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…