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Lost pieces...

When I was about ten, I watched Sudha Chandran, a Bharatnatyam dancer, in a live performance. I sat on the edge of my seat for the entire length of the show, soaking up every footstep, every rhythmic beat, every move, every expression. Skinny hands and feet trying to copy the dancer in small and surreptitious movements, hoping no one would notice.

The danseuse was talented, well versed, beautiful, and an amputee.

You really couldn’t tell. No, not when she danced. You could tell, perhaps, from her uneven step when she walked. Her story was one of heroism. Of grit. Of bravery. Of determination. Of not giving up. Of getting up after every fall. Even as a child, I could tell she had overcome much.

I thought it was mostly physical difficulty. Undoubtedly so. But as I think of her today, I marvel at how much she had to overcome - emotionally.  

In the past few weeks I experienced it myself. A few days ago, I mustered up courage, a lot of courage, swathed myself in silks, and jewelry and make-up and got on stage to perform a piece of classical dance. The same skinny hands and feet of before – joyous, mirthful, always eager to dance, were this time - doubtful, hesitant and somewhat weighted.

A few weeks ago, I thought it was insanity, a lot of insanity, to sign up for this, to obtain music and choreography from a friend, to re-choreograph the piece, to believe I could get on stage and perform classical dance after a gap of 19 years, and a decade of illness.  

Clarifications first.  Although I preface my story with Sudha Chandran’s, I come nowhere close in talent to this dancer and actress, and never did. Dance was a hobby taken somewhat seriously. My story is neither as tragic nor brave as hers. But as I sat down to write, her story and her strength came to mind.

For me, performing classical dance after 19 years was a daunting thought. But the emotional turbulence was in believing or disbelieving that my body could do so after a decade of an unglamorous illness. That my body was capable or worthy enough to create a beautiful form of art as classical dance.

Art, to some extent, is innate. Sure, it can be taught, it can be learnt, but even an amateur artiste exhibits an innate and inexplicable quality, which goes beyond teaching and learning. There is only so much we can be taught. At some level, the body has to participate in it, be present in it, to unleash it and unfurl it, at an intuitive, incomprehensible level. Every performing artist does so.

It was hard for me to believe that the same body that had undergone so much; that had been tortured, seemed angry, ugly even, would be capable of creating art… of creating beauty…

When I think of my body, I flashback to when I could see almost every bone in my body at 73 pounds; I think of a puffy steroid moonface and strange textured hair in an otherwise wasted body; I think of intestinal perforation, I think of a harrowing ER trip in the middle of the night when a cyst would not stop bleeding. I think of years of trying remedy after remedy, cure after cure…

I think of a decade of trying to get better, to raise a child, to lead a normal life, and in doing so, trying to hide, yet being fully aware of the ugliness and anger my body held.

This is really not about my suffering or endurance. Many go through much worse in life, with less support system and resources. And I have much and many to be grateful for. What I’m trying to understand is that despite the lack of any apparent body image issues, there may be a subconscious underlying notion of ugliness that my mind holds about my body.

What I want to try and understand and share is how hard it can be to change the images and notions our mind makes up about ourselves.

We don’t have to be sick to know that we let parts of ourselves wither away. There are many such parts and there are many reasons and priorities that cause them to disintegrate. Some we can turn back to, some we leave far far behind.

A jolt of good health after my first surgery, gave me the courage to dare to pick up this lost piece. Health dwindled later, but the intention, even if jello-like, was set. I had acquired the necessary attire and jewelry in my last trip to India and was determined to get into the garbs.

The small Indian community event didn’t seem as daunting, the dance piece I found was simple, I decided to not beat myself up over perfection in dance technique, I practiced only what little my body would allow 10-15 minutes once or twice a day… yet it took every morsel of courage I owned.

Perhaps it was because it was classical dance. There would not have been as much angst over a group folk dance or a Bollywood based number. But with a classical art form, defined by structure and a set of conventions carried for generations, it is the dancer’s responsibility and privilege, to share the art, and to create it even. Could I really dare? I did...

Possibly my least perfect performance. Possibly my most proud performance.

I believe all of us have these lost pieces. Some we acknowledge. Some we lose without being aware. Some matter. Some don’t. As we age, we seem to finally understand which of those pieces mattered after all. Which of those pieces make us whole again. Which of those pieces make us feel alive again.

But as we age, even when we see the pieces, we no longer know how to pick them. For we no longer have the abandon of youth, the headless energy, the reckless courage, the belief in infinite possibility… to chase those pieces. To make them ours again.

True, we acquire different pieces and our mosaic of today is beautiful in a different way. But what about the lost pieces? How can we fit them into our mosaic of today?

When I look at a picture of myself in the dance attire, I am puzzled. It looks like the old me. But I know it is not. The make-up takes away years, and the picture in its stillness, and smile, hides away the lack of strength and energy and the bodily guardedness that has crept in. Yet, when I look closely I see it. I know it is there.  

Yes. This may have been an attempt to find an old lost piece. But I may have found a new one. It may be less dazzling or carefree as the old, but it may have wisdom and gratitude which renders it new.

Here’s to the newness of old lost pieces…

 

I smell poop…

I smell poop!

The birds circled over us feverishly – diving majestically towards the carcass, ruthlessly tearing off scraps, soaring to heights in easy careless glides.

I have a bad feeling about this.

You have a bad feeling about this? Tad surprised. Tad amused.

Minutes before, we had scrambled out of the car. A certain nine-year-old who often plays naturalist in the family (with sometimes impressive and sometimes dubious information) had tugged my hand fiercely to get as close to these birds as it was safely possible.

Their wingspan was immense. Their flight royal and easy.  Something menacing, something regal, they owned the skies. They owned the air above our heads.

In awe and excitement, jaws slightly ajar, we gaped at the birds. They were American Bald Eagles. Swarms of Bald Eagles. They were breathtaking.

Not a great picture - but if you look closely, you'll see about seven bald eagles

Till excitement was replaced by fear. Valid fear.

They’re going to poop on us!

They’re going to poop on us?
Unable to hold back laughter: It will be bald eagle poop. It's not too often we have bald eagles pooping on us... broken off by more laughter.

In the splendor of the moment, one nine-year-old’s mind was held captive by a gnawing worry. It cracked me up. The humanness of it cracked me up.

It’s remarkable, how in the most breathtaking moments of our lives, we are sometimes preoccupied by something different. Something insignificant. Something unrelated. Something valid. Something practical. And even if it takes away from the grandiosity of the moment, it is our humanness. It is who we are.

Sometimes, we override this humanness or even limitedness, as some would call it; other times we are held captive by it.   

In this case, I suggested we move slightly away, in a different direction – which we did, and the nine-year-old forgot her fear (or chose to) and decided to take in the moment, and all of its wonder.

This is just a funny silly little story, yet its truth is overreaching. Do we get in our way more often than we imagine? But again, it is our humanness. It is simply who we are. It is simply what our fears are.

Interestingly enough, in hindsight, the moment is often perfect. Our mind’s sieves filter out the anxieties, the discomfort, the apprehensions. Perhaps it is a survival mechanism. Perhaps it is the strength of our species.
So, if we are going to forget the apprehensions and weaknesses later on, is there a way to bridge the gap in the moment? Presence of mind, fast-forwarding to how we will see the event in the future, letting go in the knowledge that the anxiety is only in this moment and not in the future…

For in the future, we will hold on to mostly the good… and that must be a strength of our species.

Video: swirling bald eagles, our voices, our conversation, fear, laughter...

Signs of our times…Technology of our times…

This is a sign I recently noticed outside a neighborhood restaurant. It cracked me up. There is a middle school close by to this sign. You see kids with necks drooped into their texting devices, cross that very street. The truth of it cracked me up. 

Technology is here to stay. No doubt. As a generation, we have watched information technology unfold in front of our very eyes - as it continues to do so.

If we were to put it in the context of Everett Rogers’ Diffusion of Innovations model (circa 1960), and his categories of “innovation adoption”: Innovators, Early Adopters, Early Majority, Late Majority, Laggards, we would be all of those.

Our generation has seen the spectrum. Our generation has and is living the spectrum. We may have been early adopters for some and laggards for others.  

I wonder how Everett Rogers would frame his DI theory with respect to kids today. For each one of them seems to be an early adopter (provided they have access to the technology). Technology has entered their lives in so seamless a manner, it might as well be air or water to them.

Admit it, each of us has our funny technology stories and continue to make new ones every day.

Take for instance last week. My daughter, her friend and I were at a science museum. My husband who was in Tokyo, ‘facetimed’ us (that’s got to be a verb in an urban dictionary somewhere, right?) Now the previous day, he had given us a little tour of downtown Tokyo from his hotel room. Ahem… a certain nine-year-old, was however, far more interested in the bidet menu, and he also gave us a tour of the toilet. (Now now, don’t judge… some families converse about politics and the arts, others… oh well.)

Excited to see her dad, my nine-year-old asked him to give her friend a facetime tour of downtown Tokyo. Then even more excited, she squealed, “Dad, show (friend’s name) the toilet”.

It’s funny how volume control is always off when strange or embarrassing words are being uttered, or then the room is always silent for that moment.

Such was the case and of course, most everybody in that chemistry lab was giving us strange looks. Sigh… Thankfully, the giggles and the amazement at the bidet choices and buttons, proved stronger than any forces of embarrassment. While we may be amazed at how much and how quickly technology is shrinking the world, for the younger generations, it is a given.

I wonder if a certain letting go is required in the knowledge the future generation will not only be steps ahead in terms of technology, but that their relation to technology is different. It just seems more entwined and imbibed in their life and being. They cannot imagine being without it.

I started writing about technology, and oddly enough, a myriad discussions seem to be happening in my head. Perhaps, I will jot down more of those later.

But for now, I want to end with the elusive, illusionary and impermanent nature of technology and a certain letting go we perhaps need in relation to it.

Technology, (like other aspects of life, probably) seems to strongly adhere to the concept of Maya, a Sanskrit word, referring to the impermanent and elusive nature of life. It refers more philosophically to a subtle force that creates the illusion that the physical world we live in is real. For in the end, everything is Maya, and ever changing and it couldn’t be truer with technology. Not simply the latest and greatest computer you bought, and which seemed outdated in a week, but also in the ways in which our lives, our relationships, our communications, our personality, our being, are affected.

Truly, there seems to be no permanence in technology, and trying to make even your most favorite technology permanent is difficult. It evolves all the time and we need to simply let go in its mirage-like elusive feel and the speed in which it evolves.  

Women and solidarity

Let me tell you a story from a while back. I had the opportunity to visit a coworker’s mother’s home in a village in Central Africa. Her mother and a few other women were chatting, cooking, laughing all very amicably. The home was warm and welcoming, with plenty of laughter and bonhomie.

It seemed as if all the women lived there. I assumed they were sisters. But my coworker did not call them Tatie (aunt). Instead, she referred to them as Maman, (which is mom, or a term used in Africa, to address women in general).

So I gave up efforts at detective work and asked my coworker who the women were.

“My father’s other wives,” she replied nonchalantly.

I tried to instruct my eyes to not widen (in vain, I’m sure), and sputtered words of confusion despite knowing that polygamy was legal in the country. I probably stared some more and commented on how well they all seemed to get along and how much they seemed to enjoy each other’s company.

“Ah yes. Now that my father is dead. They are the best of friends,” my friend said with a laugh. “You should have seen them before – the backbiting and jealousy…”

I was processing the information, trying to imagine the competition and the back stabbing. Trust a guy to come in between a bunch of perfectly compatible women, thought my naïve 20-something-mind. Naïvete’ apart, I knew it was not purely the man in question; it was a choice the women made.

It is a choice all women make.

A choice to choose something/someone else before the solidarity.
A choice to allow personal insecurities to rule before the solidarity.
A choice to put another woman down before the solidarity.
A choice to back bite, and exaggerate and create camps.

A group of women in harmony can bring so much solidarity and strength to one another. Which is exactly what I saw in this house. My friend commented how she was never worried about her mother since the “other wives” lived with her and would look out for her and look after her.  

Agreed this situation was somewhat extreme, and I cringe at the thought of being in their shoes. So given that most women we know don’t share a husband, is there perfect solidarity? You wish... Like it or not, most women have felt a sense of groundlessness when such solidarity is shattered.

I am surprised to encounter it as I get older. It seems so high schoolish. Interestingly, I eshewed such drama in high school itself. So as with everything, can I ascribe it to low energy and low level of socialization and energy to maintain connections. Who knows. I thought it unlikely I was making any of the above "choices". But I did find another: A choice to close up to not get hurt, before trusting the solidarity.

Hmm… more on that later, I suppose. But fact remains that women can be much strength to one another, as they can be their own undoing.

Interesting how I got thinking of this story in the first place. There was an email thread between a group of friends. I sent a reply (and a funny one, mind you). Only I managed to jumble information from three different emails (that I’d probably read in the same breath). It made no sense.

I realized what I’d done and sent another email saying I had been silly. My friends showed support and kindness in their replies. Ready to laugh it off, I replied (copy/pasting part of the note):

So glad for a supportive group that doesn't judge the ahem... somewhat dubious mental state of some of its members :)
Sigh... And this may not be the last time this happens either... :)

Even if I deflected the matter with humor, I truly appreciated the solidarity. I also knew it was a safe enough place for me to send such a note.

And even if this matter was silly and small enough to not take to the grave, it somehow reminded me of the story from long ago in Africa.


And if you’re reading this, hopefully it may remind you of the strength and support women can find in each other, if we choose to.  

What is the price we pay?

My friend was recounting stories about her aunt who is quite the superwoman. The stories were certainly admirable, but then she mentioned how being a superwoman came at a price.

I paused. I agreed. I have thought the same quite often (from the time I was a youngster even) and figured writing may help. So here goes.

As a youngster, I was confused by the fact the Mahatma Gandhi had a strained relationship with his son. Here was a man loved by millions; yet his son distanced himself from him.

I was confused by the fact that Maharshi Karve, who did pioneering work in the field of women education and empowerment, had a difficult and strained family life. Was it only due to the societal backlash for the reform he was trying to bring about?

His reform was in the city where I grew up, and possibly the reason why women of several generations before me were educated. Nonetheless, I thought it was sad that his personal life and the personal lives of many such visionaries were so strained.  

Now that I’m no longer a youngster, I’ve grown to accept that greatness often comes at a cost. I now wonder if the great ones and their families simply make their peace with it.

And then, what about the not so great? Don’t know about you, but I have no claims to greatness and I certainly cannot compare myself to great people of the past with great causes and visions.

Yet, I believe we pay a price. Many of us. For the things we do, for the dreams we chase, for the sacrifices we make, for the strength we show, for the purpose we see, for meaning we find, for responsibility, for courage, for love, for truth…

At the risk of offending physicists all over, I wonder if Newton’s words hold true here as well…
For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.

Sense of purpose, meaning, commitment to a cause, love, joy, self identity, relationships, fun, realizing potential, responsibility, ambition… the list could go on.

In chasing one, do we lose another?

You and I both know that the trick is balance. You and I have both heard about striking the right balance. Does the balance tip over when we go beyond what is in our normal and natural stride or capacity to do so? It may be about chasing a giant dream or it may be something as small as smiling when we really don’t feel like, or staying strong when we feel weak.

And even when we know, can we give ourselves permission to not be so, even if we feel so? And for each time we do so, what is the price we pay?

Would a simple awareness of this phenomenon be the first step? But again, is such awareness even possible whilst we are in the throes of chasing a dream, rising to responsibility, staying strong, being focused, doing the right thing? Will it hit us only later, much later?

Sigh… this is getting gloomier with every word I type. Honestly, the purpose was to figure it all out. Sigh…

Perhaps an awareness of the price we pay is not possible. But an awareness of the things that matter to us is. And that seems like valuable information.

Perhaps an awareness of how fulfilling or important or meaningful doing something is can help us determine our need to do it, even if it is at a price. For the resulting happiness has go t to mean something right?

And perhaps, acceptance of the fact that we won’t do everything right, even if we do our best; that we will pay a price for some of our actions of today, may help

And perhaps, in chasing our dreams or doing the necessary, or the right thing, listening to the little voice that reminds us of the true big things that matter, may help.

And perhaps letting go of a few things, when we feel the price we will pay is too much, may help, even if it feels uncomfortable or unreasonable to do so today.

Weak spots: Do they make us weaker? Stronger? Both?

Each of us has a weak spot. Very often, this weak spot is a person. Someone we love, this weak spot walks about blithely unaware of the effect they have on us. 

Despite my limited wisdom and experience, and lack of any psychology degree, I will go ahead and make an uneducated inference. For most mothers, the weak spot is their child/children (it may be all of them, or one in particular); for the husband, it is the wife. You see the loop here? I am not suggesting that dads don’t care about their kids, I am speculating weak spots that sometimes leave us vulnerable. Besides, I imagine most of us can have several such weak spots to varying degrees and relationships.

These weak spots are sometimes our unraveling. They leave us susceptible to vulnerability and emotion. They prevent us from thinking clearly – the heart takes over the head; emotions take over rationality. Yes. These weak spots are often our unraveling.  

Let me narrate a recent story. We went to Mexico on spring break with a few families. As luck would have it, I got sick on the flight there. Not wanting to be hospitalized in Mexcio, many hours of pain later, I decided to fly back. Alone. My husband decided we should fly back. All three of us.

I would not hear of it. All I could see was a nine-year-old’s disappointment at having to cut short “the best vacation ever”. All I could see was a nine-year-old’s crestfallen face when her friend’s returned later and recounted adventures. All I could imagine were hurt looks, reproachful glances, even a relationship bruised forever.

I was devastated. Not by the pain or discomfort, or the cutting short a vacation… no, the pain didn’t come close to the guilt I felt. 

I firmly told my husband I was going to travel back. Alone. Now, 38 hours of pain will turn anyone into a growling lion. And my husband knew better than to argue with a growling lioness. *grin*

This story fortunately comes with a happy ending. All set to head to the airport in the morning, I suddenly started to feel better at 3 a.m. Quite cheerfully, I woke up my husband and told him to turn off the alarm since I was not going to leave in the morning.

But the episode got me thinking. Of how fragile we are. How fragile we make ourselves in situations. And the reasons/ the persons for whom we do so.

I wrote this yesterday. I didn’t post it. Well, simply because I haven’t posted in ages, but also because it felt as if something was missing to the overall thought. Or perhaps, the whole idea of a loved one causing unraveling bothered me.

Then I realized that if these weak spots are our vulnerability, they are also our strength. Most of us can recount acts of pluck, courage, tenacity, done in a moment for our weak spots. Actions we would otherwise have never done or even considered ourselves capable of.  My flying back alone was an easy one in the overall scope of things and overall scope of experiences.

For after all, even if these weak spots can sometimes leave us feeling helpless, they come from a place of immense tenderness and love. How can we always remember that?

For wouldn't that result in more gentleness rather than unraveling? And that seems appropriate, given the tender space they stem from.

A Bhagwad Gita morning

Mixed feeling ran rampant in our household - this morning, and for the past week. A certain nine-year-old is happy to have made it to the next round of the battle of the books, but sad that the next battle is against a team comprising her friends and classmates.

“I wish it weren’t their team,” she said for the 100^th time. And for the 100^th time, I didn’t say much. She stared glumly at her breakfast and sighed deep-nine-year-old-dramatic sighs. I felt sorry for her, but also thought it was tad funny and somewhat sweet.

But when she still looked a little worried as she wore her shoes (the battle is today), I finally offered some empathy for the rough spot they had found themselves in. For even if they won, seeing their friends’ sad or disappointed faces would make them feel… “mean,” she quickly filled in. I looked at her and bit my tongue as I almost mentioned being defeated by their friends.

And then I remembered the red Mahabharat book lying on our coffee table – its dog-eared pages and well-worn countenance, a testament of a nine-year-old’s love for it. “This is the advice Krishna gave to Arjun in the Bhagwad Gita”, I said. “Does your book have anything about the Bhagwad Gita?” “Kind of – isn’t it about the past, present and future, and after-life, and energy and darkness and all that?”

Hmm… sounded like what little she knew about the Bhagwad Gita, had been metamorphosed into a Harry Potter-ish/Star Wars-ish understanding. Given that I’m no expert on the Bhagwad Gita myself, and that she may actually know more, I didn’t delve further. But I did ask her about the part I knew. 
About how it all started and how crushed the warrior, Arjun was at the thought of battling his teachers and family. “Oh yeah, his great uncles and cousins were on the battlefield, and Arjun just didn’t want to fight them anymore. But Krishna told him that the battle had started and explained he had to continue.”

I didn’t need to say anymore. She looked at me and grinned. The big Mahabharat battle made the book battle look so much easier and she knew the “battle” would be brief and the friendship would still survive.

As I watched her walk to the bus stop, I smiled to think of our “saved by the Mahabharat moment”. The Bhagwad Gita had crossed the frontiers of popular fiction and reached fourth grade.

I felt appreciative of how much richness there is in our lives, in the things we know; in the things we don’t know - about the things we know (like all the knowledge and wisdom, which I know, exists in the Bhagwad Gita – of which I know only a smidgen), of the things we draw inspiration from, of the stories we hear, of experiences, of mythology…

Of the continuum of experiences, history, of things that actually happened… to the mythical, that no one can vouch for, but which have a sea of wisdom and inspiration.

I smiled as I closed the door, and thought how strange and lovely it was that a not-so-religious-even mother would draw wisdom from the deepest, wisest scriptures. I thought with appreciation of all the scriptures and teachings in all the different religions, of mythology in different cultures, of the stories and parables they tell, of the characters they bring to life, of the wisdom and magic they contain…

I smiled as I appreciated the rationality of modern generations, for our ability and potential, to take the wisdom from the ancient, without feeling the need to conform to the dogmas that no longer fit with our current thinking.

Opinions may differ if it is a case of plain arrogance and disrespect, or a thing of beauty. I want to believe it is a thing of beauty, and our way of keeping the ancient wisdom alive…

Tsk tsk…prefrontal lobe…

I heard a discussion on an NPR podcast today. About prefrontal lobes and creativity and conscious self monitoring by Dr. Charles Limb, a surgeon and creativity researcher.

Suddenly there was light. Everything made sense. Lucidity shone with much brilliance…

But first, let me back up a little. Ever since I decided to consider the cupcake stories more seriously; the same stories that I was writing previously, only for fun, I stopped writing them. Yes. Completely. No more sweet treats, no more whipped cream clouds, no more little girl mad antics, no more little messages tucked into delicious treats.

Nope. None at all. The thought of taking them to a critique at a writer’s conference put butterflies in my stomach. Not the pretty, fluttery ones; but the giant, angry, mutant ones, straight out of a B grade sci-fi movie.

I wondered if the sweetness of it all reeked of over-processed sugary carbs. I wondered if the messages were too pithy.

Whether or not they reek of excess sugar and carbs, I smelt a whiff of fear, apprehension and judgment. I also know that I have not gone near a cupcake story – neither to clean up the raw copy, nor to write a new one, for over a month – ever since the idea first popped into my head.

That was probably why I wrote the last blog - to clarify in my head, as to why I started writing them in the first place. I know they put a smile on my face, but when I venture to wonder if they can be more (at the insistence of a certain nine-year-old) I balk.

As I listened to the NPR podcast, everything made sense. I knew what was going on. And it was not my fault either. It was all because of the prefrontal lobe. Damn, prefrontal lobe.

The discussion (there is a ted talk too) talked about creativity being like a “faucet” (a beautiful metaphor, indeed). It talked about the flow of ideas, of creative genius being “magical, but not magic” and about the “conscious self monitoring” by the prefrontal lobe.

Limb’s research showed that in times of great activity and creativity (he studied musicians), the prefrontal lobe showed reduced activity. Which in turn, results in less inhibition, as the prefrontal lobe is the seat of self monitoring.

To me, it seemed like it was stepping back and allowing the genius of creativity to take center stage. He talks about the dissociation that happens during creativity – of how when a certain area turns on, the other turns off – and with it, turns off inhibition. Inhibition and self monitoring, all which could stifle creativity.

What I took from the discussion, is that artistic creativity is the flow of ideas, the turning of the faucet, and allowing the faucet to pour out… without criticism, without intervention by the prefrontal lobe, yes, the same noisy critical prefrontal lobe, who loves to self monitor.

The relief of finding someone or something to blame is of course, priceless. I relaxed. I had nothing to do with it. It was all because of the meddlesome prefrontal lobe.  

Hmm… but again, whose prefrontal lobe was it? Hmm… where could I find my copy of “How to train your prefrontal lobe?” Sigh, there seemed no escape in sight after all.

I wondered if there was more to it. I wondered if it is what happens when a nine-year-old runs with great gusto towards a soccer ball during a game, but sometimes hesitates or balks in the moment.  

I wondered if it explained the time when I was seven, and extremely excited to be a “coconut girl” – only to go on stage and forget the tune of the song. Rather incredulous, for someone who would sing all the time. And ahem, I still remember the song and tune today.

Are these all examples of the prefrontal lobe meddling with the flow of beautiful things? Not sure, I would include my singing in that, but then, you get the gist…

Sure, we need the prefrontal lobe for better judgment and editing and fine tuning, and it will have its time and place in the overall creative design. The question then, is how to strike that beautiful balance – wherein the judgment and monitoring is switched off, and creativity is allowed to flow uninhibited, and allowed to realize and turn into something. And when its time comes, the prefrontal lobe can exercise its monitoring and carefulness and inhibitions, to fine tune the creative genius into something better.

In the meantime, I will try and reduce the volume of the noise generated by the prefrontal lobe. It’s harder than I imagined. For despite the earlier light and lucidity, I sat down and wrote this blog piece. I still won’t venture close to a cupcake story. Hmm…

Adventures in Cupcaking

I love stories. Mad stories. Sad stories. Funny stories. Sunny stories. And apparently, stories that rhyme terribly. Hmm…

Sometimes I write stories. Mad stories. Sad stories. Funny stories. Sunny stories. And thankfully, never any rhyming stories. Whew…

Some short stories lie unfinished; some are lost in misplaced notebooks; some remain only in my head. But there are a few silly ones that have made it to the finish line. In a hasty, unedited, careless way, perhaps. But they’ve made it and even if they may not be perfect or literary, they give joy, in their own sweet, delicious, little way.

For that’s what they are – sweet, delicious cupcake stories written by a mom for her girl. A mom, who worries about her daughter and at times, feels responsible for the anxiety she has caused in her little life. A sick mom is no fun at all, and at times, just plain scary. And no child should have to go through that. And for so long. We’ve done our best to offer assurance. We’ve done our best to let her know that she is in no way responsible. We’ve done our best to let her know that she’s going to be okay – no matter what.

And sometimes, instead of worrying, I write her stories. Stories of cupcakes and yummy treats, and instead of putting a cherry on the top, I sneak in a message.

And whether or not I get the message across, I have smiled.

I have smiled at the opportunity to narrate sweet adventures in cupcaking, filled with fantasy and frosting and everyday life.

She has smiled while reading:

I’m Kiana and I think a lot. Well, most of my thoughts are of cupcakes. My mom says that I have a sweet tooth and my dad says that I have a sweet brain to have so many sugary cupcake thoughts. My grandpa says I have a sweet little head to fit so many sugary dreams. I love that idea. I love my grandpa.

I have smiled at the opportunity to express, to share, to offer advice via cupcakes and madeleines.

The chocolate cake mountains stand tall and the soft sponge cake clouds drift ever so slowly. Watch out for the jelly bean gravel – for it can be tricky to walk on, but it’s ever so colorful. 

I have smiled. For writing about it has allowed me to see the humor. Take for instance piano practice:

She sat down on the bench – oooh the kids were already outside. What? Were they playing pirates again?

“Kiana, get going…” called out her mother from the kitchen.

She stared at her books. Then flapped the pages noisily till she reached her page. She reached out to grab a pencil, but it slipped and fell. She stretched out on the piano bench on her tummy and reached down to get it.

Hey, this is fun! I’m in a boat, and need to rescue the pencil from drowning in the deep, dangerous ocean. Swim harder pencil, I’ll save you! Don’t lose courage! Hurry hurry! The sharks are catching up! Faster faster! Keep flapping your pencily arms. Reach out… We can do this!

Kiana heaved and wriggled on the bench, bending over from one side, reaching down, shouting assurances to the poor pencil drowning into the carpet… Finally, her fingers touched the pencil. “You are safe. You are safe,” she shouted out. I got you, my friend. She clutched the pencil and suddenly noticed her mom standing above watching her… She looked visibly cross.

I have smiled to hear her say, “You should make these into books, mom”. It’s funny how our kids are always there to encourage us.

I have smiled – for it has been fun and it has made sense. And whether or not I ever turn them into anything else, it will always be a fun and meaningful memory. And now...

I think I’ll take a little stroll down the graham cracker paved streets and sit for a while on the benches with comfy madeleine seats. It’s so pleasant to sit here, against the gingerbread lamppost and listen to the splash of the lemonade waterfall…

Of imagination… and fantasy…and reality…

Imagination is a wonderful thing, I suppose. For it allows us to build things in our minds, out of absolutely nothing. Imagination leads to fantasy, another wonderful thing, I suppose. Of the things that could be, of the way we could be… it climbs over limitations, hops over adversities, ignores problems…and… reality (?).

I suppose, imagination and fantasy are wonderful, so long as they are grounded in reality. But again, would such grounding be limiting? Can imagination soar over far sweeping horizons, if heavy shackles of reality pull it down?

And where does creativity figure in this discussion? All deep, profound thoughts. But you will never believe why this discussion first popped into my head.

We chose a classic, Jane Eyre for our book club. A friend’s email said, “…Can't wait to dissect the yummy Mr. Rochester with all of you, I have added him to my list of 19th century hotties”. No we’re not a bunch of bored moms, just very witty individuals. Hmm…That’s the story and we’re sticking to it.

My witty friend’s words cracked me up. Interestingly, I had been thinking on similar lines – yes, of course, of the “yummy Mr. Rochester”, but of these 19^th century writers who were single women (I really don’t like the word, ‘spinster’), creating these delicious, enigmatic and mysterious men, in the midst of their embroidery and Victorian etiquette.

I read recently, of how Jane Austen would put her writing material away, as soon as she heard a certain door creak, and pick up her embroidery – a more ‘suitable’ representation of herself and the reality of the century – to receive guests.

And writing in secret, in the midst of the embroidery, she created Mr. Darcy. Sigh… enough said.

The Bronte sisters, also single, living in somewhat hardship, with personal sickness, and sickness and deaths in the family, wove beautiful prose, developed passionate characters and created mysterious men. I had read a little about their lives, and this time as I read Jane Eyre, I appreciated their ability to create worlds with remarkable narratives and characters and of course, give us the likes of Mr. Rochester and Heathcliff, despite their reality and situation.

Now tell me, had these women been married, with a bunch of kids, would such enigmatic and passionate characters have emerged from their minds?  Or is motherhood pretty much the end to all mystery, other than the sticky something on the carpet? But I digress…

The imagination and fantasy exists in our mind. So how do we not lose its magic and continue to access it? How do we remain aware and enjoy it, without leading to yearnings of sorts (and no I’m not referring to the Mr. Darcys and Rocheters, even).

How do we see ourselves - in our mind, in our imagination; how do we see ourselves in our reality, our reality of existence? How do we go back and forth?

Are we only who we are in the reality of today? Maybe we see ourselves that way. Purposeful and focused, setting goals, making plans… you get the drift… 

Yet, is that only who we imagine ourselves to be? Some days when I feel like a deranged person repeating the same things over and over to my family, following a certain nine-year-old – physically, or at times, mentally, ahem… even to the shower (knowing there is a book in the bathroom, that there is no sound of running water, and when I call out – a hurried whoosh of water is heard… hmm… detective mom knows it all), I doubt there is anything else to this existence. Yet, there is. And it takes some awareness and imagination to access it.  

So what I’m struggling to say that each has its own place and worth. There really is no escaping the reality – and the imagination or fantasy need not be an escape either. It is useful to see ourselves in a different light, especially when we turn into the sometimes-robots. And we really don’t need to be 19^th century writers creating passionate characters, to do so either. But my friend’s list, I should definitely try and obtain…hmmm…

 

 

 

 

Of petty things… of greater things… of sense of purpose… of letting go…

Life throws the proverbial curve ball at us – at all of us, to varying degrees, with varying intensity, with varying frequency. What varies, I suppose, is how we react to it, how much significance we give to it, what we learn from it, what we tell ourselves, how we change ourselves.

We have all met impressive people. Perhaps, you are one such impressive person yourself. People doing wonderful things, making a difference, realizing their dreams. People with tenacity and optimism - who don’t come in their own way. People who see the greater scope of things, see the greater good, rise above the petty.

And then there are some of us – who allow the pettiness of life to affect us. I am increasingly and drearily aware of the smaller things that assume bigger proportions these days.  

What changed, I wonder. Why do things that I would have laughed off earlier, now leave me with a sense of groundlessness? Why do I react more to things I would have allowed to slide? Why have I become less accepting of things that do not seem right? Have I simply become petty?

Is it hardship of sorts that makes us more reactive? Does it create a heightened sense of alertness? And does this sense of alertness make us focus on the smaller stuff? As it settles in, does it create a haze that will no longer allow us to see what is more important?

I seem to care more. But am I caring about the right things?  

At what point, do we begin to allow the pettiness of life to affect us, to influence us, to take us away from the greater good, the greater scope of things?

Is it a lack of a greater sense of purpose that drives us to do so?

How do we define our sense of purpose and rise above the petty? For some of us, how do we reinvent our sense of purpose (even the thought of that seems painfully daunting, sigh…). How do we keep sight of the greater possibilities – which in reality, may be little things – but those that makes our heart sing?

How do we not confine ourselves to our limitations – but instead, give ourselves permission to give validity to a greater sense of purpose and rise above the little things?

How do we not waste our days preoccupied by the pettiness of existence?  

The circles of age...

Age is just a number? Age is just a mindset? Or is it? Why then, do we mostly find ourselves in the company of people our own age?  When we think of friends, we mostly think of people who belong to our generation – sure, a few years here and there, a decade here or there, doesn’t seem to matter, especially as we get older. But we seem to stick to our generation – whatever that is – or whoever we imagine belongs in there.

As parents, this ‘generation’ is sometimes our kid’s friends’ parents. So is generation defined by common areas of interest, or lifestyles, or general situation in life? Does that keep us somewhat confined? Is it just more comfortable? More likely to happen? Does it simply make more sense?  

What happens when our paths collide with persons from other generations, at different points in their life? How is it that we rarely make an effort to hang out with them (unless they’re family)?

Take for instance, my constantly colliding path with seniors in the realm of exercise. If on the rare chance that I take an exercise class, I stand tentatively at the door, check for seniors, and if I see some, I walk in. Hmm… I know, I know… sounds pathetic, huh? Maybe. But it has worked pretty well for me.

I used to go to a tai chi class that was predominantly populated by 60, 70, and 80 year olds, with just a scattering of younger folks. I loved that class. I loved the friendships I was making with these amazing seniors. I wondered if I would have their joie de vivre when I was older.

They were always friendly, welcoming and encouraging, even as I threatened to shatter the overall zen of their class with my general confusion, taking off in wrong directions, almost crashing into the frail 70 something next to me…

The class moved in unison to soothing music with synchronization and peaceful smiles. Well, at least most of the class… Some new ones (at times just one - moi) promised to derail the class. But they showed delight each time I returned, promised I would eventually get it, and even invited me to their holiday potluck.

Then, there are times, when I force myself into the pool for aqua jogging. I make sure to choose a time when there is a batch of seniors doing their aqua aerobics. For if the water is not warm enough, they make plenty of noise about it. Not to reveal the devious workings of my mind… but that is my assured way of wading in a warm pool in winter.

Besides it is fun. Their instructor belts out rock and roll numbers, and Elvis croons to the crowd in the pool – some with perfectly powdered noses and make-up and even pearls! It makes me smile even when I am especially grumbly about the aqua jogging. 

They smile and wave at me and many invite me to join their class. I tell them that I can’t do what they do – an hour in the pool. I’m in the pool barely fifteen minutes. Someday soon, they assure me, and consider me part of their team already.

So now you know I’m quite popular in the eighty-year-old circles. So, just to disprove that I’m actually an eighty-year-old in a forty-year-old’s skin, let me tell you about the other day.

I recently got an electric car. There are currently very few of the kind on the street, and the sweet little thing sometimes gets attention. The other day as I parked downtown, a very cool 20-something-skateboarding-dude struck a conversation with me. He wanted to know all about the car. I smiled in my mind, thinking how unlikely it would be for him, to strike a conversation with me, otherwise.

But his energy and enthusiasm was infectious. He seemed to know more about my car than I did. “I mostly skateboard or bike, but I would drive that car. I’ve been thinking of buying it,” he told me approvingly. Just for a moment, I felt just as cool and hip and young as my new friend.

So apparently, we enjoy interacting with generations other than our own. Then why don’t we do more of it? Interestingly enough, when I hang out with my tai chi friends, I feel quite youthful. When I chat with cute strangers on the street (okay, I’m really not a creepy person… just trying my hand at humor), I take in their youthful energy. As I believe would be the case with most people.

There seems to be some richness to these interactions. I suppose there is much to be learned from those at different stages of their life. Much to discover about ourselves. But I suppose it would take some amount of letting go - to allow ourselves to do so, to not see ourselves as different from them, to see them as a continuation of ourselves in either direction.

What do you think?

The flight of stairs… the scope of things…

Last year, on our trip to India, a bunch of school friends decided to check out our school campus. We walked all around, admiring, laughing, reminiscing… the jungle gym, the tree where the dabbawallas lefts the lunch boxes, the tamarind tree, we would pelt stones at, to make the tart brown fruit fall to the ground… there were a lot of giggles and a lot of nostalgia.

Sweet memories and misadventures went through our minds and it didn’t seem that long ago that we had scraped-up knees (moi especially), and fed our lunches (sorry moms) to the kites soaring high in the sky, willing to swoop down (rather scary) to get the food… Yes. We laughed and remembered - teachers, friends, quirks, funny happenings, strange activities, odd rules… but you know all about that. You’ve done the same at some point…

Of all things to make a big impact, were the stone stairs spread across the hockey field in an amphitheater-like manner, only straight. These grey, stony stairs separated our all-girls school from the campus of an all-boys school. Yes. Many stories there too.

I was almost in disbelief at how small the stairs seemed. They had always seemed so sweeping and regal and fortress like. True. We were little and perhaps, that was why the stairs seemed large. But again, at fifteen, when we left school, we really weren’t that little anymore.

So what changed? Our perspective? Our exposure to greater, bigger things? Our sense of wonder?

Was it just a reality check? Had we simply grown-up? Had we simply moved on and could not relate to the awe? Had the scope of things shifted? Had the scope of our lives shifted? Or had our humility changed?

I don’t know. I know that the stairs seem smaller than they once did. And that is the reality of today. My today. I know for sure that they had once seemed more majestic and magnificent. I wondered if I was just too grand for those stairs now. I wondered about my humility. Again.

When I look down, I can still see all the scars on my knees. So I know I must still be the same person. So what changed? The way I look at things? The scope of things? My humility?

 

Grumpy me...

I am a fairly grumpy person. Not everybody thinks so, but I do. Or maybe I have turned grumpy. Or maybe I have been disappointed about a bunch of things. And maybe I just can’t handle disappointment as well anymore.

But despite the fact I’m somewhat grumpy or can get somewhat grumpy, I’m always trying to step out of it. For I know that is a deep dark hole. And who in their right sense would want to stay in a deep dark hole? So, determinedly, even if inelegantly, I try to plod out of the deep dark hole.

But what happens when you drag yourself willingly/unwillingly out of the dark spot? Is there only sunshine and rainbows and unicorns? Ha! You wish. For oftentimes, when you walk out of the dark ditch, you come face to face with someone else being in a dark ditch – grumbles, sulks, rudeness, confrontation, inconsideration, disappointment of sorts… and that puts you right back.

Except this time, the ditch is deeper and darker, the frustration is louder and angrier, for you are aware of the effort you put in, in the first place, to step out of exactly the same place.   

So how do you step out of the dark ditch without expectations or aspirations of how things should be? How do you step out of there simply because you want to step out and not go looking for continuous sunshine and unicorns? For you and I, both know they don’t exist. Right? Right? Oh well…

How do we step out, applaud ourselves for stepping out, and then stop right there? How do we not go searching for the unicorn? With my luck, that silly unicorn would probably butt me with its magical horn, anyways. Shooo! Get out of my imagination, you annoying unicorn… I’m trying to step out of the ditch, and not return there rapidly.

In all seriousness, is it worth the effort to step out of the ditch, if we are going to create frustration and disappointment of sorts by raising our expectations or go looking for mythical creatures?

What is that balance of being real – with our frustration and our dark ditches and our endeavors to draw ourselves out to live with acceptance and honesty, in touch with reality and all its flaws without letting it put us back in the ditch?