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
 

Kathakali masks…

We watched a Kathakali performance in Kerala some days ago. With faces painted in bright colors and pouffy costumes, they danced to the booming beat of the drum.

The theme is simple. The makeup is complicated. Faces are made up or rather painted to the point that they appear like masks. We were told that our tickets included a special backdoor entry to see the makeup being done. A long, elaborate process wherein the dancers lay down while their faces are painted. Green faces denote the good guys, while the black faces belong to the bad guys and the protagonist’s face is painted in warm hues. And certain in-between streaks of red and white depict arrogance and such.

Ah… if only people on the street came with face colors… there would never be any guesswork involved I thought with a smile. But again, I personally don’t believe any person to be an all black, or an all green, or a green with generous heapings of red and white. No, I believe each one of us wears all those shades in one lifetime. And with motherhood, I feel sometimes in one day even.

But fact remains that we wear those shades and we wear those masks. And just like a Kathakali dancer’s face - there is no true mask; but there still is a mask. For the dancer’s true face is completely lost in the paint. Only the masked one comes forward and is shown to the world.

Do we all wear masks? Are we all Kathakali dancers? As I watched the beautiful performance, I wondered if I had been wearing a mask on my trip to India. I had worn my widest smile and my toughest I-can-do-everything attitude. I didn’t want to see sadness in people’s eyes when they looked at me; when they remembered the old-me, when they missed the old-me. I wanted to prove to everybody there that the old-me was back. Who knows…maybe a small part of her was back; or maybe she’s never ever coming back. Why then was I wearing the mask? And why had I posted so many vacation pictures with me in sunglasses – were the sunglasses hiding the tired eyes?

Is wearing this mask necessarily a bad thing even? Does it give direction to a certain path I want to be on? A path of life and laughter, vitality and vigor? Is it a display of a positive aura and persona? Or is it all a dishonest cover-up? A silly sham?

Have I always worn a mask? All through my life? All through my illness? On endless occasion, people have expressed disbelief on finding out I was sick. Right before they wheeled me in to the last surgery, the nurse said, “you look great” (!!). I have never quite known how to react to such comments. Bewilderment, cheerfulness, lack of graciousness, confusion…not knowing whether to feel happy or sad… I probably used some kind of mask to veil what I felt.

I doubt I can completely let go of all masks overnight. I doubt it would even be wise to do so. Is there a sense of safety and security in hiding behind it? Or is it a loss of authenticity? Like most things, the answer is probably somewhere in-between. But I can’t help wonder if I would ever dare to take the paint off my face… if I would ever dare to wash it all off…

Snowed in…

My mind and I have been whirling dervishes since our return from India. Operating on little sleep; waking up at 2 a.m. and staring at the ceiling; unpacking, getting my home into order; preparing, planning, accepting the reality of surgery in a few days (yes the real elephant in the room has been discovered).

Mix jetlag with a sense of displacement after a long vacation with family and friends in India, with a certain reality check, with apprehension of an upcoming surgery can cause a lot of jitteriness (even to an already jittery person). Really, who in their right mind plans surgery ten days on their return, I wondered. I got no answers and a feeble one said “me”. Sigh… Oh well... I busied myself, doing things, trying to do everything, appointments, planning, preparing, adjusting… In my jetlagged daze, I turned into a whirling dervish - doing unnecessary things; giving importance to unnecessary things… Yes I tried to avoid facing what was really scaring me. The upcoming surgery.

It was a busy week… and then it began to snow. The skies dumped away white powdery stuff… we watched (and continue to watch) with amazement as the streets outside turned white and much higher than usual. The basketball courts from in front of our house vanished and the basketball hoops stood incongruously in the blanket of white beneath. Schools were closed, few cars dared to come outside, my appointments were cancelled.

It began to snow… and I was forced to calm down. There was no going anywhere; there was no planning anything; there was just being in the moment. And it turned out to be a good moment -- Snowball fights, happy squeals in the park outside, sledding in the neighborhood, endless cups of chai, board games and cards.

I screamed my head off sledding down the slope (ahem…almost crashing into the house at the end of the street. Really, why did they even build a home there?) I was amazed at how much fun I was having. All my running around and getting everything done stopped. All my crazy frenzy and acting like I was not going to be able to do anything after the surgery (ever) stopped. All my fretting and fuming stopped.

Nature was forcing me to slow down; it was giving me no choice but to be in the moment, only in the moment. And the moment was a beautiful one – filled with fun, family, friends and shovels of snow.

Whether I will even make it to the surgery remains to be seen – if nature permits, if the roads permit. But I am thankful for the snow and the fun I’ve had in the last few days and for the slowing down it has forced me to accept. It was reassuring for me to realize that we are all fairly simple and happy beneath it all. And that this forced holiday gave me a chance to appreciate it.

Letting go… of not doing stuff with no apparent purpose...

Just when did life get so meaningful? So focused? So purposeful? As children, we did so many things for no apparent reason or purpose. Such joy.

So just when did we stop doing that? When did we begin our quest for purpose? When did we start examining things, evaluating things – wondering if it is purposeful, worthy of our time, effort and money. In doing so, did some of the joy slip away? Did we allow the joy to slip away?

Writing is one such example for me. It doesn’t take very long for me to write this blog. Maybe one hour. A day has twenty-four. It leaves me feeling better, calmer; sometimes more energetic. My whirring thoughts quiet down. At least one crazy thought has been let out and it leaves me feeling lighter.

Yet it has no purpose. It has no goal. I doubt it serves any greater good. It has a very low priority in the overall scheme of things, my life and my day. I am often surprised the blog has made it this far.

Which brings me to question why we balk at doing stuff for ourselves. Stuff that is solely for ourselves. Stuff that has no apparent purpose. Writing is a self-centered, one-person activity. It does not involve anyone else. It requires me to take the time; make the time exclusively for myself.

When I write, I may drift off; yet I may be aware of a husband or child hovering around hoping for some attention. Most times I give in and relinquish the writing. Not because they want me to or because they expect me to, but because I perceive the writing to have a lower priority. Because I give it a lower priority.

Else if I have zoned out as I sometimes do; or if I decide to steadfastly hold my thought and refuse to stop writing (as I increasingly find myself doing these days), I’m sometimes hit with a pang of guilt. Guilt for not setting priorities right.  For being selfish almost. Yet nobody in my family thinks so. They are happy that I write and have a creative outlet that even poor health can’t take away from me.

Each of us will has something or many things that make us feel good; that are good for us; yet we balk at making the time for them. Exercise, eating well, meeting friends, calling a friend… you know what your list is… you know what your priority is…

Shifting continents

Each time I shift a continent, I want to abandon this blog. But somehow, I come back to it. And I come back to it with a mixed bag of emotions, with an uneasy heart, with confused feelings. Moving from one country to another is a difficult thing to do when you care about both places. Leaving behind so much (both ways) when you travel is a hard thing to do.  

You can prepare yourself for weather, logistics, jetlag and other banalities. You can drive yourself crazy preparing, getting gifts, collecting favorite things, arranging, rearranging, “settling in”. Yes, you can busy yourself in a bid to avoid dealing with the emotional adjustment it takes. Homesickness, a sense of not belonging, faces of those you leave behind, being in one place and thinking of another. The need to adapt emotionally hits me each time. Both ways.

Why then do we subject ourselves to this? Do all immigrants – temporary or permanent feel this way? Can we truly love two places? Two places that may be so different… Two places that we love for entirely different reasons…Is it like cheating on a spouse? And which one is the spouse even? Is there truly only one true love?  

So is it easier to simply never leave? To never explore. To never widen horizons. To simply never change. To simply never have to deal with change?  

For, once you leave, you can never go back to the ‘same as before’. The round peg turns into a square and can never fit back in.  But again, isn’t that true of all of life? Immigrant experience or otherwise. Of growing up…Of moving around... Of change… Of life...

Do we as pegs keep getting squarer? Do we know the squareness of our being, yet remember the round... Or do we not realize the squareness of our being and imagine we will continue to fit in the round…

I have no answers. If you have any, do share them with me. But something tells me that accepting the duality in most situations, and the seemingly bigamous nature of our choices may be a first step…  

Letting go… of being disappointed with disappointment

Last month, the rehab doctors I work with told me that a year from now, I will look back and say, “I can’t believe how sick I was”. I looked at them in surprise and laughed, “what are you saying? This is the healthiest I have felt in years”. They simply smiled knowingly and with sagesse.

I thought of them a few days ago, when I caught a bug in Kerala. I came crashing down like a pile of bricks. I felt so tired and weak that I was surprised. Why, just these past few weeks, I had been a whirlwind of energy and vitality – traveling, meeting up with people, eating stuff I had not dared to eat in years – I had felt invincible. Yet in a brief moment I had been shown my place or so it seemed. As I lay on the houseboat, watching the scenic world drift by, feeling nauseous and terribly weak, I wondered if I would truly be able to partake in the world and its activities at the level I would like to.

I had met friends I used to trek the Himalayas with and talked about Himalayan treks in the future. I met friends I used to learn classical dance with and I badgered them for music and DVDs to start dancing again. But will it really happen again? Or is it a case of my mind and body being in different places again? My mind is indestructible. My body is fragile. My mind wants to live life in multi-color, multi-dimension. It wants to savor life to its every last breath. My body is just plain tired and wary of what my mind wants. Perhaps this has been an ongoing tussle all my life, but I sense it more now. Will I really be able to trek the Himalayas again? Will I really be able to get back to classical dance again? I don’t know.

Despite my hopes and efforts, perhaps I may have to prepare myself for it not happening or happening at the level I would like. And I have to find a way to be okay with it. Not in a defeatist, pessimistic way, but with acceptance and in the knowledge that not everybody gets to do everything they want to do in their life. For dreams are never-ending… the secret may be to find a way to tailor them to fit the scope of our life, the reality of our life. And that may be an art truly worth mastering…

Letting go… of a good thing

As I type this, I hear the waves in the background. I lift my head and feel the warm sea breeze and gaze into the ocean. I could sit on this reclining chair in the balcony of our hotel room watching the gulls, swaying palms and ocean churning out blue foamy waves forever. Yet my bags stand packed inside and within half an hour we will be driving to the airport. A few years ago, we went to the Great Wolf Lodge, a water park and stayed there for a day. We thought two days of constant water play was enough. Our child thought otherwise. She sobbed all the way back home. No amount of consoling, cajoling, rationalizing and even threats would make her stop. The end of a vacation or a good time can be a difficult moment to handle. For at its brink stands reality, responsibility, real life. And this is for a straight plain vacation. Leaving or re-leaving India and close family and friends is a different emotional matter altogether. That inexplicable sinking feeling bears heavy. True, there is that certain ease and pleasure of sleeping in your own bed, in your own home, in your own surroundings. On your own turf, where everything is familiar, where you’re back in charge, where you look at old things with new appreciation. Perhaps memories of warm weather, nature scapes, and people will waft in and out. Perhaps I will smile at those and hopefully, let them go… for holding on can only create dissatisfaction or sadness in the present. Perhaps I can apply the rejuvenation and renewed energy to real life with its sobering reality that awaits my return. Yes. Letting go of a good thing is a hard thing to let go of. But I want to let it go just like I let go of the warm lapping wave the licked my feet yesterday and disappeared back into the vastness of the ocean…it was there, it brought me joy, and it was gone…back into the infinite…

view from our room... 

Travel and letting go

Since I was a kid, I’ve always wanted to go to Kanyakumari (in a bucket list kinda way). I imagined this lands end with a sense of infinity… with long stretches of unbounded oceans that would bend with the arc of the globe... a magical place where three oceans meet… where Swami Vivekananda once meditated on the rock at the union of the three seas.

I thought it would be a shame to not go to Kanyakumari since we were travelling so close. The travel agent who did hotel reservations tried to discourage us. I was unshaken. Our driver disapproved. “Kanyakumari is a dirty place. Kerala is so beautiful. Why do you want to go there?” he questioned. I was unshaken. The trip seemed tad hectic. I was unshaken. I caught a bug two days before. I was unshaken. The night before the trip, my daughter threw up at night. We wondered if we should cancel the trip. But she looked perky in the morning and the trip was back on.

She seemed grumpy. “What?!! We’re driving all the way to see a rock?” she indignantly inquired. And only a short distance away from our destination, she threw up in the car. Sigh…the worst had happened. We cleaned her up, cleaned the car, gave her some electrolytes, and we were back on the road. It made better sense to reach our destination, than drive back the whole distance. I wondered why I had insisted on this excursion, when all odds seemed against it. Was I going to miss anything by not going there?

Braving more heat, bumpy roads, and a less-than-happy child, we plodded along. We were finally there. A ferry boat ride lay ahead of us… and of course a long queue. “Why are we always waiting in line?” my daughter eyed me annoyed and accusingly (??). Sigh…I felt her pain. I shared her discomfort.

As I glared at the woman who stepped on my toe a couple of times without even noticing, I thought of all the people who rarely leave their living rooms. Was I envious? That’s what all the travel channels are for, I told myself. Why would I not sit in my most comfortable chair and watch a video of the place? Splendid sunsets sans sweat, smell and struggle. And without this pushy, smelly woman practically sitting on my lap. I sighed. At least my daughter was feeling better, I thought gratefully.

A short bumpy boat ride with its own share of pushing and shoving later, we reached the Kanyakumari temple and the Vivekananda memorial rock. Somehow the clamor and chaos were never part of my mind’s picture as I had imagined this serene magical location.

We went to the Vivekananda memorial and for just a moment I let go of the clamor and took in the awe of the place. I looked at the waters searching for differences in color between the seas. Till of course, my daughter complained how terribly her feet burned. We found a spot in the shade and let the wind blow through our hair. It was wonderful.

I was excited to go into the meditation hall. I felt as if I was sharing a moment with Swami Vivekananda by meditating at the same spot. Except no eight-year-old poked his leg when he closed his eyes in meditation. Nor did other kids wail and fuss around him; nor did noisy tourists discuss the next destination in a spot which clearly said “Silence”. Grrrr… even if I threw them my most evil glare, sadly enough, it was too dark for them to see it. So I let it go… and decided to take in the moment. This was my moment and no wailing kid or pesky tourist could take it away. And despite the chaos, there was magic in the moment and no travel channel could give me that.

I came out and we sat on the steps looking at the ocean. A woman came out of nowhere, enthusiastic and dressed up. “Photo, photo,” she said and before I knew it, her arm was around my shoulder and we grinned at the camera like long lost friends. And no matter how strange the forced closeness was, her enthusiasm was infectious and it makes me laugh in confusion. And no travel channel can ever give me that.

Travelling can be uncomfortable and filled with annoyances and uncertainty. To encounter rich experiences, it is often necessary to wade through the less-than-pleasant waters of delays and detours, crowds and chaos, bad weather and stomach bugs. Whether it is worth it all is a personal choice. Perhaps some degree of letting go is required to experience the magic…for it is there…and no travel channel can give me that…

stop! let the cattle pass first...

truck carrying sugarcane

just your routine traffic jam...and yes, the elephant is real

 

 

 

Life in Rhythm

We drifted down the backwaters in Kerala in idyllic setting and pace. The waves tapped the houseboat rhythmically as we sailed away without any sense of purpose or apparent reason. Life slowed down. We did less. We took in more.

We watched birds swoop down to catch fish with poise and skill. We stared at the horizon and the backwaters flanked by swaying coconut palms, remote villages, paddy fields and workers. An old grandma rowed her canoe and waved to me as I clicked away. We watched a mussel fisherman bend precariously over the side of his boat rhythmically pulling his nets in. Yes. It had been a good day and a good haul sat in his boat.

 

 

Our houseboat crossed some snake boats and our captain explained how 110 individuals row each of these boats during the annual competition in August. But what made me smile was that each snake boat had five singers who sang along to keep the paddlers in rhythm. What a beautiful tradition. What a beautiful purpose. What an artistic way to maintain rhythm. And rhythm is everything for a snake boat race.

Yes. Rhythm is everything for our life. If we could always keep our life in rhythm, what a beautiful thing that would be. Why then can’t each of us have those five singers to help us maintain our rhythm? A strange image stands before my eye, fueled of course by some hyperactive imagination. Five random persons would follow me everywhere to help keep me in rhythm. Of course, each of these five would in turn need their own five…

I decided to stop before my imagination carried me away. And I realized that I didn’t really need five singing strangers following me around. For each of us probably already has five things or persons that keeps our life in rhythm. The trick then is simply to find them, know them and keep them around – whether or not they sing a melodious tune.

Letting go…of allowing nature to slip out of our lives

I would like my daughter to live India, not simply visit it. We spent last weekend in Satara visiting family. Apart from the constant pampering from our relatives, there was a certain closeness to nature that we were lucky to savor.  

We ate food that came directly from the yard and their farm. We fed leaves to our cousin’s cows. We visited a “ved pathshala” where young boys in dhotis (traditional Indian attire) and bhasma (smearing of ash) on their foreheads, received education like in olden times. We watched kids there milk cows by hand. My daughter twitched her nose and hesitantly entered the cow shed with its floor covered in “cow poop”. But as she watched a kid, (only a few years older than her) milk the cow, she gave in to the experience and let go of focusing on the “cow poop”. 

We swung on Banyan trees. We tussled with sugarcane – tearing the peel with our teeth, gnawing on the sugary bark-like twigs, spitting it like cattle, savoring the sugary nectar. We drank sugarcane juice from sugarcane that our cousin cleaned and got crushed. (not to mention the gluttony I demonstrated in its consumption… ahem… after all, it is the best drink in the world).

We hiked to the top of a waterfall on a path that was anything but an outlined trail. We walked through knee high grass, on a path that only a few probably knew of and that we were lucky to experience due to our nephew’s knowledge of the land. We watched him chop away some overgrowth so we could reach the top of the waterfall. We sat in the spectacular view as the wind threw droplets of water on our faces. There was nothing other than our voices and the splendor of nature. 

Our relatives were probably a little surprised at the enthusiasm with which I showed my daughter the “bamba” (an ingenious copper water heater that uses twigs and leaves from the yard and heats water beautifully) or the flattened cow dung cakes that are used as fuel.

On reaching Pune, my eight-year-old firmly stated, “I want to go back to Satara.” While this was mostly due to all the affection she had received and the bond she had formed with her cousins, I do think living in nature played a role too.  

I reflected on how processed and packaged our lives have now become. For living an organic lifestyle requires more energy, more sweat, more time. More slowing down than any of us are probably prepared to do so. The “bamba” for instance, is certainly more green; the water more disinfecting as it is heated in copper. But for most of us accustomed to turning on the hot water tap, it seems like more work, more time than we believe we have. 

So is there no turning back? Have we moved on in our processed, packaged world? Is this truly progress? 

I have no answers. Like most, I don’t believe I can turn back either. Like most, I believe I don’t have the time or the energy for the ‘bamba’. But can we slow down a little and keep nature a part of our lives in whatever little way we can?