Quick to Judge

Today a very dear friend pointed out to me that I am too quick to judge.  Since he is dear and we have an understanding I asked him why he was slow in arriving at the same conclusion that I do quickly?  We both smiled knowingly.

Of late I have been a bit unhinged.

I have struggled to make sense of the violence that has flooded our world. I have been angered by the insensitive words of our want-to-be leaders. I have quit a chat group upon feeling compelled into entering useless discussions. Having argued for peace, preached tolerance and issued commands for compassion, I too have been a fool.

 It is hard not to get caught up in the madness that surrounds us, the news that shouts out tempting theories, the panic of voices that beg of us to act and the helpless sadness that accompanies violence.

Somehow I had forgotten in all of this that a good bit of the compassion that I professed was indeed necessary for my own life.  My lack of attention and caring towards my own helpless anguish had made me into just another hysteric voice blaring out at the deaf and tired world.

Anyhow, after a few days of strictly enforced quiet I feel restituted. Distance from noise has re-established my own dwindling faith.

Let’s take a moment. There are more democracies in the world today than has ever been. Women world over have more rights today than they have ever had. Diseases and deaths related to diseases are under control more than ever.  Poverty rates are falling. Attempts to provide, education, clean drinking water and electricity are on the rise. Environmental consciousness and awareness of the impact we have upon our surroundings is increasing.  And most importantly people world over are more inclined to help each other.

Nothing has been perfected. Yet mankind has made some impressive strides in the past few centuries than ever before.

Maybe all I can do today is to thank the store clerk like I really mean it, allow a car to merge into my lane, express my gratitude to my friends who have stood by me like family, volunteer a tad bit more, extend kindness towards random strangers, hug my children more often, speak of my love towards everyone in my family, clean my home, exercise, meditate, read, write, paint pictures and laugh when I have the opportunity to do so.

Like it or not, this is it, there is just one earth and we are all in here together.

Time and time again…..

I can write essays and weave poetry around the spontaneity of childhood. I can do even better and preach the value of innocent open mindedness. I even took a whole course on cultivating a beginners mind. And yet, forgive me for becoming set in my ways!

As I climb each rung on the ladder of life, I find myself cemented to my adopted values. Intentionally and without regret I have set aside the romantic version of an ageless, childlike adult and replaced her with a sleep valuing, routine nurturing, time-centric grown woman.

I wish I could tell you that I’m disappointed with myself! But I’m not!

Suddenly, the expansive summer vacation with nothing to do, the thrill of discovering myself in the world, the energy to party hop, to stand in long lines and bustle through engaging crowds, the joy of meeting countless people, the ability to ear-mark an activity for ‘later’, the beauty of exploring the endless aisles of a new grocery store, they have all left me.

They have left, leaving me with a brand new set of choices to make - what is worth my time, to whom do I give it, which movie, what experience, which book, what person, who deserves my minutes.   

This is in no way suggestive of a well-managed and flawless life! Life by its very definition is unmanageable and control free. So, of course the faucet will leak, the dishwasher will break down, an accident on the road will delay you, snow will cancel school, a sprained ankle will keep you from running and so on.

And yet in those splendid moments when life whispers her waiver and permits some planning I desire to bring in my own preference.

So pardon me my failure to oblige, forgive me my failed promises, absolve me of my guilt, clear my name, I request you. So that those tulips can be planted, that novel can be written, that child of mine can describe to me her dreams, that parent receive my care, that painting be painted, that meal be cooked and that friend who has stayed despite me, receive with devotion, every precious remaining moment.

A Verse On Leadership

In the Tao Te Ching a manual on the art of living by Loa- tzu, he describes leaders and leadership by classifying them into four categories.

The best one he says is one who is indistinguishable from the will of those who select him.  The next best is one who enjoys the praise and love of his people. The poor one uses force and coercion and the worst one is a tyrant.

While the last two are least favored, Loa-tzu says in the second category there is relative harmony between the leader and the people. In the best one though he claims that things happen so naturally that no one presumes to take credit.

To deserve the best form of leadership we first need to know our collective will. When the collective will is unapparent or conflicted we can expect to start settling in for the baser categories of leadership.

I found myself embroiled in an argument over politics with this woman. The argument was unnecessary and wasteful. We both had our references, our talking points and our concerns. Neither one of us was willing to concede or take the other’s point of view into serious consideration.

After a while I pulled away angry and discontented, I was frustrated at myself for having taken the time to convince a fool.

Except that we were both fools and our collective foolishness made us each poorer.

I must say that it is difficult – extremely difficult - to be unable to see the world in a vision that is not my own.  But visions are a dime a dozen and the world belongs to all.

It is hardly simple! In fact it is perhaps the most complex of things imaginable – a collective will.  The first and ideal style of leadership is like enlightenment hard to achieve and even harder to hold onto.

So I guess that if we are lucky, very lucky indeed, we can anticipate a life of relative harmony with a leader whom we shall inspire with our praises. In the other two base categories we have little choice but to fight it out.

As long as the fight is at a party and I have a glass of wine in my hands – I’m willing.

Matter of Faith

I don’t pray like I used to as a child anymore.

The God of my childhood was powerful and omnipotent. He hurled mountains and built pathways in fast flowing rivers. He loved generously and offered unlimited care to those who took his name. He punished with hellish wrath those who were evil, and since I was not, I was forever exempt from sorrow. As a child my prayers were offered face to face to such a magnificent being.

Growing up, I discovered that the black and white of good and evil blended into multiple shades of gray. God’s plans seemed less certain, and prayers offered with utmost sincerity were sometimes left unheard. This all-powerful almighty had turned indecisive and was sometimes reluctant.  

Slowly I slipped away. If he had no ears then I had no lips, if he had no heart then I had no adoration, if he had no understanding then I had no patience. I therefore denied him a place and made myself responsible for me. There was a subtle satisfaction in such rebellion. Where all others bowed down and worshipped my voice wouldn’t chime in. I alone drifted away from his care and now he would have to come back and get me if he so desired.

Even in my rebellion all I wanted was God’s attention.

Well, like they say there are no atheists is a foxhole, and there have been times when prayers have flowed from me to whichever God in whatever format would have them. Hopeless anguish did not cure me of the hope for such a benevolent being.

It was in the depths of my depression that I finally stopped struggling to find definitive answers. The moment I stopped struggling with my life I discovered faith. To me faith is acceptance.  It is wholeheartedly accepting the very life that one has been blessed with knowing fully that you will be all right. It’s a knowing that transcends reason.

I still don’t pray like I used to as a child. I still struggle to see purpose in war, poverty, disease and disasters.  I still battle with my many idiosyncrasies. I still fear the recklessness of human cruelty and excess all around the world.

But in those moments when my mind is still and there is quiet within me – my God returns faithfully back to me.  

Who's got the power?

What does it really mean to accept criticism? Is it even possible to emerge unscathed and illustrious? Does it matter how it is conveyed? Is it even fair to subject a work of art to criticism?

For those of us who exist in this world as introverts and for those of us who are ruthlessly introspective, life can sometimes get rough.

It's bad enough that we scrutinize ourselves intensely, it feels unfair to be bludgeoned by random strangers. Have you ever had a pointed insult dawdle in the recesses of your broken and badgered heart for decades together? If you answered yes, I can safely tell you – you are not alone.  But there is a cure. 

Recently I published my first book, ‘Banks of the Tamasa’, a passionate tale written with great intensity and fervor. I feel deep gratitude towards all of my readers who have taken the time to read and understand my work. 

 A few days back I met this person who seemed to have read it with great zeal and interest. However our conversation quickly turned sour. He asked me numerous questions, some pertinent, and several impertinent and annoying ones. After trying to remain calm and equanimous for a long time I noticed how I felt deep disgust and revulsion towards him. His mind felt like a microscope honing in on minor details befitting his small persona and his even smaller compassion. Recognizing the futility of such argument, I gave in and let him have the last word. 

My bruised ego raved and rankled within my mind. I therefore took her with me to my meditation cushion. After a few minutes of practice - like cream that rises - my spirit surfaced unharmed and wholesome.

This book is about my innermost experience. Not a paragraph was written without inner scrutiny and validation. That which is true to one soul is true to all – I assume. Like all works of art this book too was created by a pining inner need to express and explore. This much I know is absolutely true.

Despite the severity of our conversation my critic had inspired me to do nothing differently. Making room for his insensitive remarks would be designating precious real estate within my heart that could be otherwise occupied by someone who is cheerful and authentic.  Allowing him to stay was giving him power. 

Therefore I wished him well and let him go! I ended my meditation with, “Dear God – please bless him and keep him away from me’.

Now my next book is receiving my attention.  Once again it’s being built in my vision, with my words, my exclamations, my point of view and my own justifications. The question to be asked is, who's got power over you? 

The Bedtime Story

A bouquet of sharpened yellow pencils arranged in a blue colored mason jar announces the arrival of fall. Summer is done. It’s time for the serious business of schooling to begin. Yet, this is when we start reading the story.

This time it’s different! She’s reading and I’m listening.  The story is that of Peter and the Star Catchers!

In the light of the teddy-bear lamp, Snoopy, Charlie Brown and Lucy are getting ready for a game of football upon the even field of a nightstand. The lamp itself painted with balloons and Alphabet blocks is out of place in her young-adult styled room. This lamp is from her childhood and she’s still deciding if she’s young or if she’s an adult.

I start yawning at about eight at night, the same time at which I used to tuck her in with a bedtime story a few years back. This reading feels new and out of place to me. She’s reading and I’m listening. She’s reading Peter Pan and I’m enjoying it? I start feeling awkward.

Outside the bedroom that smells like daisies, my world is beckoning me. Bills, laundry, grocery lists, dishes, doctors appointments, the leaky faucet, schedules and meetings, phone calls and have to do’s are all hungering for attention.

And yet all I want is to be able to be in the story. To watch it unfold before my imaginative mind, to feel the spray of ocean water and the soft voice of a young girl as it is described. 

The first day was rough.

As she read the first three chapters, I sat, uneasily under the cozy blanket, tethering between adulthood and childhood, knowing fully well where I belong and desiring to belong where I don’t any longer. It was then that those questions popped. Just when did I grow up? Just when did I close the door to fantasy and happily ever after?  Just when did rain stop meaning puddles with paper boats? Just when did summer stop meaning endless hours of reading and playing?  Just when did care receiver become caregiver?

I don’t know! I cannot define the exact time. But I know it came earlier a lot earlier than I had hoped for.

I felt sadness for my wanting to stay in the story and my needing to bail out. In the meantime she read, this teenage child of mine, a story that she adored as a child, unaware of this raging battle within me.

“What is it that I wish for her?” I asked myself. The answer came, “to live a life with few regrets”. “How do I make that possible?” I asked back. Once again the answer came, “You model with your own life for her to see”.

Ah-ha!

Now four nights later, I sit still, no longer wandering – I’m fully present in the story of Peter Pan.