I don't object to stalkers, or people that keep track of my status messages or blog posts. (By putting this information out there, I am taking that chance. And I know who the lurkers are). I don't even mind adding the friend of a friend of a friend as a friend of mine. But some actions move beyond the realm of curiosity or gossip. Why does the luxury of anonymous, instant connection bring out the dumbest in some of us?
1. "I met you on the subway in NYC last July, and you gave me medical advice for my mother. Can we connect?"
No, we cannot. I am not the random stranger that dispenses prescriptions (or medication) on the commuter rail. And if I were, you probably don't want to be linked in to me anyway.
2. "Can you send me the neutrophil killing protocol you used? And also, the PO numbers for the EMSA kit and antibodies and.."
I graduated. I wrote a dissertation and papers and left copious notes and CDs behind for a reason. Let's see if you can figure out what that was now. And if you can't, feel free to send me a polite, professional email at the contact information I left. Wait to see if I respond before bombarding me on Facebook.
3. "You used to write well. This is crap."
It's my blog. Find yourself something better to read if you don't like it. Constructive criticism is welcome, unhelpful, unpleasant opinions are not.
4. "Please tell me what _ was like when he was your boyfriend five years ago."
Yes, random stranger, I am itching to share the most intimate details of my past with you !! Let's find some pink pajamas and fuzzy pillows and have a girly party online, shall we?
5. "Will you marry me? I really think we could have something good together"
Sigh.. Hours of talking on chat and the phone, conversations heedless of time and time zones and cultural differences. The bonding when someone from another continent fixes your computer issues is a different level altogether, isn't it? But difficult as it is, I think I'll stay here and resist the urge to drop my life for the Dell customer care rep I think you are.
Tuesday, February 08, 2011
This is just a draft
First there is the crowning flush, after hours of painful inaction. A sign of life, there is SOMETHING here! It takes hours of agony, pained gasping breaths. Inch by painstaking inch she* emerges. Towards the end we are both confused and teary, just wanting it to end. And end it does, in a long endless sigh of relief. It is done.
Out in plain sight, confused and babbling, limbs askew and a shrieking head. Now, I rub my hands in glee. Now it begins.
Chop this end and place it there, the other one goes here and twist that around a bit. All that effort to come up with a mangled jigsaw puzzle. But wait, this piece goes here, doesn't it? And that, surely, is the corner piece that holds it all together!
When words are stuck and deadlines loom, this is my mantra- This is just a draft. Not a first-born miracle on the planet, nor a literary masterpiece. It frees me from the responsibility of the mother-instinct and the pressures that weigh down the masters of the craft. No need to guard these words, they aren't perfect. No need for these words to be perfect, this is just a draft.
=======================================================================
* My stories are 'she'. Simply because they are always as uncomfortably self-aware and confused as any adolescent girl I have ever known or been.
Out in plain sight, confused and babbling, limbs askew and a shrieking head. Now, I rub my hands in glee. Now it begins.
Chop this end and place it there, the other one goes here and twist that around a bit. All that effort to come up with a mangled jigsaw puzzle. But wait, this piece goes here, doesn't it? And that, surely, is the corner piece that holds it all together!
When words are stuck and deadlines loom, this is my mantra- This is just a draft. Not a first-born miracle on the planet, nor a literary masterpiece. It frees me from the responsibility of the mother-instinct and the pressures that weigh down the masters of the craft. No need to guard these words, they aren't perfect. No need for these words to be perfect, this is just a draft.
=======================================================================
* My stories are 'she'. Simply because they are always as uncomfortably self-aware and confused as any adolescent girl I have ever known or been.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Out of books, to people orchards
Of course I have always loved to read. Words are as familiar and essential as breath, instinctive as inhaling air. In principle, I get incredibly annoyed with people who claim they don't "need" to read because they have instead lived life, as is the two were mutually exclusive. Their experiences are their own, they brag. They don't need books to teach them things.
Now I find myself echoing their speeches. "What are you reading these days?" asks a friend. "I have no time to read", I reply, shocking myself into silence. When I must write and write, words flow out like gasping breath, pause to catch up with thought and then run again. The run is exhilarating, even though I barely pause to inhale.
Words are like breath, cycles of inhalation and exhalation. And when I am spent, I will open my books again. But for now, when I close a book, I open life. I could teach no one anything with my words, except that I am living with something in common among men- When fighting with them, when saying all their say in my song.
Ode to the book
- Pablo Neruda
When I close a book
I open life.
I hear
faltering cries
among harbours.
Copper ignots
slide down sand-pits
to Tocopilla.
Night time.
Among the islands
our ocean
throbs with fish,
touches the feet, the thighs,
the chalk ribs
of my country.
The whole of night
clings to its shores, by dawn
it wakes up singing
as if it had excited a guitar.
The ocean's surge is calling.
The wind
calls me
and Rodriguez calls,
and Jose Antonio--
I got a telegram
from the "Mine" Union
and the one I love
(whose name I won't let out)
expects me in Bucalemu.
No book has been able
to wrap me in paper,
to fill me up
with typography,
with heavenly imprints
or was ever able
to bind my eyes,
I come out of books to people orchards
with the hoarse family of my song,
to work the burning metals
or to eat smoked beef
by mountain firesides.
I love adventurous
books,
books of forest or snow,
depth or sky
but hate
the spider book
in which thought
has laid poisonous wires
to trap the juvenile
and circling fly.
Book, let me go.
I won't go clothed
in volumes,
I don't come out
of collected works,
my poems
have not eaten poems--
they devour
exciting happenings,
feed on rough weather,
and dig their food
out of earth and men.
I'm on my way
with dust in my shoes
free of mythology:
send books back to their shelves,
I'm going down into the streets.
I learned about life
from life itself,
love I learned in a single kiss
and could teach no one anything
except that I have lived
with something in common among men,
when fighting with them,
when saying all their say in my song.
Now I find myself echoing their speeches. "What are you reading these days?" asks a friend. "I have no time to read", I reply, shocking myself into silence. When I must write and write, words flow out like gasping breath, pause to catch up with thought and then run again. The run is exhilarating, even though I barely pause to inhale.
Words are like breath, cycles of inhalation and exhalation. And when I am spent, I will open my books again. But for now, when I close a book, I open life. I could teach no one anything with my words, except that I am living with something in common among men- When fighting with them, when saying all their say in my song.
Ode to the book
- Pablo Neruda
When I close a book
I open life.
I hear
faltering cries
among harbours.
Copper ignots
slide down sand-pits
to Tocopilla.
Night time.
Among the islands
our ocean
throbs with fish,
touches the feet, the thighs,
the chalk ribs
of my country.
The whole of night
clings to its shores, by dawn
it wakes up singing
as if it had excited a guitar.
The ocean's surge is calling.
The wind
calls me
and Rodriguez calls,
and Jose Antonio--
I got a telegram
from the "Mine" Union
and the one I love
(whose name I won't let out)
expects me in Bucalemu.
No book has been able
to wrap me in paper,
to fill me up
with typography,
with heavenly imprints
or was ever able
to bind my eyes,
I come out of books to people orchards
with the hoarse family of my song,
to work the burning metals
or to eat smoked beef
by mountain firesides.
I love adventurous
books,
books of forest or snow,
depth or sky
but hate
the spider book
in which thought
has laid poisonous wires
to trap the juvenile
and circling fly.
Book, let me go.
I won't go clothed
in volumes,
I don't come out
of collected works,
my poems
have not eaten poems--
they devour
exciting happenings,
feed on rough weather,
and dig their food
out of earth and men.
I'm on my way
with dust in my shoes
free of mythology:
send books back to their shelves,
I'm going down into the streets.
I learned about life
from life itself,
love I learned in a single kiss
and could teach no one anything
except that I have lived
with something in common among men,
when fighting with them,
when saying all their say in my song.
A moment
An old friend of mine is now a filmmaker. Nothing you would have seen- She makes small-scale, independent films and conducts workshops on finding visual inspiration (or something like it). I would know her anywhere, and when I watch her movies, it is always a little surprising to find that she isn't on the screen. You see, they are just so very her, so full of her personality that it's easy to think you're seeing S. even when she isn't physically there.
Another schoolmate stars in music videos and jewelry commercials. Though I've seen the ads and videos, I wouldn't recognize her unless you told me her name. Strangely, she looks exactly the same as she did in high school. Unlike the rest of us, who have changed in so many ways, she still looks fifteen.
As for myself, I still write. I'm still learning to dance. Only more wholly than before. The rest of the trappings of being grown-up- a home, credit cards, a car, 'responsibilities'- still seem so very ephemeral, like I am yet to grow into them.
And when the late afternoon light slants in, all things in life turn back into the ache of adolescence. Adulthood seems a strange interruption, these lives with professions and pretensions of responsibility. How unreal, to think of the girls we were turned into these people in the newspapers that we as children dreamed of becoming one day. A deep, searing nostalgia fills this moment- I am filled with a sense of loss even as all my senses chronicle our achievements.
In the lengthening shadows and warm light, the dreams of old feel as unreal as the future that is now.
Another schoolmate stars in music videos and jewelry commercials. Though I've seen the ads and videos, I wouldn't recognize her unless you told me her name. Strangely, she looks exactly the same as she did in high school. Unlike the rest of us, who have changed in so many ways, she still looks fifteen.
As for myself, I still write. I'm still learning to dance. Only more wholly than before. The rest of the trappings of being grown-up- a home, credit cards, a car, 'responsibilities'- still seem so very ephemeral, like I am yet to grow into them.
And when the late afternoon light slants in, all things in life turn back into the ache of adolescence. Adulthood seems a strange interruption, these lives with professions and pretensions of responsibility. How unreal, to think of the girls we were turned into these people in the newspapers that we as children dreamed of becoming one day. A deep, searing nostalgia fills this moment- I am filled with a sense of loss even as all my senses chronicle our achievements.
In the lengthening shadows and warm light, the dreams of old feel as unreal as the future that is now.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Metamorphosis is hard.
He remembers times past,remembers being sure footed and strong.
Nourished on green leaf, supported by many sure limbs.
He walked on bough and stem, holding them close to his heart,
Secure, cuddly, snuggled into sturdy branches.
Now he flits from bud to flower-
Sustained on little sips of sweetness
Struggling on a few spindly legs
Far from his bough, he is lost
Ambition weighs him down
Brilliant and strong and many-hued.
Years of evolution bear down on his back.
Ancestral dreams of flying high, voices that doubt he can make it
What destiny is this, this burden he carries?
From a distance, wings look like fun
But first, he must learn to fly.
Nourished on green leaf, supported by many sure limbs.
He walked on bough and stem, holding them close to his heart,
Secure, cuddly, snuggled into sturdy branches.
Now he flits from bud to flower-
Sustained on little sips of sweetness
Struggling on a few spindly legs
Far from his bough, he is lost
Ambition weighs him down
Brilliant and strong and many-hued.
Years of evolution bear down on his back.
Ancestral dreams of flying high, voices that doubt he can make it
What destiny is this, this burden he carries?
From a distance, wings look like fun
But first, he must learn to fly.
Friday, January 07, 2011
Understanding
The worst kind of loneliness is when you speak your heart, and the words are lost in an un-hearing disagreement.
Awareness of a conflict. Realization of unhappiness. Words to clarify, words to help us grow into a greater understanding/ acceptance. A tentative move towards common growth. To me, this is the instinctive (and necessary) progression of relationships that matter. Most of the people closest to me seem to disagree though. More often than not, conversations end here. In an unquiet peace, an uneasy silence.
You tell me your thoughts, why you feel I was wrong/ they were wrong/ you were hurt/people hurt you. I listen. I feel your pain- trust me, I do. I know what it is like, to not be heard - To have your feelings drop away into nothingness because they didn't matter. You are angry and hurt, because your anger and hurt have never mattered to the other person. And you cry that you have never been understood, never been held. All you want is space to grow, someone to care unconditionally.
I listen to both sides. I remember the feel of cold winter tiles against my cheek, as I lay alone and cried over the two of you. If only you would hold each other and listen, none of us would cry alone.
Awareness of a conflict. Realization of unhappiness. Words to clarify, words to help us grow into a greater understanding/ acceptance. A tentative move towards common growth. To me, this is the instinctive (and necessary) progression of relationships that matter. Most of the people closest to me seem to disagree though. More often than not, conversations end here. In an unquiet peace, an uneasy silence.
You tell me your thoughts, why you feel I was wrong/ they were wrong/ you were hurt/people hurt you. I listen. I feel your pain- trust me, I do. I know what it is like, to not be heard - To have your feelings drop away into nothingness because they didn't matter. You are angry and hurt, because your anger and hurt have never mattered to the other person. And you cry that you have never been understood, never been held. All you want is space to grow, someone to care unconditionally.
I listen to both sides. I remember the feel of cold winter tiles against my cheek, as I lay alone and cried over the two of you. If only you would hold each other and listen, none of us would cry alone.
Sunday, January 02, 2011
A wish
My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-
and changes us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave…
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.
– Rainier Maria Rilke, A Walk.
A simple wish for the year that is to come- to feel the wind, and to remember inner light.
going far ahead of the road I have begun.
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-
and changes us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave…
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.
– Rainier Maria Rilke, A Walk.
A simple wish for the year that is to come- to feel the wind, and to remember inner light.
Wednesday, December 08, 2010
Signs of life
How do scientists look for life in other worlds? One of the most basic dilemmas is this- that we only know one way of defining carbon-based life. Beyond this, neither do we know what we are looking for, nor how we'd identify whatever interesting 'stuff' we picked up. And still there are enough of them, with telescopes aimed and microscopes at the ready, searching constantly, endlessly, through eons of space-time, for a sign. Just one sign.
On earth as in heaven, there are enough of us who do the same. We look to the stars and the great beyond for signs.
Under the guise of science and research, religion and tradition, the impulses that move us are the same- A basic human need for knowledge, and security in knowing. And so we sift through signs, from earth and star and instinct, asking as we examine each one- Is this it ? Is this a sign of life, a sign from God, a sign marking my place in the universe?
Circling back to the dilemma, we hold these things, not knowing if they are what we were looking for, nor knowing what the objects of our seeking look like. We pick our symbols, marking the end of our own personal quests, the end of our territories and desire to know. This much is enough, we say.
This little understanding, this greater world-view. This knowledge that stars are great spheres of fire, this faith that the fire in them shapes my destiny.
We pick our symbols, objects of power to us. A cross, a sacred thread, a pair of bangles marking a married woman. A totem pole, a ritual mask. Each of picks our objects, and we hold them and say- This much, and no more. This understanding is enough, this object powerful enough. Enough sustenance to live by, until the flame of life dies.
For myself, I hold them all. I hold lamps to be lit at night and sacred threads, meditations by the sea and insights from starlit forest nights. I cast them all back to the skies and ask still - Is this it? Is this all the understanding there is?
On earth as in heaven, there are enough of us who do the same. We look to the stars and the great beyond for signs.
Under the guise of science and research, religion and tradition, the impulses that move us are the same- A basic human need for knowledge, and security in knowing. And so we sift through signs, from earth and star and instinct, asking as we examine each one- Is this it ? Is this a sign of life, a sign from God, a sign marking my place in the universe?
Circling back to the dilemma, we hold these things, not knowing if they are what we were looking for, nor knowing what the objects of our seeking look like. We pick our symbols, marking the end of our own personal quests, the end of our territories and desire to know. This much is enough, we say.
This little understanding, this greater world-view. This knowledge that stars are great spheres of fire, this faith that the fire in them shapes my destiny.
We pick our symbols, objects of power to us. A cross, a sacred thread, a pair of bangles marking a married woman. A totem pole, a ritual mask. Each of picks our objects, and we hold them and say- This much, and no more. This understanding is enough, this object powerful enough. Enough sustenance to live by, until the flame of life dies.
For myself, I hold them all. I hold lamps to be lit at night and sacred threads, meditations by the sea and insights from starlit forest nights. I cast them all back to the skies and ask still - Is this it? Is this all the understanding there is?
Thursday, December 02, 2010
Things I wish I remembered
List # 2.
There are plenty of messages we throw out in time-capsule bottles, along the lines of "Things I wish I knew when I was younger". Now, I realize there are things I knew back then which made me a lot happier than some of the things I do now.
1. Sensitivity comes from moving out of oneself. Not by wallowing in self-pity or self-analysis.
2. It is okay to have and voice an opinion. There are only so many shades of grey. At the ends of the spectrum, call the colors black and white. Just like you see them.
3. Conflict keeps life on its toes. A good fight is an enriching experience.
There are plenty of messages we throw out in time-capsule bottles, along the lines of "Things I wish I knew when I was younger". Now, I realize there are things I knew back then which made me a lot happier than some of the things I do now.
1. Sensitivity comes from moving out of oneself. Not by wallowing in self-pity or self-analysis.
2. It is okay to have and voice an opinion. There are only so many shades of grey. At the ends of the spectrum, call the colors black and white. Just like you see them.
3. Conflict keeps life on its toes. A good fight is an enriching experience.
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
Places I never meant to be
One of the golden rules of writing I read a while ago was to avoid the "noun as story idea" trap. I'd often find myself coming up with these ideas, for stories/ articles on 'Memory' or 'Taste', and wander around with this grand notion like a teenager writing poems on 'Love' and 'Heartbreak'.
This idea of lists (blatantly copied from a fictitious blog by a fictitious writer with writer's block), and this particular title (unrelated to the blog or writer) caught my eye. It's the name of a book I've never read, but would probably like.
Considering the amount of time I spend berating people around me for speaking and acting mindlessly, its a little humbling (to say the least) to realize how many times in life I've found myself in places I never planned to be in.
1. In the kitchen. Nowhere in the grand life plan that involved me being the celebrated writer at age 25 did this feature- That I would one day find myself perfectly content to be cooking recipes my grandmother once made, spending hours glazing a cake, or just creating dinner with whatever is in the fridge. Or (the horror of it !!) finding myself righteously shocked that a 24 year old girl didn't know how to fend for herself, food-wise.
2. The back of a police car. Yes, I realize even criminals don't really plan on being there..and maybe I shouldn't include this on a list of places I 'meant to be'. But it was interesting to find that even after a car crash and a loved one getting out of a really close shave, we sat there and joked about the weather as the cop dropped us off at the car dealership.
3. The gym. Me. The gym. Lifting weights. Running. Not a long walk as I chat with a friend, but running. And getting annoyed with girls who strut along at 3 miles an hour, chattering away and claiming to be 'running'. Ha. Beyond fat or fit, strong or fast, empowering or falling into cliches.. its just so much fun!
This idea of lists (blatantly copied from a fictitious blog by a fictitious writer with writer's block), and this particular title (unrelated to the blog or writer) caught my eye. It's the name of a book I've never read, but would probably like.
Considering the amount of time I spend berating people around me for speaking and acting mindlessly, its a little humbling (to say the least) to realize how many times in life I've found myself in places I never planned to be in.
1. In the kitchen. Nowhere in the grand life plan that involved me being the celebrated writer at age 25 did this feature- That I would one day find myself perfectly content to be cooking recipes my grandmother once made, spending hours glazing a cake, or just creating dinner with whatever is in the fridge. Or (the horror of it !!) finding myself righteously shocked that a 24 year old girl didn't know how to fend for herself, food-wise.
2. The back of a police car. Yes, I realize even criminals don't really plan on being there..and maybe I shouldn't include this on a list of places I 'meant to be'. But it was interesting to find that even after a car crash and a loved one getting out of a really close shave, we sat there and joked about the weather as the cop dropped us off at the car dealership.
3. The gym. Me. The gym. Lifting weights. Running. Not a long walk as I chat with a friend, but running. And getting annoyed with girls who strut along at 3 miles an hour, chattering away and claiming to be 'running'. Ha. Beyond fat or fit, strong or fast, empowering or falling into cliches.. its just so much fun!
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Kaathadi
Some days I feel like this- A brightly colored piece of thin paper, twisted and bent to a a shape sent whirling on a child's puff, ripped to shreds by a strong wind. Some days are like this, when all my form is weak and hollow, held in position by a pin on a twig. A word sends me soaring through the clouds, the wrong tone can blow my temper through the roof.
On days like this, I reach for this sense memory, the feel of my mother's hand holding mine. A time when that meant I must reach upward.
Her sari brushes against my cheek, silky cool. In the midst of a crowded Bombay pavement, her hand and her sari are my little wading pool of calm. What goes on in her head, rushing between afer-work errands dragging me along by one hand, her bag of vegetables in the other? I know now she must have been tired from work, and thoughts of the dinner that must be cooked. There must have been stress from the workplace, something all too familiar to my grown up self.
With my hand anchored in hers above, and the street vendors hawking such delights, I couldn't have known of these thoughts, or even cared. Every time we shopped at this particular junction, she'd buy me one of these. A kaathadi- Pink and yellow, blue and red, scraps of paper twisted into pinwheels. There was always one, unconditionally. (Is kaathadi the wrong word? But it is so apt to the purpose, and so I use the word).
How does one weigh the memories of childhood one against the other, to decide which to use for a particular spell of happiness? Looking back now, I cannot explain why this one stirs me so. But when I need a charm against rainy gloom, within or without, I use this one.
Some days, I am still too shallow for wells of stillness within. I am still short enough that I must reach upward, outside myself, for calm. And when I feel like a scrap of paper whirled through breezes of words from others, I fall back into this.
The warmth of her hand, the feel of silk on my cheek. I reach for bright pinwheels of memory, twisted into joy by a breeze not of my making. Leaning back, sometimes I let myself fall, and hope to catch the wind and rise again.
On days like this, I reach for this sense memory, the feel of my mother's hand holding mine. A time when that meant I must reach upward.
Her sari brushes against my cheek, silky cool. In the midst of a crowded Bombay pavement, her hand and her sari are my little wading pool of calm. What goes on in her head, rushing between afer-work errands dragging me along by one hand, her bag of vegetables in the other? I know now she must have been tired from work, and thoughts of the dinner that must be cooked. There must have been stress from the workplace, something all too familiar to my grown up self.
With my hand anchored in hers above, and the street vendors hawking such delights, I couldn't have known of these thoughts, or even cared. Every time we shopped at this particular junction, she'd buy me one of these. A kaathadi- Pink and yellow, blue and red, scraps of paper twisted into pinwheels. There was always one, unconditionally. (Is kaathadi the wrong word? But it is so apt to the purpose, and so I use the word).
How does one weigh the memories of childhood one against the other, to decide which to use for a particular spell of happiness? Looking back now, I cannot explain why this one stirs me so. But when I need a charm against rainy gloom, within or without, I use this one.
Some days, I am still too shallow for wells of stillness within. I am still short enough that I must reach upward, outside myself, for calm. And when I feel like a scrap of paper whirled through breezes of words from others, I fall back into this.
The warmth of her hand, the feel of silk on my cheek. I reach for bright pinwheels of memory, twisted into joy by a breeze not of my making. Leaning back, sometimes I let myself fall, and hope to catch the wind and rise again.
Friday, October 15, 2010
Pause.
Rolling over lazily, like waking up after a lazy Saturday afternoon nap, this space turns through my consciousness. A pause in the ebb and rush, a moment to ponder.
In my little half-way house, people come and go, rushing through their own forests, clearing their own paths. I watch each one's agenda, the goals that fulfil them, and avoid the probing questions- What next? What do you plan to do? How is the job hunt going? Are you planning to have kids? What after this? Frustration bubbles against the little joys, leaving me a frothing mess. I'd like to think of it as a celebratory glass of champagne, but a muddy puddle with frogs hopping in and out is probably more accurate.
Pause, as I attempt to still the water and see past the silt. Pause, as I wait for the questions to stop. As I watch the leaves turn, I remember that not all conversations need to be held on to for a lifetime. Words do not always hold power. I remember that I'm only wandering, I am not lost just because someone tells me I am. All opinions are not equal. I wait for balance, as the rocks and silt settle. People, opinions, words- I wait and watch them find their own spaces in my mind, clearing the surface for a new phase of life.
I wait and watch, as the old that is true does not wither. Past the questions, my mind still moves in the trees, breathes with the wind. The ocean's welcome does not change. On the beach, I wade into the waves. The tide is low, and the sun is setting. Cold sand slips between my toes, and strangely, does not slip past. The rush of waves is a mother's embrace, and I hear her voice welcome her daughter home. Poised in the water, I watch the sunset and the surfers, a sea lion swim past and mussels on the rocks. Each in their own rhythm , all with the ocean. I pause, waiting for the next wave to find my own.
In my little half-way house, people come and go, rushing through their own forests, clearing their own paths. I watch each one's agenda, the goals that fulfil them, and avoid the probing questions- What next? What do you plan to do? How is the job hunt going? Are you planning to have kids? What after this? Frustration bubbles against the little joys, leaving me a frothing mess. I'd like to think of it as a celebratory glass of champagne, but a muddy puddle with frogs hopping in and out is probably more accurate.
Pause, as I attempt to still the water and see past the silt. Pause, as I wait for the questions to stop. As I watch the leaves turn, I remember that not all conversations need to be held on to for a lifetime. Words do not always hold power. I remember that I'm only wandering, I am not lost just because someone tells me I am. All opinions are not equal. I wait for balance, as the rocks and silt settle. People, opinions, words- I wait and watch them find their own spaces in my mind, clearing the surface for a new phase of life.
I wait and watch, as the old that is true does not wither. Past the questions, my mind still moves in the trees, breathes with the wind. The ocean's welcome does not change. On the beach, I wade into the waves. The tide is low, and the sun is setting. Cold sand slips between my toes, and strangely, does not slip past. The rush of waves is a mother's embrace, and I hear her voice welcome her daughter home. Poised in the water, I watch the sunset and the surfers, a sea lion swim past and mussels on the rocks. Each in their own rhythm , all with the ocean. I pause, waiting for the next wave to find my own.
Monday, October 04, 2010
Living the best life
Is not always the same as the life I live everyday. It means moving on from the familiar.Making choices.
Living my best life is not the same as doing my best at everything. It demands that I choose- Compromises are neither wrong nor avoidable. Compromises are sometimes the only way to prioritize.
The best life requires me to make an effort to get over fear. Uncertainty is a comfortable pool to wade in, but making an impression requires me to step out, leave wet footprints on ground I have not yet walked. And realize that it is okay to slip and fall. Only in losing my footing can I learn how to find it.
The best life leads with strings of reassurance. Responses when I steel myself for none. Reels of time instead of the deadlines I fear. Encouragement warming over spaces I paint in cold sweats of words. And reminders, always- Never to take anything in life too seriously, including my own panic. Thank you for the comments, all of you :)
Living my best life is not the same as doing my best at everything. It demands that I choose- Compromises are neither wrong nor avoidable. Compromises are sometimes the only way to prioritize.
The best life requires me to make an effort to get over fear. Uncertainty is a comfortable pool to wade in, but making an impression requires me to step out, leave wet footprints on ground I have not yet walked. And realize that it is okay to slip and fall. Only in losing my footing can I learn how to find it.
The best life leads with strings of reassurance. Responses when I steel myself for none. Reels of time instead of the deadlines I fear. Encouragement warming over spaces I paint in cold sweats of words. And reminders, always- Never to take anything in life too seriously, including my own panic. Thank you for the comments, all of you :)
Friday, September 24, 2010
The voices in my head..
..echo and bounce around in the silence. I listen to them all as they make their pitches.
There are women, many of them. One loves her husband and cries when he goes on work trips, even for a few days. She likes simple things- clothes, movies, eating out, spending time with friends. The other cries over her lost husband, and worries over where her jewelry is stored, whether it is safe. Left to herself, she could wish endlessly for days gone to return. The third lazes her days away, and tells me I lack experience, to take everything I am told with a pinch of salt. There are men, just as many. In them, I hear only undertones. hear the doubt in one's voice as he asks me what I plan to do, where I plan to go. I hear disapproval in the other. Why can't you be a professor? Why are you wasting your life like this? Do you know what you are doing?
I hear all of these-
Admiration
Unspoken envy
Doubt
Disapproval
Fear
Uncertainty
What I don't hear is a voice worth following. What I don't hear is a voice I can trust. I miss the voice that I used to follow on leaps of faith. I miss the sound of my confident silences.
There are women, many of them. One loves her husband and cries when he goes on work trips, even for a few days. She likes simple things- clothes, movies, eating out, spending time with friends. The other cries over her lost husband, and worries over where her jewelry is stored, whether it is safe. Left to herself, she could wish endlessly for days gone to return. The third lazes her days away, and tells me I lack experience, to take everything I am told with a pinch of salt. There are men, just as many. In them, I hear only undertones. hear the doubt in one's voice as he asks me what I plan to do, where I plan to go. I hear disapproval in the other. Why can't you be a professor? Why are you wasting your life like this? Do you know what you are doing?
I hear all of these-
Admiration
Unspoken envy
Doubt
Disapproval
Fear
Uncertainty
What I don't hear is a voice worth following. What I don't hear is a voice I can trust. I miss the voice that I used to follow on leaps of faith. I miss the sound of my confident silences.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Quotes for the day
In a microwave world*
Anticipation is like ketchup*
and Power is neutral, like tofu.*
It's apparently what you do with it that matters.
Push-button publishing seems to mean that we can now say the first things that should never have been in our heads in the first place. (And yes, maybe that applies just as equally to this post, inspired by the worst *quotes I have read, all in one day, before noon). Brains like frilly multi-colored pinata pigs, shaken together, words like confetti strung into party favors to be dispensed to the children that came to the party, too polite to refuse to read.
Anticipation is like ketchup*
and Power is neutral, like tofu.*
It's apparently what you do with it that matters.
Push-button publishing seems to mean that we can now say the first things that should never have been in our heads in the first place. (And yes, maybe that applies just as equally to this post, inspired by the worst *quotes I have read, all in one day, before noon). Brains like frilly multi-colored pinata pigs, shaken together, words like confetti strung into party favors to be dispensed to the children that came to the party, too polite to refuse to read.
Monday, September 13, 2010
Sharing
"You give but little when you give of your possessions. It is when you give of yourself that you truly give."
I give you these words, these quotes and songs and realities I have learned, I have heard. I give you stories of experiences, both mine and those of others. I give you time, sympathy, affection. Gestures of caring. I give you this space in my thoughts. This time and space in my mind, in my conscious actions- this should be giving, should it not?
But at the end of it, I am less. There is little left in me to offer, of worth to you. Am I lessened this way because I gave of myself? I doubt it. The self, the true self, should grow when shared. In the silence at the end of our conversation, shouldn't the self expand in the long exhale? How do I find this self, the one that is replenished by sharing with another?
When I give you these things (quotes/words/ideas), you construct for me a little space, it seems. A reality that is encompassed only by those things we share. And I give, eagerly, to gain that space, that corner of your consciousness that I can stake a claim to. But neither is that my sole reality, nor do I have any permanence in that claim in your mind. But each time you want to fill that emptiness, you come to me for words. And I oblige, believing I am giving of myself. I believe I am being good, a true friend, in listening to you and allaying your doubts, I like to think I am being true to myself. But which self? Certainly not the one that wanted to grow, and not one that is any richer for our conversations.
Outside your mind, outside the structures my words construct in your realities, there must be a self that is fuller and more complete, a wellspring that these small streams bubble from. Something deeper and truer, quieter and more content. Fuller in its search for cohesive, unifying thought than I am in these chance findings of shared phrases.
I give you these words, these quotes and songs and realities I have learned, I have heard. I give you stories of experiences, both mine and those of others. I give you time, sympathy, affection. Gestures of caring. I give you this space in my thoughts. This time and space in my mind, in my conscious actions- this should be giving, should it not?
But at the end of it, I am less. There is little left in me to offer, of worth to you. Am I lessened this way because I gave of myself? I doubt it. The self, the true self, should grow when shared. In the silence at the end of our conversation, shouldn't the self expand in the long exhale? How do I find this self, the one that is replenished by sharing with another?
When I give you these things (quotes/words/ideas), you construct for me a little space, it seems. A reality that is encompassed only by those things we share. And I give, eagerly, to gain that space, that corner of your consciousness that I can stake a claim to. But neither is that my sole reality, nor do I have any permanence in that claim in your mind. But each time you want to fill that emptiness, you come to me for words. And I oblige, believing I am giving of myself. I believe I am being good, a true friend, in listening to you and allaying your doubts, I like to think I am being true to myself. But which self? Certainly not the one that wanted to grow, and not one that is any richer for our conversations.
Outside your mind, outside the structures my words construct in your realities, there must be a self that is fuller and more complete, a wellspring that these small streams bubble from. Something deeper and truer, quieter and more content. Fuller in its search for cohesive, unifying thought than I am in these chance findings of shared phrases.
Perhaps love
(Old favorites, this one is by John Denver).
Perhaps love is like a resting place
A shelter from the storm
It exists to give you comfort
It is there to keep you warm
And in those times of trouble
When you are most alone
The memory of love will bring you home
Perhaps love is like a window
Perhaps an open door
It invites you to come closer
It wants to show you more
And even if you lose yourself
And don't know what to do
The memory of love will see you through
Oh, love to some is like a cloud
To some as strong as steel
For some a way of living
For some a way to feel
And some say love is holding on
And some say letting go
And some say love is everything
And some say they don't know
Perhaps love is like the ocean
Full of conflict, full of change
Like a fire when it's cold outside
Thunder when it rains
If I should live forever
And all my dreams come true
My memories of love will be of you
----------
(John Denver/ Placido Domingo)
Perhaps love is like a resting place
A shelter from the storm
It exists to give you comfort
It is there to keep you warm
And in those times of trouble
When you are most alone
The memory of love will bring you home
Perhaps love is like a window
Perhaps an open door
It invites you to come closer
It wants to show you more
And even if you lose yourself
And don't know what to do
The memory of love will see you through
Oh, love to some is like a cloud
To some as strong as steel
For some a way of living
For some a way to feel
And some say love is holding on
And some say letting go
And some say love is everything
And some say they don't know
Perhaps love is like the ocean
Full of conflict, full of change
Like a fire when it's cold outside
Thunder when it rains
If I should live forever
And all my dreams come true
My memories of love will be of you
----------
(John Denver/ Placido Domingo)
Thursday, September 09, 2010
Wish you were here.
I wish you were here with me now, my sad-eyed friend. On this winding road on these mountains you dreamed of, I see past light and color into a long-ago Sunday afternoon. How patiently you clipped those articles out of the Pioneer, the travel section every weekend afternoon, after everyone had read the papers. I see your fingers fold the edges over, so they'd fit in the folder you made yourself. I see you caress those yellowing sheets in the night, as you dreamt of Paris and New York and San Francisco and the big, bright future.
I wish you were here, all passion and fury. You would have liked this, I think, leaves trembling in the wind and the smell of fall in the air. The autumn leaves you wrote about, when the closest you had been to them was a handful of pressed maple leaves, over twenty years old. I see your hands, holding the fragments together in Delhi afternoons, making envelopes to keep them safe.
I miss your clear-eyed compassion, your sense of where you knew your life was going. I miss your intuition about people, sharp as diamonds. I wish you were here, to frame this confusing world with your ideals, your sharp sense of space and togetherness. I miss the peace you had through your anger, the way each word you spoke came from the heart, whether in anger or in love.
I wish you were here, if only to turn me back into who I used to be when I was you.
I wish you were here, all passion and fury. You would have liked this, I think, leaves trembling in the wind and the smell of fall in the air. The autumn leaves you wrote about, when the closest you had been to them was a handful of pressed maple leaves, over twenty years old. I see your hands, holding the fragments together in Delhi afternoons, making envelopes to keep them safe.
I miss your clear-eyed compassion, your sense of where you knew your life was going. I miss your intuition about people, sharp as diamonds. I wish you were here, to frame this confusing world with your ideals, your sharp sense of space and togetherness. I miss the peace you had through your anger, the way each word you spoke came from the heart, whether in anger or in love.
I wish you were here, if only to turn me back into who I used to be when I was you.
Friday, August 27, 2010
I say I want to write.
Doing what you love, and making a living doing what you love, seem to be two entirely different things for me. I say I want to write, and I know I mean this.
But making a living out of writing requires that I prove my worth, show the world why I am demanding my dues.. and words are so personal to me. It feels like casting myself out on the high seas, like standing in front of an audience proving I have talent. But words are not my talent, they are just me. Asking to be employed for the words I use feels like declaring to the world- I have two feet and two hands! I deserve a job!
Asking to be employed for the words I use feels:
Like begging to be loved.
Scary. To be told that my words are no good feels like being told I am no good either.
Not like me. I am not an aggressive seller, I would rather stay in my corner and watch you than talk to you. Networking and job-hunting require me to become this facade I practice, actually be this person I pretend to be with strangers. The girl who practices conversations before casual dinners suddenly needs to be the person who actually can carry on that casual banter. But the person who writes is the girl in the corner, not the chatterbox with the fake smiles and hugs. How do I sell a person I can no longer be?
I say I want to write, but the "I" that wants to write needs to grow into an actual adult, an "I" who is capable of both writing and networking. Right now, being told to network or talk to someone makes me want to curl up under a rock and go to sleep.
But making a living out of writing requires that I prove my worth, show the world why I am demanding my dues.. and words are so personal to me. It feels like casting myself out on the high seas, like standing in front of an audience proving I have talent. But words are not my talent, they are just me. Asking to be employed for the words I use feels like declaring to the world- I have two feet and two hands! I deserve a job!
Asking to be employed for the words I use feels:
Like begging to be loved.
Scary. To be told that my words are no good feels like being told I am no good either.
Not like me. I am not an aggressive seller, I would rather stay in my corner and watch you than talk to you. Networking and job-hunting require me to become this facade I practice, actually be this person I pretend to be with strangers. The girl who practices conversations before casual dinners suddenly needs to be the person who actually can carry on that casual banter. But the person who writes is the girl in the corner, not the chatterbox with the fake smiles and hugs. How do I sell a person I can no longer be?
I say I want to write, but the "I" that wants to write needs to grow into an actual adult, an "I" who is capable of both writing and networking. Right now, being told to network or talk to someone makes me want to curl up under a rock and go to sleep.
Sunday, August 08, 2010
Living in faith
The kind of blinkered faith that believes in a 'personal' God- One who loves you unconditionally and will never fail you etc, always seems like blind denial to me. Is such a God really possible, and if yes, how does he (as a neutral pronoun, those more particular are welcome to substitute :)) exist in the obvious contradictions that would ensue? One man wants to steal and kill, the other man wants to protect. How can the same God grant both wishes, and if he does not, is the answer only "Have faith, God will give you another chance" to both?
A post by a friend, and several discussions with another, prompted the attempt below (And yes, this is my way of saying- Blame them, not me ;))
Despite my opening ideas, faith is, to me, essential to existence. The contradiction and confusions come in when we choose to make faith personal, believe that the universe exists solely to fulfil our desires. I prefer, instead, the idea of a balance, the universe as a tightrope and a free-fall and the swinging grace of the trapeze artiste.
There are those of us who choose the tightrope- We insist on one god, one purpose, and refuse to look up from our feet. We clutch the rope between our toes, fearful of looking up or around, at anything beyond this rope, this rope that we believe is the One True Thing. Some people are fortunate enough to make it from one end of the rope to the other, with only a few close shaves. Others fall, crashing down into the sticky web of 'reality' that awaits below.
When we fall, some of us look up, spot the rope, and focus our energies on getting back on it, and when we do, forget the fall, and never question the time the Rope failed to hold us up. Others hate the rope for letting them down, and struggle the rest of the way across the netting, limbs poking,losing balance, and insisting, announcing,that the rope failed them and this struggle is, in fact, the easier way. Who needs a higher power, when we have limbs to plod along, however unwieldy the path?
And there are those that spot the swings, realize that life isn't a straight and narrow way, and the rope will not always hold you up. Learning to swing is tricky, rising and falling in the rhythms of these ropes and bars, staying perfectly tuned to the universe of the trapeze. Of course we fall, sometimes, and need to struggle with unpleasantly close encounters with reality- but this is usually when we haven't yet learned the perfect balance. There are as many ways to be held lightly through confidence and faith, as there are ways to forget both and fall.
The question is- do you have faith in the rope, the net, or your capacity to move in perfect synchrony with the swings?
A post by a friend, and several discussions with another, prompted the attempt below (And yes, this is my way of saying- Blame them, not me ;))
Despite my opening ideas, faith is, to me, essential to existence. The contradiction and confusions come in when we choose to make faith personal, believe that the universe exists solely to fulfil our desires. I prefer, instead, the idea of a balance, the universe as a tightrope and a free-fall and the swinging grace of the trapeze artiste.
There are those of us who choose the tightrope- We insist on one god, one purpose, and refuse to look up from our feet. We clutch the rope between our toes, fearful of looking up or around, at anything beyond this rope, this rope that we believe is the One True Thing. Some people are fortunate enough to make it from one end of the rope to the other, with only a few close shaves. Others fall, crashing down into the sticky web of 'reality' that awaits below.
When we fall, some of us look up, spot the rope, and focus our energies on getting back on it, and when we do, forget the fall, and never question the time the Rope failed to hold us up. Others hate the rope for letting them down, and struggle the rest of the way across the netting, limbs poking,losing balance, and insisting, announcing,that the rope failed them and this struggle is, in fact, the easier way. Who needs a higher power, when we have limbs to plod along, however unwieldy the path?
And there are those that spot the swings, realize that life isn't a straight and narrow way, and the rope will not always hold you up. Learning to swing is tricky, rising and falling in the rhythms of these ropes and bars, staying perfectly tuned to the universe of the trapeze. Of course we fall, sometimes, and need to struggle with unpleasantly close encounters with reality- but this is usually when we haven't yet learned the perfect balance. There are as many ways to be held lightly through confidence and faith, as there are ways to forget both and fall.
The question is- do you have faith in the rope, the net, or your capacity to move in perfect synchrony with the swings?
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