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.
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