – hmm… maybe now would be a good time. Crumpled concert tickets… which obviously meant that I had to break out into a song. 

Yes. There I was in my pajamas, wearing bright lipstick, trying to sing while sucking on to maple candy from Canada, dabbed generously with natural perfume found in yet another bag, reading a booklet on Adi Shankaracharya, from a place visited in Kerala, trying to decide which pieces of ‘art’ should be kept… Sigh… is there any hope for me?

Despite the fact that I’m still surrounded by clutter, my solid stubbornness will not allow me to quit. I spent hours yesterday trying to organize electronically, the never-ending creations, inventions and pieces of paper that belong to a certain nine-year-old. I scanned documents and clicked pictures and then threw away (yay!!) school projects, artwork from summer camps, and other endless pieces of paper…

The plan is sound. The implementation is at best iffy. For despite the time I spent, I don’t think I really got very far. And I am still having trouble throwing out some original pieces of paper. Sigh…

Lot of sighing. I know. But I also know the root of my troubles. It is a combination of sloppiness and sentimentality that is preventing me from clearing the clutter.

But tell me, how do you throw away the original of this brilliant and necessary (??) invention? The blueprint (ahem… drawing) is already lost.

 

It makes me laugh. Some day, it will make my girl laugh. I want her and her future generations to have that laugh. But is this picture enough? Wouldn’t they like to see the fancy scroll-like thing she’s created for it?

More sighs… is there any hope for me? 

I thought of the clutter and looked at it again today. And instead of working on it, I decided to write about it.

Bigger sighs… is there ever going to be any hope for me?

Writing about it, didn’t make any of the clutter budge. But oddly enough, it cleared some clutter (in my head). It took away the overwhelm... It made me notice the humor in it all.

No. It didn’t make any of the clutter budge.
But I feel like there is still some hope for me… 

 

How do we get past… the past?

Life happens. Things happen. Sh** happens. It happens to everyone. It happens to varying degrees. Difficult childhoods, broken dreams, lack of freedom, illness, tragedy, loss, frustrations, regrets… we’ve all travelled to those dark corners some time or other. To some extent or other. And even if it were only to the smallest extent, these dark areas lurk in our life and settle down in our being – stealthily, silently.  

For most part, they exist quietly, unruffled beneath the smooth surface. And whether or not they create a big stir in our life, they continue to exist. And whether or not they create a big stir in our lives, they ripple out every now and then. A quick reaction, a sharp tone or word, hurried rising of defenses, anxious stutters, nervous chatters, a blank stare, a pounding heart, a sinking feeling, lack of confidence…

I’m sure psychologists would offer a catalog of theories ranging from ‘fight or flight’ to what have you… All I’m trying to figure out is if we have some sort of learned responses to these dark spaces created by our past. And if they sneak up on us, no matter how quietly they exist, no matter how unsuspecting we may be of them and make us less grounded in a swift, fleeting moment.

How then do we break free of them? How do we leave the past behind and move into the future – free of all the dark shadows and the reactions they elicit?

Advice abounds about leaving the past in the past and living in the moment and moving forward. All good solid advice, I’m sure.

But how do you do that? Is it just me and my inner-cynic, or do other people wonder about that too? Is it possible to just leave the past in the past like that? To pretend that it never happened? To brush it off? To sweep it under the rug?

I wish it were that simple. I wish it were possible even. But unfortunately, something tells me, that we have to carry the weight with us. The weight of our past. The weight of our experiences. The dampness of our tears.

I know there seems to be no silver lining in this piece. I must have hit upon an especially dark corner today and am taking you straight to yours. Just great, right? Sigh…

But if must carry the weight, do we just make peace with the fact? If we must carry the weight, can we carry it with grace and dignity? With courage and a bigger perspective. A perspective that encompasses the good things in our life? 

Perhaps, if we can exist in some kind of harmony with these dark spaces, they won’t sneak up on us as much. And perhaps, acknowledging them and their space in our life (no matter how dark), will prevent them from bursting out like an angry child in the most unsuspecting of times. And perhaps, giving these spaces a place of dignity will allow us to carry them with dignity…

The letting go inspiration box

...these few moments are what justify my existence, because they give me the strength to keep going and bring joy to my days -- no matter how much I tried to bring them sorrow.

                                                                          ~ Paulo Coelho


                                                        



 

How close are our dreams to reality?

Once upon a time, in a land, far far away…in a time long long ago, seated on the steps of our journalism department, a friend and I would talk about becoming travel writers and journalists (quite like Antony Bourdain – although we didn’t quite know him then). He (my friend, not Antony Bourdain) now writes computer code (or something like that – but also uncovers amazing travel locations, posts fantastic pictures and refuses to divulge the location on social media.. hrrmph). As for me, I do… whatever it is that I do…

And although it seemed like a pipe dream. I have often reflected on how easily it could have actually happened. I was the Arts and Culture coordinator for a newspaper, and had contacts with folks at Discovery Channel in New Delhi, which was opening shop and just getting started in post-globalization India. And each time we laugh it off, I can’t help but say, “hey, that could have easily happened, you know”.  

Not that I have any regrets about the matter, or wistfulness or melancholia. What I have is more a sense of wonder and even a hint of disbelief at the ease with which it could all have happened. And that the pipe-dream was more tangible than I ever imagined.

What I have, I suppose, is a sense of wonder about how clueless some of us are about our dreams being closer than we think. About how clueless we are of our capabilities, supporting circumstances, and the lack of belief in ourselves and our abilities to make it all happen.  

Why then do we dismiss it off? Does the distance between the dream and reality seem greater than it actually is? Do our situation and our limitations seem more restricting than they actually are? Is it all our warped perception or are we worried about being disappointed?

I suppose each dream or desire comes with a degree of possibility or likelihood. Degree of possibility and likelihood, based on circumstances and limitations. And also, our own perceived degree of possibility and likelihood. We must in our heart believe that it can actually happen and then allow it to happen.

There are those who are strong and forge ahead and chase their dreams. But then there are those (present company included) that hum and haw, are unaware of their own capabilities, and are generally unable to understand how tangible or intangible the dream may be.  

In the end, we may be the only ones to know which ones resonate the loudest within; which one is the likeliest. I suppose there are always those that may be well within our reach, but in our mind, we’ve decided it is a dream. And a dream, as we all know, with its inherent nature of wispiness, is intangible. How then do we know what to believe in? What to chase?

True. We don’t know that it will come true. But do we owe it to ourselves to try? And although my friend and I may smile at the idea of us travelling and writing (and actually getting paid to do that – just that! – my friend’s words), it is worth reminding ourselves that despite all limitations, there are dreams (at least some) that are within our scope.

How then do we keep our eyes open to that knowledge, our heart strong enough to believe it, and our confidence alive enough to live it?

I know you love me…

I know you love me…

That is exactly what a young man told me the other day, in the library. Yes. You heard right. And yes, did I mention how young this young man was? Umm… 3 or 4 years old, would be about right.

I was browsing through the shelves, waiting for my daughter, when I made eye contact with this little fellow. With eager eyes, he showed me the book in his hand and I did exactly what anyone else would have done. Smiled at the little cutie and admired the book. I moved to the next aisle, bent down to look at a book, when I noticed someone standing right next to me. I turned around and saw my little friend. I grinned at him, and without a blink, he confidently proclaimed, “I know you love me”.  Quite taken aback, I stared at him, laughed, and replied, “Sure. Why not?”

I then turned around for I thought I was going to burst out laughing. He was of Indian descent and I figured that there must be some resemblance between me and his mother or another relative.

I repeated the story to my daughter. “That’s just weird,” she announced. I repeated the story to my husband. “What a player” he joked and said the kid had a bright future.  But surely, the little kid’s future seems bright with his confidence and self assuredness.

Even now, the thought of the little kid announcing my love for him, cracks me up. But in my heart, I really admire the kid and hope that he never lose his self-assuredness and belief that people around him adore him. Ahem… although I trust that in a decade’s time, it may be prudent for him to not walk about confessing and announcing other people’s love for him.

What a strength it must be to have such a perception or belief. To simply imagine that people around love (or at least like) us for exactly who we are and what we are. To never have to guage where we stand, based on other people’s reactions or emotions. To never have to feel good or bad about ourselves because it seems so in someone else’s eyes. To have the faith and confidence in ourselves and our lovability (that’s actually a word – I thought I was making it up).

We spend a chunk of our time and interaction with others gauging if other people (mere acquaintance to those close to us) like us, approve of us, of what we’re doing, of what we’re saying…and evaluate or reevaluate ourselves based on our perceptions of their perceptions of us. If the tongue twister weren’t crazy enough, the fact that at least some of us do this, is.

How liberating a thought to imagine that people around us simply love us… Can only a child think that way?  Are they intuitive, wishful, optimistic enough to do so? Does adulthood, rationality, past experience, make us jaded and incapable of believing so?

Why does the thought seem so incredulous? Is it most adults or is it only me? How much letting go will have to happen to merely start moving in the direction of that child’s thought…

And yes, my little friend was spot on. I do love him…

A birthday…

So I had another birthday. A birthday is always fun - given all the love and attention you get. But for most part, it simply comes and goes as it does every year…

But for the past couple of years, it has made me tad reflective. Sigh… I must be getting old after all.

And by now, you know what I often to do when I get reflective – write it down – publicly or privately. Yes, I get it out of my system (hmm...not sure if that is a good thing), and then get up and get on with my life…

Last birthday was particularly interesting. I thought I was having a great big existential crisis! I had just returned from the hospital after surgery and my body was weak and tired, but my mind continued to whirr…

38 years!! What had I done with my life so far? I was supposed to save the world and make a difference (yeah yeah… we’ll blame it on the drugs…). Just what did I have to show for those 38 years? What had I done with my time on this planet?

I found no answers and my breath was getting shorter. So I decided to let go… I laughed and thought, “heck, I must be felling better, if I have the strength to ask myself such questions”. So I gave my little or great big existentialist crisis a positive spin, and began to breathe normally again.

I had no existential crisis this year. Sigh… I must be more tired than I seem. I just took a nap in the morning – a birthday nap, mind you (I must be getting really really old – my idea of celebration has changed considerably!). But reflect, I did. On time passing and things ending…

Add to the overall sentiment, my birthday is in September. And as beautiful as September is in the Pacific Northwest, it does confirm the passing of summer and sunshine and fun and energy…

It made me want to break out into haikus on the passing of time and season, and good times and change… Yes, I can almost read them, although I haven’t written a word; I can almost hear them, although I haven’t uttered a single sound…

But you know them too… Of youth and unfinished dreams swept away by the river of time and the tide of situations… Okay, so I can be tad dramatic. And no matter how tempting the haikus seem, I’ll stop right here. To spare us from bad poetry and melancholia in general.  

Yes, time will pass. We will gray. Interestingly enough, I have no problems with the passing of the “appearance” of youth. Although, I will confess to wondering if it was now time to start wearing more make-up. Oh, put those botox needles away, already. I simply stopped examining my face in the mirror and all concerns quickly disappeared.

Maybe as we get middle aged, we simply value our time on the planet more and want to make each day count. Oh come on, there’s got to be some advantages to being middle-aged.

I do believe there are.

For although the beauty and energy of youth diminishes, I feel more free – to be who I want to be. Other people’s judgment doesn’t affect the middle aged as much (or so I hope). I can dress, behave as I want to, do what I want to, say what I want to - without drawing much attention. For middle-aged people draw little attention and that is just fine by me.  

For by now, most of us have at least started figuring out what really matters. And although we miss the headless energy and mad mirth of youth, this too is a good place to be, and a promising start of things to come…

 

Inspiration…

A few folks have mentioned how this blog has been inspiring. How it has inspired them to start writing, blogging, pursuing something they had shelved, thinking differently about certain things... Each time, I have been awkward, not known what to say, been touched by their sharing, although unable to receive the inherent compliment gracefully (despite appreciating it) – yes awkward people – we’re more numerous than we think.

Admission of awkwardness aside, I have also squinted my eyes in disbelief and skepticism. Simply reading it seems to help some, why then, doesn’t writing it (yes, stringing the words, wrangling with the thought) seem to have done as much for me? Sure, the half hour or so I spend writing, seems enjoyable and the stream of words sometimes give me a sense of direction and at times, seems to lift the fog.

But I don’t know that I’m particularly inspired by my own words (sigh… at least for too long – for I forget what I write – very quickly. Move over, Dory…sigh…) and I’ve even wondered how “successful” the whole letting go experiment has been. More sighs…

But I’ll stop rambling and get back to what I meant to write. About inspiration. I admire those who have told me that the blog has been inspiring. For they understand what is inspiring to them. And that to me is an awakened spirit. I suspect we are inspired by different things at different times and to different extents – some we may notice, while some go by completely unnoticed. 

But whether or not we notice it, my hunch is that somewhere inside, we respond to inspiration. And that is a beautiful thing. Now I’m all about inspiration. I love being inspired. I may even be the foolish type who goes looking for it. But I think inspiration may often exist on some sort of a curved graph (maybe bell curve-like).

For sometimes, inspiration may be accompanied by some of its uglier cousins - jealousy, self-evaluation/ criticism, wanting to do more… I am not a particularly jealous person, so I won’t go further into that.  

But on occasion, after inspiration has struck, peaked to its dazzling height of possibility and brilliance, it dips into a dull ditch of reality and limitations – be it time or talent, energy or enthusiasm. What started as so sparkling and so likely to soar high, may take a downward trajectory and end in a little lackluster puddle of unfinished possibilities.

Just peachy, you say? How could a piece on inspiration, bursting with potential for ahem… inspiration, end in a gray puddle? I truly don’t know. I truly wish it hadn’t.

But even if the end was a puddle, the brilliance before was genuine, no matter how it ended. And every now and then, despite many that ended in a puddle, a few got away and kept soaring…