The letting go inspiration box...

I know that underneath the mess everything is marvelous. I’m sure of it.

 

                                                                                       ~  Henry Miller

Fills and Refills…

Even a child knows this.  When we pour something out, the cup gets empty.

When we overextend ourselves and keep doing so, we feel empty. When we give when we no longer have the energy to, we feel empty. When we pour out of obligation, pressure, exhaustion, that cup empties out. Quickly. We all know this. We’ve all felt this.

For even a child knows this. The cup needs to be filled before it is ready to pour again.

I seem to have noticed this more in the past few years as I’ve simply operated on less. So what happens when you try to pour the same as before but with a cup only half full, or empty even? Unhappiness, dissatisfaction, puzzlement and sheer incomprehension that stems out of not comprehending the emptiness of the cup.  And despite knowing this and trying to adjust to it, it still leaves me restless. I have tried to change. I have chosen playing a board game over clearing the clutter. I have left projects unfinished on the dining table and returned after a week, or two, or three, or… yeah yeah… I know what you’re thinking… all excuses for a cluttered home. Sigh… But the restlessness is still there. There is so much that I seem to want to do – and yet the cup feels rather empty.

Perhaps it all depends on what we’re pouring towards. If it is meaningful to us, the emptying is worthwhile and even gratifying. For the meaning it gives us, will help refill the cup quickly. But pouring out towards something we don’t quite believe it, something we feel obliged to do will lead to an empty cup, or perhaps a leaky one even – one that keeps getting drained and can’t be filled. An awful job, a relationship or a friendship that is draining, a duty that seems root canalish. Yes, we’ve all been there.

So what do we do then? Never pour ourselves out? Never allow the cup to be emptied out?

Oh what a dull life that would be. An insulated, measured life without passion and enthusiasm. Perhaps being mindful of what we are pouring ourselves out to will help. Or pouring towards things that matter will help. Or pouring and remembering to fill ourselves up again with the things that matter will help. Or pouring without any expectation that someone else will do the same will help. And filling and refilling and re-refilling with meaning and joy and fun and doing what we love to do may help.

And for me remembering all this will help.

In fleeting…

Our life is in fleeting. The people we meet are in fleeting. As people fleet in and out of our lives, they impact us, they change us, they leave us with impressions – both good and bad. I don’t want to explore the bad, for it is pointless and I’m glad it was all fleeting.

Brief encounters or lasting relationships, we allow people into our lives and into our hearts. And some remain there forever. Like my grandparents – who were ‘only’ neighbors, but who I considered my only “true grandparents”. They had a room in their house for me, a cupboard with all my important belongings and unconditional love and acceptance.

They didn’t have children of their own and as a result didn’t have (in my then-opinion) any silly pre-conceived notions about how children were supposed to be raised. I went everywhere with them. I attended every social event in their home. I chatted with all their friends. I gave their overnight guests the grand tour of “my room” (which was also the guest room) with specific instructions to not touch my things. I spent hours playing Rummy. And yes, I was the only five year old I knew, who did so. And if they hadn’t been teetotalers, I would probably have been sipping some scotch with them in the evenings.

When I was seven, the big beautiful old house became a big modern building and we all moved. Although I visited regularly, it wasn’t the same. For their new house no longer had a room for me, nor did a cupboard somewhere contain all my belongings. But my blankie made from my grandma’s saree remained in their closet till the very end. And my special plate and glass remained with their daily use utensils till the very end. And the place they held for me in their hearts remained. Till the very end.

Even as a youngster, I realized how lucky I had been to have them. How their home was my refuge when things seemed crazy in my home. And I don’t need to wear my grandma’s gold bangle to remember them or to remember how lucky I was. My grandma told me countless stories of my many terrible and naughty adventures. And each time, I wondered how they had allowed me to harass them so.

Some year ago, my then ninety-three year old grandma recounted those stories, and I said, “Gosh, I was always up to something – I really harassed you didn’t I?” She smiled and said, “We enjoyed that harassment. We wanted it even. You kept us young”. I simply stared back. It hit me so hard, I couldn’t believe it. Just as I had been grateful to have them in my life, they had been grateful to have me in theirs. Yes. Life is fleeting. Just as they fleeted in and out of my life and made my life so much richer, I too had fleeted in and out of theirs.

Yes. People fleet in and out. Some we know for years; others we know for minutes. Some we have weekly coffee with; others we meet only once. In the end it doesn’t matter how much time you spend with a person, what matters is how you connect, how much you appreciate them, how much you learn from them, how pleased you feel to be in their presence.

From the stranger at the airport who I will never see again to a sweet seven year old who plays with my daughter and whose gentleness strikes me each time… There is no knowing who will make us see the world differently, who will put a smile on our face, who will make us think, who will inspire us, who will infuse us with their enthusiasm… for life is fleeting… and people will fleet in and out. And in our fleeting lifetime, if we can stop and simply notice the wonderful ones, our fleeting life will seem so much prettier.

Letting go and Awe – part deux

This two series on awe probably has some Jekyll and Hyde overtones. I agree. But both aspects involve a certain letting go and I decided to explore them both.  

It felt uplifting to look at the divine and surreal side of awe – the kind in which our spirit lifts itself and merges with a greater force. However, awe can also cause a disconnect; a rift between the self and the awe-inspiring; making us guarded, making us distance ourselves. We may simply be incapable of taking it all in.

It’s the tongue-tiedness that we encounter in the presence of greatness, or perceived greatness, or wonderfulness, or beauty, or knowledge. It is the withdrawing or hiding in the shell that may happen based on our view of ourselves which may be in contrast to the awe-inspiring moment, person or situation.

Perhaps it is easier to take in the awe of nature or a work of art. Perhaps the disconnect is more with situations or people who we are in awe of. Whose greatness, or beauty or intelligence, or talent, or love, or energy makes us want to stay a few steps away. It is times when we don’t know quite how to get closer, how exactly to receive the greatness, how to be part of their dynamism.

I can probably remember several occasions when I’ve been in complete awe of some very awe-inspiring persons. Professors whose immense knowledge left me tongue-tied; artistes whose talent made me hold my breath; beautiful people who made me want to stare at them from a distance (and not just outward, surface level beauty); friends whose confidence I marveled; tough go-getters who chased their dreams resolutely without caring what other may think… the list is long.

You may say that this is simply admiration. Maybe it is. I also believe it is a stronger version of admiration. For in noticing and marveling at greatness, it makes us notice our ordinariness. It may be only a perception, but does it create a disconnect? As we gawk awkwardly at the awe-evoking being before us, is it hard for us to connect or receive some of that greatness? Do we feel like we move in different realms – realms that can never coincide? Does our perceived superiority of the person’s attributes make us feel inferior? (Though oddly enough we may be perfectly happy being small – simply to be in the presence of so much awe.)

Being in an awe-inspiring situations or company, is quite similar to the awe experienced standing on top of a mountain. It is the energy of greatness, vastness, beauty, knowledge that strikes us. So why then do we hold ourselves back? Will a certain letting go allow us to take in the greatness and merge with the power? Can we leave the experience inspired and richer; rather than distanced or dissociated? Why not be in awe from closer than safely from the sidelines? For the awe is there. And yes. Awe is a beautiful thing.

 

Awe and letting go... part one

Awe is a beautiful feeling. It may be as close to the surreal or divine as we can get. It may be what makes us believe in the surreal or divine. Standing on top of a tall mountain, gazing at the vastness and the littleness of a world beneath is awe. A dazzling golden amber sunset is awe. Gazing at a new-born is awe.  A magnificent monument is awe. A child discovering things for the first time is awe. A resplendent work of art – be it a poem, painting, music, or dance composition is awe.

Yes, awe can fill and flood our senses. It can make our existence seem larger than life. It can give a dreamlike dimension to our surroundings. Yes awe can be a beautiful thing.

I am clueless as to why I chose to write on this topic. I suspect it may have something to do with a certain two-facedness that awe involves, and I decided to write two pieces. I will probably contradict myself. I will probably challenge myself. But I do feel awe has two dimensions and I wish to look at both.

For this piece, I will stay with the surreal and divine awe  - the kind that inspires, the kind that makes you believe in the unbelievable. It’s the awe I experienced swimming at midnight in the middle of a bioluminescence bay. When I moved my hand and watched streams of light erupt in the dark murky waters. I felt like Tinker Bell with her magic wand. It made be believe in magic and all things surreal. I wondered how much magic laid tucked away in nature and our world. I wondered how I could discover it all.  I simply swam in awe.

Without a doubt, all of us can recall experiences of awe in our lifetime. Times when you felt part of a greater whole; times when you were struck by the beauty of existence; times when you felt so much taller, stronger, powerful… or perhaps, humbled and much much smaller. Like the awe I experienced standing in the middle of nowhere, staring through a telescope our friend had built (more awe right there); staring at the moons of Jupiter and the rings of Saturn and the whole Andromeda galaxy. Yes a whole galaxy right in front of my eyes. Just how small was I? Just how insignificant was this city, this earth, this world? It made me believe in God. It made me believe in tiny Martian men. There was vastness and mystery right before my eyes and beyond what I would ever see. I was in awe. I remained in awe.

Yes awe is a beautiful thing. It is a kind of letting go. We let go of ourselves and our existence. We are swept into a larger power that surrounds us and inspires us. We relinquish our being and merge into a greater force before us, around us, surrounding us. Yes. Awe is a beautiful thing. 

Of girlie girls and macho men

“Mom, are you a girlie-girl?” my eight-year-old questioned as I tucked her in a few nights ago. I wondered how these questions always crop up at bedtime – just as I was ready to switch off my brain and do some mindless television watching. “Umm.. I’m probably somewhere in the middle,” I replied. “Really?” she seemed surprised, “How come Mom?” “Well…I guess I do like some girlie things like shoes and clothes and I do enjoy a certain amount of style when possible.”

“I don’t think so” came her verdict quick and cruel. And with her words came crashing any delusion I may have ever held of being elegant.

“You don’t wear all that make up stuff – like on your cheeks and all over your face,” she continued. Ah…So that’s was what I needed to go back to doing to get the stylish status. “I don’t think you’re a girlie-girl” she decided. Part amused, part heartbroken, I imagined my bruised ego was ready for the ice-cream tub downstairs. “Well, I never want to be a girlie-girl and you aren’t one either,” she declared. So that’s where this was coming from and I was quite happy that she wanted us to belong to the same camp.

“Would you hold a frog in your hand?” “No,” I answered definitively. “Would you lick a slug?” Same answer. More yikes.  Maybe my girlie-girl and style status would be resurrected after all.

“Would you splash about in a river?” “Totally,” I replied. “Would you do it if there was all this mud and you were getting muddy?” Same answer. More laughter.

“Would you be upset if your shoes got all yucky or I know I know – if you had to step in cow poop covered ground and were barefoot?” “Wouldn’t love it but…" “See you could be all messy and stuff and not be like ‘oh no my clothes are dirty, my hair is yucky’. See you’re not a girly girl,” she announced.

She was making a point. I was getting the point. She was pointing out that I would never let any “girlie-girlness” come in the way of an experience or fun. I wondered too why I thought I was a girlie-girl. Could it be because I chose dance over sports? Because I could be concerned as to how I looked at least every now and then? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I let it go.  

The conversation had been funny despite my dashed hopes at elegance. “You can be bit of both, you know. And there may be times when you want to do girlie-girl things, and that’s okay too” I told her. I changed the topic for I wanted her to sleep. I later wished I hadn’t ended it so brusquely. For I wondered where and how these stereotypes came from. Girlie-girl, tomboy, macho… And do kids and young adults feel the need to conform to the placed label? Or is it a dynamic of peer pressure?

Do we really want our children to believe that they need to belong to any one category; be part of a herd... are they cattle? Maybe they never will feel so and this discussion is moot.

In the meantime, I'll just stick with my tub of ice-cream till my bruised ego is healed and my images of elegance are upright again…sigh…

 

To evaluate or not to evaluate...

A few months ago, I worked with kids in my daughter’s classroom teaching them to make haikus. It was sheer delight to work with kids aged approximately six, seven and eight; to watch their creativity explode, to witness a few giggles in the making; to notice their faces gleam with pride at the morsels of literature they had just created.

Thoughts were profound; sentiments were simple; expressions were honest; confidence was high. “Looks like I’m going to be a great poet,” quipped a six-year-old boy confidently. My favorite was a collaborative effort between a seven year old boy, a six year old girl and myself. It went something like this:

Scribbles scribbles everywhere
on the bottom of my chair
My classroom

You see now, how it was literature in the making. They wrote about nature, winter, autumn that had ended, the snake and the bird in their classroom, annoying siblings, sports, pets and even technology. Some walked out to the outdoor classroom to draw inspiration from the winterscape (ahem… the writer in me encouraged it; the person-in-charge in me wondered if I had lost them). But thankfully, they did return and went on to pen some soulful lines.

Interestingly the younger kids seemed more fearless than the older ones. They asked for help with spellings, they were confident about what they wanted to say, they didn’t want to take any suggestions, there was no judgment - their haikus came straight from the heart sometimes via concocted spellings and words. They looked at them with satisfaction. They looked perfect to them. They looked perfect to me.

The older ones seemed more concerned about form and meter, how they looked, how their haikus compared to the ones I had shared or made for them; what their peers were working on… Their haikus were just as beautiful, but at times shrouded in self-judgment and evaluation. One nine-year-old boy fiercely guarded his work. After all, how terrible would it be for his friend’s mom to find out that he struggled with spellings. Their haikus were every bit as soulful, but at times more guarded, more judged, more erased, more polished, more perfected and some got tossed away before they even got a second chance. 

The difference struck me as I looked at the different aged kids at the table. And it happened each time I went in. And each time I wondered at what age self judgment and critical analysis creeps in. Was it is the inevitable burden of growing up? Of setting expectations? Of living up to expectations set by teachers, parents, society or the self?

Agreed great art is born out of much revision. I remember studying excerpts of works by Gustave Flaubert, who would sound out each line he wrote to pass it through a scrutiny of rhythm, fluidity and perfection. The idea even captured my imagination and I remember trying it. (As you may have guessed… I didn’t get too far.)

This blog is as far from Flaubert’s technique as possible. It is far from any journalistic piece I ever wrote. For each of those was edited and evaluated for strength of reason and argument and flow and relevance.

Yes, these blog pieces are as messy as they come – grammar and syntax be damned seems to be the general motto – and I love it! I simply want to pour out the thought running through my head. And it is wonderful to do just that. Well for most part at least. There are times when I gasp and think, “did I just post that on a public forum?!!” And there are times when I remove chunks of a piece or not post certain pieces at all. But for most part they seem more like the first grader’s haikus than the third grader’s.

And yet, I still wonder what it would be like to have the courage and lack of criticism of the six-year-olds who get excited by their own imaginations and sparkling creativity and fearlessly pour out their hearts and candid emotion on paper. 

Of oysters and fogs and brilliance

Post surgery I feel as if I have been living in a fog. Shielding myself. Withdrawing. Living in an oyster at the far bottom of the ocean. I’ve been grouchy. I’ve been frumpy. I’ve been put under. I’ve wanted to stay under. I’ve wanted more pain meds as it seems so much easier to have your senses dulled; so much easier to stay in a haze; so much easier than to come back up to the surface and start swimming again. Jittery, trembly, (and yes pain meds give me the permission to coin my own words), of wavering spirit, of fickle courage.

Pain meds that make me foggy seem a safe recluse. I thought with certainty that I had finally abandoned this blog. I certainly have not wanted to write. I wondered why. No, not due to any lack of strength, or pain, or discomfort; but because it forces me to come to life, to question things, to get going, to keep moving.

For once I write, I wake up. Reluctantly. Unhappily. But I do wake up and reality seems like it won’t budge from in front of me. (And deep down I know it will be as good or as bad as I make it out to be) Waking up seems an effort. It seems so much easier to remain in a fog. For clarity is brilliant. Clarity hurts the eye. It seems easier to remain in the oyster at the bottom of the reef. In the soothing dim light, where you don’t need to squint from the sun.  For swimming to the surface requires effort. Swimming to the surface involves uncertainty of what may be waiting at the surface.

Writing is my letting go. Writing forces me to remain awake. Writing forces me to face the reality. Writing challenges me to dare my thoughts. To face my fears. And the less-than ideal state of my uncertainties, insecurities, and apprehensions.

Outwardly, I seem to be okay. Outwardly, I seem to be living my life. Why then have I refused to write? Could it be an undercurrent of tacit emotional upheaval beneath a calm and still surface that stops me? 

I do realize that I will at some point have to walk out of this haze. I realize there will be times, I will run back and seek recluse in it. I realize I will have to remind myself how easy it is to get lost in a fog. I realize I will slowly have to draw myself out of it. I hope I will. For the world outside the fog is brilliant and I would never want to miss its dazzle.

P.S. For all of you who called, emailed, messaged, or looked me in the eye and asked why I had stopped the blog, I apologize for the lack of response or the vague, evasive ones I furnished. Thank you for keeping me on track.  

Oh, and I added some pictures to blog posts written in India… it’s hard to believe it was all such a short while ago...
http://lettinggoexperiment.blogspot.com/2014/01/letting-go-by-becoming-part-of-bustle.html
http://lettinggoexperiment.blogspot.com/2014/01/life-in-rhythm.html
http://lettinggoexperiment.blogspot.com/2014/01/travel-and-letting-go.html