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. 

Whispers of the heart!

Sitting out under the ageless banyan, placidly staring with glazed eyes into the dry landscape of non-descript hills, low clouds, grazing cattle, short stubby tress, red soil, marked graves beside thatched roofs, rows of weather-beaten street vendors this old grandmother leaning against her uneven stick whispered softly, 'it is alive, it is all alive!” The curious child being dragged up the steep stairs of the ancient temple is instructed to ignore the crazy woman.

I stood silently behind her, taking in the sights that had taken her in, absorbing the surroundings that absorbed her, listening to what she was listening, until I was seeing what she saw, hearing what she heard, breathing in synchrony with this stranger to feel what she felt. My eyes laced with tears marking the sudden peace that enters the heart, when it realizes for the first time, the silk lattice like network that connects all of life, brushing it with the broad brush of aliveness. I finally got it! I got how my words, my actions, my choices, my descriptions, my strengths, my weaknesses affect the landscape around me!

And yet I struggled, epic struggles, with hard relationships. Like jagged rocks in the soft ocean sand, like icicle blades piercing soft bird nests I was surrounded by these life-interrupting bindings, humans with microscopic minds honed in on all my faults, I knew I didn't stand a chance. Not one chance to be as I am and be loved!  And in fate filled reciprocation I couldn't love either!

How was it possible, the same aliveness that filled our veins did nothing to smooth our hearts? I could not put the question behind me. Never hesitating, I set out on a pilgrimage of my own. One that would lead me to my self, one that would show me everything that I kept hidden in my folds, one that would open up the treasure chests that I never knew I possessed, one that was filled with fear cause ground was no longer ground and sky was no longer sky, one that was filled with spirit, an unrelenting one deeply determined to follow. I followed with blind-folded eyes, until I felt safe, safe to be who I am, safe to speak the thoughts that are mine, safe to live my life, safe to be me and safe to be a part in the whole.  

Initially, those books I bought - I read all of it and the hole persisted, those lectures - I heard them all and the hole grew, the pain - I drank it all and yet I drowned deeper until fatigue-filled, I fell asleep upon a line that said - the truth is to be discovered through the heart alone and it's the intellect that has to follow.  So I asked my heart, if everything is alive with the same aliveness why do I hate, why do I dislike, why am I intolerant, why??

When you least expect it, it happens, like the shared vision with the old woman by the banyan tree!  Wisdom spoke from the recesses of my own tired heart in whispers, 'do not judge the soul by the mind that it is attached with', she said and I understood. I slept deeper and more peacefully than ever. I woke up with a new question, should I continue to suffer like I always did? I heard back my reply in a question; 'do you want to?’ to which I readily replied a 'not'.

'Keep them in your heart but keep them from your life, wish them well yet surround yourself with love, want for them peace and happiness and you walk only where you can be you and never be swallowed!"

Alchemy of love!

Love is the practice of alchemy upon the human soul, except that it actually works! That which is base, ordinary, ambivalent in its existence, unknown of its purpose, seemingly redundant and simply superficial is suddenly brought forth to magnificence, like warm sunlight coaxing reluctant petals to blossom to the fullness of their capacity. 

Just what are these emotions about? These turbulent swirls of unrest in otherwise calm waters, what do they wish to say, what do they indicate?  Sometimes I need to retreat! I need to retreat to the silence of comforting quietness which whispers all the answers I seek, like divers diving into the depth of deep oceans to retrieve pearls from oysters or more simply like the shy mushrooms, growing in the forgotten parts of the garden, peeking at the world like an observer unaware of its own participation. 

Randomly thumbing through a magazine, I stumble upon an article about a monk who spent twelve solid years in silent meditation. I neither wish to follow those excessive steps, nor do I wish for her to make meaning of my life, but I'm curious! What was it like? What did she learn? What does she have to teach? True love! True love she says is asking what you can do for another without wanting to be asked the same. I cringe at the imperfection in my own affection and feel determined to be less selfish and more present to those around me. 

Naturally I fail! 

Once again I hear the very same words, by a world-renowned author, the manufacturer of awareness, the keeper of the present moment and another remarkable human being. Love he claims is an egoistic addiction that is not true if its not free from wanting. 

This time I'm not impressed!  None of this ties to packing lunches, driving kids, folding laundry or staying up at night worrying anxiously about the young, the aging, the un-empowered and the indecisive. How do we proceed if we are constantly encouraged to be more pure than our pure selves, more dedicated, more superior, more kind, more giving and more human than we humanly can be? Just how do we proceed?

I wonder if this love that is real and if this love that is so far away from the truth, if this love is as good enough? My answer is yes! That love may be true! But this love is real! This love that's tarnished with a bit of wanting is quiet simply splendid!  

This love that is wanting of a kind word, a caring deed, a protective act, a simple smile, a hint of reciprocation, a dash of recognition, a brush of affection, this real love is good enough and is healthy. After all, after setting up our throne on a very high pedestal and sitting there with our shining crowns, who amongst us, has not been tempted to crawl on our knees, eat grass and behave the way base creatures do and who amongst us after such degradation is not worthy of love that causes alchemy?

Being Indian in America!

It was an unusually hot summer afternoon. Two young kids in hand, frantically looking for a restroom, ice-cream leaking down my sweaty forearm, bothered, irritated and tired I was plowing through the crowds of a popular theme park in Pennsylvania, when it happened!

 ‘Namaste!’

 This slightly tipsy grandfather, with a huge sun hat and khaki shorts, steps forward and stops us in our tracks. With palms folded against his chest, head bent forward he offers me his greetings, ‘Namaste, Namaste’! The kids stare up to my hot red face and I blurt out, ‘I don’t Namaste!’ and walk on with two tiny jaws dropped, cotton candied mouths revealed into the restroom that I need to use badly!

The manager of the condo I have rented for the weekend in Cape-May, comes up to me with his hands up in the air, fingers twinkling like little stars, “the sun…!” he says, moving his arms in a semi-circle, “…will be out soon!” So here I am standing in the lobby, with ample sunscreen smeared on my already brown skin, in a swim suit, sun glasses and flip flops, watching this mono-act, not entirely sure if I need to simply understand the words that he speaks or the kindergarten sign language that he’s mimicking! The suppressed giggle broke out into a huge smile as I replied," I know, I checked the weather!" and walked right past him to the beach. 

The awkwardness of moments such as these is cause it happens when you are not particularly aware of being Indian.  Right when you feel assimilated and ready to plunge into mainstream life, someone picks you out with a comment or a question. Though I do get a tad bit irritated at times, I mostly recall all these experiences with humor and enjoy imitating it out to my children who get a kick out of it. 

Its life-painting class, I am entranced, the model is curvy and has a fabulous structure I am excited and am figuring out my still amateur composition. Suddenly I hear a whisper, "Is it okay in your religion to paint nude people?” I turn around to my instructor who wants a cultural tour, right then and there, in the studio, with the model posing. So I explain, that we invented the nude, we wrote the Kama Sutra, we etched out preposterous pornographic sculptures in our caves, I also add that our parents were spared the bird and the bees conversation as a trip to our temples with these apparent stone carvings was education enough.  

By the time I was done explaining, I have lost my trail and had to restart my painting! Needless to say I was irritated! The student painting beside me whispered that he and everyone else knows that us Indian people, we have sex with their clothes on and give birth to clothed babies! We both laugh and the instructor turns red in her face.

In all of this I assume we are not completely faultless! Sometimes we just carry our flavoring a bit apparently!

One of my friends recounted an episode when speeding down the highway in her Salwar Kameez and the dot on her fore-head, she was pulled over by a cop. Not wanting to reveal her Indian identity, she quickly removed the dot off her forehead. Really! The cop wrote her the ticket and informed her politely and with good intentions that there was a 'Patel's Cash and Carry', down the road on the next exit should she need anything. So just like that dot or no dot, she was spotted!

This other encounter will crack you up for sure! In India pencil erasers are referred to as rubbers, in America rubbers are condoms! That was definitely not on the foreign language test or I would have known that for sure! I sat with a bunch of colleagues enjoying lunch and we chit chatted about all the different hobbies that we had as children. I used to collect pencil erasers, so I announced innocently that I collected 'rubbers' as a child!! Loraine, this elderly lady who always prim and proper, stopped chewing and stared me down like I was discovered in an alarmingly offensive way “you, collected condoms!” she asked and I got cherry red in my face, mortified by this new truth that someone should have told me while I stood in the long immigration line, so I explained! This time there was no irritation, just explaining, a whole lot of explaining and apparent desperation to prove my innocence! 

But at times, being Indian comes with a considerable advantage!!! Like when I pick up a random sales call during dinner-time, listen to the person on the other end struggling with my name and then say, "no English, sorry!” before I hang up thrilled with myself. 

I must have transferred some of my gifts to my children, I am sure of it. A few weeks back when my younger one did not have school I took her out with me on my countless errands. When one of my neighbors asked her what she was doing at home, she said, "Well, I don't have school today!’ in her perfect American accent, then when an elderly Indian neighbor asked her the same question, she replied, "Nooooo, No School today!’ and had me giggling for the rest of the day!

Well unique or not, I figured, its best to have fun with your life! So hope you are enjoying your day!