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.