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.