Cynicism

I pretended to be reaching out to a barf bag. I stuck my tongue out and imitated a violent throw up. Then I rolled my eyes as I shook my head. This was before face-time and this was my reaction to a friend who had called me up and couldn’t stop telling me how madly she was in love.

At the time, my washing machine had broken down. I had a baby and a toddler at home. My life was filled with diapers, toys, high chairs, Disney junior on my TV, endless nursery rhymes on my player, spills, leaks, throw-ups, tantrums and everything in the middle.

When my loving husband came back home in the evenings, I didn’t feel romantic. I felt relief! Relief to be around another adult, relief for another set of hands that could help me and relief to be able to shower.

Naturally I was cynical about love!

Well, the babies grew and my cynicism disappeared. Thank goodness for that!

Much of life is lived as if in front of a mirror. We speak to others telling them things that we wish to hear ourselves. We color our words with emotions that are true for each of our selves. We get frustrated at things that do not reflect that which we are experiencing as the truth in a given moment.

There is no absolute truth. It is something that is sandwiched between different perspectives.

I have never met the Dalai Lama and yet I reserve a great deal of respect and adoration for him. I have read many books with his teachings and I have watched pretty much all documentaries about him.

Thumbing through a magazine I came upon an interview of his that was published. The writer introduced pre-China Tibet, as far less of a Utopia than we assume it was and mimicked the Lama’s mannerism with cynicism. There were subtle hints of sarcasm – angry humor – throughout the article.

Needless to say I was a bit saddened. When a smiling monk tells us that we all simply want to be happy and that we each desire to reduce our suffering – instead of being curious we want to erase his positivity.

There was so much I wanted to say to the writer of that article. I wanted to produce proof, I wanted to provide reassurance and I wanted to pacify her felt anger.

I realized in a moment that I was desperately trying to hold onto faith in my own beliefs. All these messages of reassurance, pacification and proof were for myself.

I remembered my episode with the barf bag!

Perhaps the life of this young woman who wrote the article was too crowded for her to see her own inner beauty. Perhaps her washing machine had broken down, her kid was throwing a tantrum and her husband had called to tell her that he was working late. Perhaps she just desired to shower in peace.

I’m sure the Lama said to her, “may you be happy, may you be peaceful, may you know the beauty of your own true nature, may you be healed, may you be a source of healing to all!”

The Gift Of Hope

They barely have drinking water. Yet their hearts are filled with gratitude!

Keeping with tradition, I visited this small school in a tiny village that my father grew up in. This annual ritual of mine enriches my life in a multitude of ways.  

I love children! I really do! It makes me happy to see hardworking kids pursuing dreams that are placed in places far and beyond the spectrum of their everyday life.

They sit upon the bare earth in tiny classrooms where dedicated teachers equipped with nothing more than a few books and a blackboard teach them. They don’t have computers, calculators, sports equipment, extra curricular activities, school development funds or any other fancy frilly stuff. Yet they are filled with love and receive what they get with immense gratitude.

A few years back I had asked these very same children what their dreams were?  Very few had answers.  When one child annoyed by my persisting questioning, and largely out of frustration told me that she wanted to be a teacher – the others simply chimed in. They all wanted to be teachers!

But even then, I knew. I knew that it was important that they be asked what their dreams were. Not because it is imperative that a twelve or thirteen year old knows exactly what she is to do with her life but because its good to have dreams upon whose wings these kids can reach places beyond their own imagination.

This time when I visited them, I found that they had given my question thought. They each aspired to pursue professions and interests of their own and the listed variety brought joy to me. It thrilled me to see girls come up before the whole school and express their intent to become doctors, lawyers and government officials. 

I intend to continue asking them this question even at the risk of being disliked.

 Because I know that as they grow, some of them will forget that they too had dreams as a child. And I hope that those who forget will remember that annoying woman who asked them about their dreams and aspirations every year. And that such remembering will cause them to pursue what they have conveniently abandoned.

After all the last thing left in Pandora’s box is hope!

Abstract Art

I have to admit that there was a time when I judged abstract expressionism as unskillful and immature. ‘A child can paint that’, I often remarked at art museums.

When I started taking lessons at art school I swore that I would paint soft and soulful images. I never thought that I would one day harbor this burning desire for abstract expressionism. But I am finding myself strongly drawn towards it on occasions. 

So - why abstraction? Why do I choose this seemingly senseless form of art? Why do I derive great satisfaction from such compositions?

Though I am quiet capable of formulating a strong and respectful argument for this new cause that inspires me, the truth of it is really - pretty simple! My paintings are representative of the state of my mind and the quality of my mood is depicted in the colors. 

I cannot fully explain my moods so I cannot provide concrete reasons for my choices of color. But the quality of my mind at a given moment is usually clear to me.

Over the years I’ve realized that all forms of knowing result in the same findings!

Be it spiritual or scientific - all human findings are subject to relativity. Just as in the scientific world there is no clarity of what is 'real' anymore, similarly in the spiritual world too there is no absolute clarity on the ultimate purpose of life and living. 

Our lives have as much meaning and purpose as we assign to it. Perspective too is different for a given subject depending on the space occupied by the painter. Everything in the real world has a component of being unreal - we will never know who draws the image in the mirror, sounds the echo or guides us from within ourselves. 

This awareness frees up my art as well. The abstractions that I conjure are as representative of the world as the physical objects present within it.

 But of course even my choices are forever changing.

Blowing bubbles

Every now and then, there are subtle shifts and turns. Without me being aware, a door gets closed, an expectation builds us, heartbreak gets hidden and a tiny judgment gets conclusive. Suddenly my world is my world no longer.

 I have been in the doldrums often enough and at my age I know, that when I readily fall into an abyss – there is no ground to be discovered. When a thought gets sticky and repetitive its time to blow it out like bubbles and then again certain opportunities are simply lost.

Summers are hard. The vast and expansive vacation – what should it translate into? These young children who laugh at a hand set, a tape recorder, a CD player – what should I expect from them that would be reasonable?

As if the space of generation does not set us apart already, our home is further entrenched with a cultural diabolical.  I suffer from ‘look at what you have’ syndrome - tennis courts, basketball courts, swimming pools, bikes, access to computers, access to summer camps and most of all a willing-to-help parent.  

My children suffer from, ‘leave me alone’ syndrome. And so I respect that.

Without me being fully aware, irritation was piling over complacent existence, anger was seething through the edges of messy rooms, disappointment was lurking at the sight of unhealthy food choices, frustration was mounting at the sight of opportunities missed out and today I exploded.

They retreated. I stood my ground. They drew in their boundaries tighter. I waited. They waited longer. I invoked parental rights. They insisted on teenage ways. I got tired. They had energy for more. I apologized. They accepted.

My world has shifted again without my knowing.

They are not bad children. They read, they write plays and enact them, they make comic strips on Popeye, they draw and paint, they sculpt, they take pictures, they bake, they fix meals, they give out hugs when requested, they are well behaved when taken out and they are conscientious humans.

Sadly sometimes all that I see is the willfulness of youth, the plate left back on the table, the wrapper stuck between sofa seats, the unused bikes, the empty pool, the patient tennis rackets and I just want to scream out.

Its time for me to blow my thoughts out like bubbles!

After the book!

The rhythmic sound of the expansive ocean extended as far as I could see.

The warm sands, the many seashells, the perfect sunshine and my margarita, incensed me with the desire to paint. To mix in yellow ochre, burnt umber and white, set it against the grey blue of the ocean and the bright blue of the endless sky, to bring in the dunes confined to the corners with an array of pale greens and to sprinkle my canvas with red, orange, yellow bathing suites, beach towels and umbrellas.

Of course I was ill prepared, equipped only with potato chips and canned margarita, so I covered my head with my hat and dipped in and out of a rest filled nap - as I watched my children play in the cold waters of this ancient ocean.

This trip was simple. No fanfare, no preparation, not even much expectation.

 As randomly as a breath of air, we picked this spot simply because it allowed the family dog upon the beach. Popeye was appreciative – he wagged his tail the whole time we were there. The roadside pizza that we had was unusually good – that was a bonus. The perfect day – well – what day is not if we imagine it to be so!

But there was one factor that made this extra special. It was the first weekend in over a year that I permitted myself relaxation.

The book is done, its published and released into the world.  The feeling of accomplishment came and went like all feelings do.

Its time to move on! Its time to be quiet and to spend more time alone – to once again feel open to life so that she can evolve me in the manner she wishes to. To once again permit experiences to sculpt me. To dust my hands, blow a kiss and retreat into life anonymous and undistinguished.

The moment has passed. The author who felt and expressed those many words is already captured inside the book. The truths in it are momentary truths that are relevant forever.

It is time to lie upon the warm sands of the quiet beach and listen to the new story shared by the open ocean!