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…