The river!

The bare branches have scribbled lines against the light blue of the endless sky and I desire to trace them against the transparency of my large window. The sleepy puppy rests his dozing head against the gold trim of an ancient book like a sage filled with wisdom. The sweet scented blueberry candle jar, beside the blooming cream colored roses, casts its soft shine upon a handful of sea- shells that are scattered against the coffee table.  The future has sprouted well in advance of its time though I pretend to wake up to it by turning a page in the calendar.

If by drawing of cards, peering through crystal ball or the age- old temptation of deciphering numbers, I could predict the future, then perhaps I would caution my heart of its endless temptation! But since I have been awake to the trending waters upon and within which I flow, I can safely make some presumptions!

Upstream and far back in the hidden mountains where the river birthed lives a little girl filled with dreams of brave hearted warriors with whom she has chosen to change the world. A bit further down but not too far, lives a young woman unsure of the expectations her mind imposes upon her restless heart. Midstream is where I presently live with far more patience I’m holding the hand of the little girl and calming the young woman within. Perhaps further down, if you can see, you might find the place where the old woman meets the sea.

Its benevolent this river to those who bear faith in its path, to trust that it will bring the courage to meet the sorrows that will surely flow past. It satisfies your thirst however deep, however small, but pleads that you drink with an open palm. It warns you this river to enjoy your own unique ride because if too focused you are on others you might simply miss each and every wonderful sight. It speaks to you too, this river! It tells you gently yet persistently, to live in your questions until you find the answers down the stream.

The question!

This question was not unique; the little girl upstream whispered it to the young woman who repeated it to me. So I asked again and more gently this time, what is it that I own and what is it that is his? Floating afloat in full faith upon his chosen path, do I have anything I own or was it his to the very last?

The generous river spoke back in a voice that echoed back to the mountains and far ahead into the deep sea, “The process is all that you own, never to be taken from you, or asked to be given back!”

So Mid- stream is where I learn to relax! Since I desire for the process to be rich, I pay attention to the feel of the puppy’s tender coat, I inhale slowly the delicate fragrance of the blue berry candle, I thrive in the unfolding petals of the cream colored rose, I relish the taste of the wine that touches my lips, I revel in the joys of my heart that I feel to my fill! As to the cautions I hear, which sometimes stir in me a bit of fear I whisper the wisdom I learnt from the river flowing into the sea.

Cerulean Blue and Cadmium Orange!

I could talk picturesquely with the complimentary colors of cerulean blue and cadmium orange dripping down against the lifting and dropping light and shadow of life, but it would simply be impotent! Sometimes even with all the tenderness of your affectionate heart overflowing generously you cannot make sense of the world. You cannot convince affected youth of the folly in their plan to cleanse the world in the name of religion. You cannot influence comical leaders to understand the utter ineffectiveness of their hollow threats and promises. You cannot convince grieving parents besides infant coffins that their suffering bears a hidden purpose.

On one such morning, making eggs and toasting waffles, taking the trash out and washing dishes, staring endlessly at the yard that pleads to be raked, coming face to face, head on and with no where to hide, of the inconsequence of my heart felt need for peace in a world that rejects it constantly, unable to feel the pain that I feel anymore, I wore the mask of boredom. The ennui, that makes me dis-interested in release of any kind and prevents my heart from feeling!

Days such as these are stroked with disconnect and tedium! It’s the dash in between the dots of the binary universe!

Legends have their purpose and role, even if we are bereft of heroes in the real world, we permit them their exuberant lives in the myths of our imagination. Who is to say that stories are stories and the thick bandage of words cannot heal our wounds?

It is nighttime already and I’m still saddened by the acute threats of putting out life in every form all around the world! My inconsequence, impotence, inability and impermanence are all put under the microscopic view of my heart that refuses to change the slide somehow!

This is when it helps to have a mind that can imagine, imagine not only fantasy but fantasy that is based on the truth! I recollect the mythology of a seemingly immortal demon!

‘Basmasura’, an evil demon was granted a boon after years and years of penance and prayers. He asked that he be granted the power to turn to ashes anything that he places his hand upon. Armed with such a weapon, he went around the world destroying life in his greed for destruction. One of the Gods, dressed as an enchanting woman, lured him in with her lust filled advances. Please bear in mind that the lure of a woman is not a label against women in general but a label against ‘unbridled desire’ of any kind!

Anyway, with the intent of winning over the love of this heavenly creature, Basmasura, agreed to dance with her and imitate each and every one of her dance moves. So they danced and they danced and they danced, and in the end when she carelessly struck a pose with her hand on her head, he followed placing his own destructive hand upon his head and turned himself into a pile of ashes! Beautiful!

A masterpiece of legendary mythology, age old and timeless, tested and narrated, just so that we know that evil will ultimately unleash its wrath on itself bringing an end to its sorry marriage with fear and destruction!

I smiled brightly! The world was fully capable of taking care of itself and all that was needed of me was to simply do what I do best – tending and caring for the life around me! And sometimes annoying those I love to extract simple pleasures!

I feel free of nauseating worry and tedium this morning! The darkness has passed and I can color my day with cerulean blue and cadmium orange to the fullest content of everything standing for freedom!

Keeping Christ in Christmas!

‘Keep Christ in Christmas’, read the board placed outside a local church, which I read contemplatively, as the lady with a swaying walk, walked briskly, exercising, as I sat in traffic hoping to get to school on time.

I am not a Christian!

My kids, good kids on three hundred and fifty plus days, enjoy having a tree, decorated with ornaments many of them made at home. Presents lie below it, in celebration of a holiday when we are all at home, relaxed with no where to go, enjoying a special dinner with friends, opening presents, laughing, crying, cheering, sharing, celebrating life as most others do.

The lady with the swaying walk is briskly walking on her way back and I have just moved a few inches along the road. I may never get to school in time! Today I am in a rush! My child, she spent her time baking cup cakes for her teachers. She worked relentlessly on perfecting the icing and boxed each of them with holiday wishes and cheers! I’m in a rush as I’m eager to learn about her day but here I am sitting in traffic, with a fully decorated tree back home, friends on my guest list and meals planned but without Christ as I am not Christian.

I recollect the story from an age-old Jewish parable! By the way, no, I’m not Jewish either!

A certain rabbi on learning about the misfortunes of his people, went to the forest, lit a light, said a prayer, told the story and the magic happened! His successor, went to the forest, confessed that he did not know how to light the light, but said the prayer, told the story and the magic happened again. The successor of this rabbi, went to the forest, confessed that he did not know how to light the light, nor could he say the prayers but told the story and the magic happened. This man’s successor, did not know the way to the forest, nor could he light the light or say the prayers, so he simply told the story and the magic happened anyway!

Here’s my story! I love the holidays even though I am not Christian! My kids are good kids on most days and they desire a celebration! They have written notes of warm wishes, bought gifts for needy children, wrapped it up like they would for their best friends and made donations! They are excited about hot apple cider, roasted chestnuts, chocolate cookies and fruit -cakes also! Until two years back they expected Santa to make his yearly contribution! They get good grades, are polite to friends and neighbors, work hard and keep their rooms clean on most occasions!

I think Christ will approve my Christmas celebration!

The children of Peshawar!

For as long as I can remember, the news of new life, be it sandwiched between messages on my voice mail, be it hurriedly yelled out while waiting in line at the grocery store or be it announced with banners in the yard, simply makes me happy. Something about the fresh sprig of life has always made me take pause and participate in this universal joy with families I barely know, congratulating random grandmothers limping slowly on walkers or smiling at new mothers while I simply pass them by.

Years back I had taken an interest in reading historical fiction. Reading a book about Chengiz Khan, I still remember, I had to stop! The narrative was too disturbing! It plainly stated how his army felt nothing when they came before the women and children of their enemies, raping and killing the women, being merciless towards the aged and simply abandoning the infants in the severe cold of the plains. There was nothing civil about it and the fact that it happened centuries before did not relieve me of my felt sadness. I could not comprehend such hatred. I could not see how hateful anger extended its hood to envelope even the most innocent.

Any mother in any part of this world can affirm the immeasurable love that one feels towards children, especially young ones in that. The time and energy invested in each child is the unspoken given in most parenting. Patiently nurturing them, tending to the subtle quirks in their personality, making note of their favorite foods, protecting them infinitely, tolerating their vices and enabling them to be the very best they can, humans all over the world want nothing more than happiness and well-being for their children.

It is heart wrenching, when our greatest cruelty is unleashed upon the most vulnerable. It is especially numbing to see these beautiful children that hold the light of the future and make all our hardships worthwhile, simply put out like dust in dark corners. Who are these men, who have never known the warmth of a smiling child, who do not hesitate to squash life everywhere they see it, who squander and pulverize years of patient tending?  A shame indeed that the world has to be infested once again with such heartless warriors!

Is this all that we are capable of - raising a precious child and reducing it to ruin, like those of the many children in Peshawar? Years back, when I had read the book about the savage killings, I had hoped that it was a trait of the war hardy men alone, that a mother of those brutal killers might perhaps wipe the tears of an abandoned infant with simple kindness. It has to start somewhere! Simple kindness!

Life as I know it!: Language of life!

Life as I know it!: Language of life!: Everything alive has a language of its own, be it color, texture, flavor, sound or song. Expressing this innate language is as essential a...

Language of life!

Everything alive has a language of its own, be it color, texture, flavor, sound or song. Expressing this innate language is as essential as breathing is to life. Sometimes the universe feels like a giant symphony orchestra of unimaginable proportion with everything alive playing a distinct piece of music, except that it is unlikely that anything will ever go wrong in its unpracticed perfection.

I very often wonder about the roses! You throw a whole bunch into fresh water and some will bloom to the fullest of their capacity, exposing their innermost selves with abandon. While there are others that barely unfurl a petal or two.  I reserve my admiration to those that bloom fully, fulfilling their innate purpose, whether noticed or not. 

I have had the sincere joy of sharing some of my own writing with some of you. A dear friend who has been instrumental in my decision to take up writing in the first place encouraged me to be more willing to share my words with a larger audience. I instantly recoiled unable to withstand my imagined vulnerability at such exposure. 

Usually I cannot write unless I don't feel the compulsion and my words are invariably heartfelt though I do get a bit cerebral from time to time. In picking books to read too, I have gravitated towards works that are written from the heart as if the writer had no intention that his work will be ever read by anyone ever.  Such words in my opinion that are true to a single soul are truthful for all.

Today I sit contemplating my own reaction to the advice of my friend. Just what is it about criticism that I fear? Will it lessen my sense of self? Will it deviate me from my passions? Will it enable me to grow if I am open to it? Can art be approached with criticism without the unimagined consequence of belittling it? Can I make a distinction between criticism and humiliation or rejection? Will my precious solitude that is the source of my expression be compromised?

Even as I struggle with these questions there is a deeper sense of faith that I possess that is simply smiling back at me from inside. It is with a hint of sadness that I note that knowing of its presence I cannot sit in its light, forever. Herman Hesse the author of the splendid work ‘Sidhartha’ had once written about his great admiration of trees. In his masterpiece, he talks about the external restlessness of the branches and leaves as a call to stay within the roots that hold it firmly in the soil. He reiterates that for each individual 'home' is within or not at all!

Today I lack such presence and am very much in the leaves and branches of my existence open to the vagaries of winds and weather! I need to wait, patiently, for this restlessness to pass, before I can get into my roots once again. And then I will perform my calling.