I’ll lick you till you’re not upset anymore.

It’s been a long day. I’m tired. The sofa is inviting. I decide to catch a few winks. The puppy is nearby on the carpet. Her furry little self blends into the carpet. She chews her toy. I lay on the sofa. It is a peaceful moment.

I hear her gnawing on the toy, or so I think. The sounds gets rhythmic and she seems hard at work. I glance in her direction and bolt upright for it’s the carpet she’s been working on! The stinker has been pulling threads off of the carpet. I am next to her in a leap, and stare in horror, at a small bald area with no carpet hairs.

“No!” I shout and push her away. “You don’t do that” . “No,” I say loudly, pointing at her work area.  “Look at me,” I order. “You don’t do that”. All English. Funny how I never admonish her in Marathi. But I digress.

Suddenly, in that moment I am exhausted. I want to throw in the towel. I’m too tired to chase a puppy around the house. “Why is there a puppy in this house? Why in the world, did I give in to the puppy request?” I ask myself (everyday).

I sit on the floor with my head in my hands. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t possibly watch over her all the time. I can barely manage the things I need to do.”  

I am tired. I don’t want to anticipate her next move and chew. My body needs a nap on the comfy sofa to get through the rest of the day.

The puppy jumps on me and starts licking my ear. She can’t bear the fact that I am upset and wants to cheer me up. I push her away.  

“Go away. You’re the reason I’m upset,” I tell her.

She doesn’t care. She continues to jump on me and lick my ear. Did I mention, licking the ear (and sometimes face) is her way of saying ‘I love you’.

I turn away from her. I don’t want to look at her. She doesn’t care. She jumps on me and licks my ear some more. And with such fervor, I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

I doubt she sees any connection between her actions and my being upset. She is not apologizing. She is not trying to win me over. It’s not about her. It’s about me. She does not want me to be upset. Period. And she is determined to lick me and especially my ear till I’m not.

Yes. As she licks me, it sinks in some more -- it’s not about her. It’s about me.

I put her in the wood floor penned area. I am on the carpet side.

“Bad puppy,” I tell her. She doesn’t care. She runs around the kitchen and dining area, so she can see me. She knows I’m still mad. She whines and makes her strange Chewbacca talking sounds. She does her funny thing with the paw trying to call me. I give up. It’s pointless. It’s also simple.

It’s very simple in her world. If you’re upset. You need love. She is here to give me love. She is trying to tell me there is really no point in being upset. She is telling me to not hurt myself with the upset.

I suppose she’s right. Maybe this puppy is trying to convince me that it’s pointless to be mad at someone, about something, something outside me, something outside of my control, or maybe even to take the weight of her actions on my shoulders.

What matters is that I remove the upset from inside me. That is the only thing of any real concern to this puppy. To not be upset.

The puppy world must be a wondrous place to inhabit. For anger, irritation, pressures, frustration, are all pointless to this puppy. And the only sensible thing to do is to release it and replace it with love. One ear-lick at a time. 

Mornings

I wake up in morning and I sigh inwardly. I sigh that big giant sigh, and bury myself back in the sheets. I want to stay in, hidden from the world. I don’t feel strong enough to take on the world.

I dislike this. Immensely. I think of the times when I awoke refreshed and ready for the day. Ah, the many things we fail to even notice. The many things we miss only when they are gone.

Morning melancholy aside. As mentioned, I dislike this. So I do what any determined person does. Not with any particular discipline, but I try several different things to perk up the mornings. I do breath work before getting up, I try to hypnotize myself while brushing my teeth to be more awake (oh well, I mostly stare at myself in the mirror and urge a more energetic person to stare back. Ahem…).

I have a boom box next to my bed. When I awake in the middle of the night or early morning, my body taut or in some kind of pain, I turn on meditation CDs. Sometimes they help me breathe better, lull me back to sleep or else help me solve all the world problems. Yes. Every. Single. Problem.

Most times, I just give up and drag myself through the morning like a zombie. But remember? I dislike it. So, over and over, like a demented raccoon, (yes, apparently, I know the habits of demented raccoons), I keep trying.

Some days I do a little yoga. This morning I try a few sun salutations. The puppy climbs on my back. She thinks I am upset and starts licking my ear. She licks ears to cheer you up. I fell on the floor some time back and that was her way to make me all better.

“I’m okay,” I try to tell her. But she continues as I go into downward dog. Who came up with the name for this pose? I’m calling it ear-licking dog.   

At times I think of my mom’s strategy. When she wakes up too early, she hops out of bed and finishes cooking for the day. Yes. My mom often has her days meals ready at 5 a.m. Brilliant, you say? Sure. Unless you are sleeping peacefully in her house and awaken rudely to the shrill whistle of the pressure cooker at 6 a.m. “Why?” I ask her, bleary-eyed, “Would you be pressure cooking at 6 a.m.?”

“I waited two whole hours, before starting the pressure cooker,” she informs me brightly. My mom is a terrific cook and I resign in the knowledge that that meal will be delicious, even if it involves pressure cooker whistles at 6 a.m.  

Of late, the movie, “50 first dates” pops in my mind regularly. I probably saw it over a decade ago and I remember very little of it. Nor does this rom-com fall in any particular favorite movie category, but the end keeps coming back to my mind.  

Very briefly, here’s the premise of the movie. Boy meets girl. Boy loves girl. Girl loves boy. Girl forgets boy (and most of her life). Everyday. She has short-term memory loss. Boy really loves girl. Boy figures out a way for them to have a life together.

Jumping to the end of the movie. Spoiler alert. (Sorry. No one will believe I did movie reviews as part of my newspaper job for Arts and Culture).      

Long story short, she wakes up every morning and watches a short movie of her life. All the happy parts. The smiling clips. Everyone and everything she has in her life, to be grateful for, are in the film.

Yes. She starts her day completely confused and disoriented, but then sees all the good bits in her life. What a gift. What a beautiful way to start the day. She is not thinking of aches or pains, or lunches, or if the puppy has chewed the rug, or the general overwhelm of the day and the lack of physical strength to deal with it.

No. She starts her day with the things that are the most important and that are going well for her. Focusing on the joys, rather than the responsibilities.

Agreed this is Hollywood and the reality after the joy is not quite depicted. For example, does she know that her kid is allergic to the peanut butter sandwich she packed for his lunch or that her daughter has soccer practice that afternoon… or a myriad other complications…

For even if there are a zillion other complications, she has still started her day with a smile and joy and gratitude for the things that are going well in her life and therein lies her strength, her perspective of her world. I can’t help imagine there must be much power and hope in starting a day such. Even the worst day. That would be a perspective worth putting into place. Demented raccoon, or otherwise.

We may be more same than we think we are…

Book club tomorrow -- I make a note. It’s been a while. I think of our last meeting in August. It is a beautiful summer evening and we sit outside, under the trees, in the fresh summer breeze.

The conversation veers to the Powerball which is over 700 million. The conversation moves to how much good at least part of the money can be put to. A friend asks what each of us would do if we won. We are a small group of five. Nobody has a lottery ticket, but 700 million is swiftly disbursed. 

A friend knows exactly where she would want her wins to go -- on diversity education and reform. She speaks passionately against discrimination and how much needs to happen. She is white American and states emphatically that reform needs to come from white Americans for it to matter. Everybody agrees. Everybody has something to add. 

Oddly I am quiet. I am the only one who is brown. I am the only one with an accent.

And although I have plenty of opinions and plenty to say. I am quiet. My friend continues to talk passionately about discrimination and when she catches a breath, I simply say I am glad she’s my friend. Even if I haven’t met her or most of them since that day, I am grateful to know a group that will have this discussion. There are many many others who will have this discussion for recent politics have brought like-minded people together and pushed the need to speak up and act.

My friend speaks about a racist experience. And although it is not targeted towards her, it enrages her.  I am oddly quiet. I am processing the fact that intolerance and bigotry affects everyone to almost the same extent. Not only the “minorities”.

For when these unsavory events happen, they happen to everyone, there is hate everywhere. No one is spared. Not even the most white, straight person in the room. There are no individual victims, even if it seems there are. Everyone is affected. Everyone is a victim.

I think of the time I walk into an auditorium for a talk with a friend. My bag is checked. My friend and those around me do not go through a bag-check. They are all white. I look at the guy in askance. I remember how awful my friend feels. Color notwithstanding, all decent people are victims in times of discrimination for what is wrong is wrong and the yucky feeling inside feels the same, even if degrees may vary.

I realize the power of this discussion in a mixed group. I imagine many such discussions are happening in many communities within certain boundaries of homogeneity. A group of hijab-wearing women may discuss diversity and acceptance and bigotry and their experiences therein, as may a group of Indians or Asians, or Blacks or transgender.

But I notice the strength in a discussion in a diverse groups where people have varied perspectives and experiences. And at the risk of sounding overly simplistic and optimistic, we notice we are so different, yet so seamlessly same.

Besides, our world, especially in the US is multicolored. Will we wait till we have a black sister-in-law, or an asian son-in-law or a brown spouse or a gay kid, to be sensitive? For it will happen. Even to the most conservative right wing folks. Do we wait till then, to notice that we hardly even notice those “differences” in our interactions? That their being “different” has nothing to do with why we love them or why we get annoyed with them.

Some months ago, my daughter’s friend joins her for game night at her sports place. I have my arm around her shoulder, when another dad looks at us and says, “She did great at the tournament today”.

I laugh, thank him and say, “this is her friend…” I love it that he mistakes her for my kid, despite her blue eyes and light skin and hair. He assumes she’s my kid (and I will happily assume so too – she loves my Indian food more than my own kid and has on occasion responded when I’ve accidentally spoken to her in Marathi).

It makes me think, we must be wired to believe in community based on our acceptance and interaction between us. Just as easily as this man mistakes this kid to be my daughter (and I’ll take that in a heartbeat), based on our interaction and body language and familiarity between us, that is all that should matter. That is all that can matter. 

For at the heart of it, we are wired together by a thread of humanity tying us together, beneath all the differences. And all we can hope is that this thread proves stronger than our differences. 

Once...in an open moment...

Last weekend: I attend the literary festival, Wordstock. As Lemony Snicket/Daniel Handler recounts how he always jots random things in his journal, I think it would be fun to peer into his journal. Sheepishly, I think of my own journal/s which travels everywhere with me, but has not encountered any ink to paper activity for months and months.

I pull it out. I decide to jot down some of the interesting quotes flying around me. (I don’t). However I flip the journal open to an entry exactly a year ago. At a tuna auction. At the Tsukiji Fish Market. In Tokyo. Before sunrise, on a cold fall morning.

I read it. It makes me laugh. It has a rather Mary Poppinsish, “Anything can happen if you let it…”(broadway version) feel to it.

It’s a silly little story, but one that makes me feel that life is easy. That it is okay to remain open and to go with the flow. That clearings happen.

Today, I cannot relate to the person whose journal entry I read. I am in a different frame of mind. The one that stares at me from my journal is a moment of staying open, taking chances, without any expectations, with optimism, with a let-see-where-this-goes, without a negative thought.

But first, let me tell you this silly story.

The Tsukiji fish market in Tokyo is quite a tourist attraction. The tuna auction each day at the crack of dawn, draws hundreds of tourists, but only two batches of 60 each, are allowed in. The line starts winding around 3 a.m., folks receive a bib, and the batch they will join. They will then doze and chat with other bleary-eyed tourists in the waiting room till their tour at 5:25 or 5:45 a.m., when they are taken in a single file, escorted by security, to the largest tuna auction in the world.

On the auction warehouse floor, huge tuna fish are inspected as carefully as a Fabergé egg being auctioned off at Sotheby’s. Flashlights shine into their gaping mouths, pickaxes poke into the bodies of giant defenseless bodies in neat rows on the floor. Thin cuts of meat are displayed, a small part of the fish is cut for perusal. The scrutiny is complete. The auction is serious. Bells ring. Bids are made. There are wins. There are losses.

Our first morning in Tokyo, my daughter and I are up at 4 a.m. The window sill on the 28^th floor is the perfect seat. We squish ourselves between the pane and behind the curtains, trying to keep the room dark for my husband who (of course) is fast asleep. I stare at the neon lights of Tokyo, my tween texts her friends on a different continent. “Let’s go to the Tsukiji Fish auction”, I suggest.  

“Hmmm… do you know how to get there?” eyes don’t leave the device. My turn to look into my device. I decide it may be better to get more information before the two of us hit the streets of Tokyo in the dark.  

“How about we go there tomorrow if we’re still jetlagged and wake up early?” “Okay,” she murmurs.

Next day:  I’m the only one wide awake at 4 a.m. I decide to go to the Tsukiji market. I get ready before I can change my mind, and quietly ask my kid who isn’t fast asleep if she wants to go. She doesn’t. I poke my husband and tell him I’m leaving for the fish market. He is too sleepy to ask questions. He has a meeting at 9 a.m. I tell him I’ll be back before then and if not, our kid can stay in the hotel room by herself. I don’t allow even an ounce of doubt to shake my plan. The fish market jaunt is anything but important. But in that moment I decide to not allow any of the usual inane considerations to shake my resolve.

I bounce out of the room, with my bag, metro card, broken Japanese and my best spirit of adventure. At the hotel lobby, I ask about Metro stations. The guys suggests taking a taxi waiting outside. I ask if it is safe at this hour. He nods, smiles and tells me this is Japan. I feel safe and grateful.

I am excited to be in the cab, to have ventured out, in the dark, to a place my husband and kid have no interest in (not sure I would have intentionally woken up early for this, but it seems like a fun thing to do since I am already up). I am happy to not have hummed and hawed and created obstacles of my own.

I arrive to find a sign on the booth saying the auction tours are full. I suppose I am disappointed. But not completely. I am still really excited to be there that early. I decide to explore on my own even if I can’t see the auction.

I wave and smile at the person behind the counter. For some reason, he opens it. He points to the sign that says “full”. I nod and in my broken Japanese attempt to ask if I can walk around the fish market, if other parts are accessible. Ahem… at least I think that’s what I ask. Who knows what I actually say!

The guy looks at me, shakes his head and laughs. “hitotsu desu ka?” (just one/ by yourself?) he asks. I nod and say “hai, so desu” (yes). He stands up, opens the door and hands me a bib. I look in confusion. I have no idea the bib is for the tour. I am not expecting to join the tour. The sign in front of me says it is full. He points to a door and says something (I don’t understand), looks at my puzzled face, laughs and shoos me away.

By then, it slowly sinks in. A couple of tourists smoking outside the waiting room watch our exchange. One of them tells me I am incredibly lucky. “I must be,” I tell him, but again, such things never happens to me. I say maybe there is only one spot. The guy tells me he saw many single folks being turned away. “Maybe none of them had a smile like yours,” teases his friend. I beam even more foolishly, I suppose. But who cares. I want to skip with delight.

The morning is magical. My feet won’t touch the ground, else the magic may disappear. After the auction, I walk around the narrow streets that are slowly waking up. Storekeepers open shop. I buy umeboshi plums and seaweed. I sample new things. I get the freshest-sushi-in-the-world for breakfast. The tuna-on-a-stick, all lit up, before I eat it, is fabulous.

I have a feeling that nothing can ever go wrong. I can’t remember the last time I felt this way. What a gift it is to feel so. To feel like you are somehow responsible for creating a clearing. Like when on a highway, you want to move fast, and the cars in front of you change lanes magically to allow you to pass.

I walk to the Metro station, I see a large beautiful shrine. I walk in. Gongs sound and morning chantings commence. Vibrations bounce of the walls, straight into my insides. More magic. I want this day to never end.

Oddly, I feel as if I have something to do with it all. Or rather, I do not create any obstacles. That my lack of negativity, or disappointment or heightened expectation, allow it to happen. That I am able to receive and appreciate beautifully. That the Universe is trying to help me get the things I want, get where I want. Ahem… the fish market is great, but again, I need to have a chat with the Universe – there are other waaaaaay more important things on my plate. Really. Truly.

I may be closed and clamped up again, today.  But reading the journal entry and writing about it makes me believe that sometimes the path ahead just clears for us... if we allow it... if we simply decide to walk on it...if we decide we deserve to...if we own up to our dreams (big and small), with a certain confidence and certainty and lack of worry and fear and expectation…

And now, just like Mary Poppins, I will open my umbrella and fly away – but with a torched tuna-on-a -stick in my hand.  

 

 

 

Transitions (again)…jetlag…and a pair of golden palazzo pants...

2:45 a.m. Jetlag must have a purpose. I decide as I stare at the ceiling.

It must. Just think about it. We are on one continent, time zone, whatever… our body is still on another. That right there, my friends, is the beauty of jetlag. Its purpose, is to help us process everything we experienced in another time zone and bring it back into our current one.

Rather metaphoric, huh? For along with our body, our mind and oftentimes, our heart is also in the other place. So staring at the ceiling and the time and space and thought it allows, must be an important part of the transition from one universe to another. Hmm… I would rather really just sleep, but who am I to battle the Universe and its ways. My mind continues to wander continents – beautiful, historical England, vibrant, chaotic, beautiful India.    

My mind moves to the clothes from my suitcase in the corner of the room. It stops (rather alarmed) at a pair of golden pants. It pauses. It wonders. Did I really by them? Will I ever wear them?

3:30 a.m. I think of India. Vignettes of people, places, food, people again, laughter, memories, more people… all flash before the eye. Why must reentry always be so hard? Especially from India. I think of the square peg, round hole piece I had written a while back. About changing, going back to old places, not quite fitting in. Not quite fitting in either place, really. For a part of our ethos, who we are, is from where we came, the old place, but it changes, adapts so much in the new place, that we remain square pegs in round holes -- in both places, perhaps. 

4:50 a.m. I tiptoe downstairs. I find my laptop. I decide to type a blogpost. My last post is about transitions. I smile at the irony. Well here’s another one. The hardest ever. For this one involves leaving people behind. People who you are concerned about, who you want to help, but are too far away to do so, people who make you laugh, who make you remember who you were, (who you still are, perhaps, deep inside?) people who you can be with, and just be. These are all your old people…

6:15 a.m. I rummage in the pantry looking for the chiwda my friend packed for me. Her mom has sent it for me. She remembered how much I had loved it the last time.  I should call her, I think. I can’t help but think of the connectedness of Eastern societies. Such actions are so seamless and easy. And not unusual. Much of it conflicts with the idea of “personal space” - which trust me, is a wonderful thing, but again I wonder if it leaves me lonely in the West. I wonder if I am a different person in the East and a different one in the West. I wonder if I am too “Western” when I’m in the East, and too “Eastern/Indian” when I’m in the West.

I think again of my golden pants. It somehow made sense to buy them in India. And really, if you have an image of shimmery, shiny, sequined, flowing pants, you may put that image to rest. For mine are a muted silk and quite simple and straight, really. Or so I can hope… sigh…

6:50 a.m. I make chai. I dunk in it, the flaky khari my mom has sent for my husband. Neither should mind, I decide. As light creeps into the house and I sit drinking chai by myself, I realize that this may be the first time in weeks I’m drinking a cup of chai all by myself. I think of many conversations around many cups of chai in India.

I think of my golden palazzo pants again. They made sense in the Indian context, and after all, the “Indian context” is part of who I am. So why put them away forever, or reserve them for Indian festivities when I can wear them with silk kurtis?

As we age and begin to accept ourselves for who we are, we understand we are after all, a combination of many things, experiences, and influences. And immigrants, know too well, they will always be a mix of multiple places, cultures and being -- whether or not golden palazzo pants are involved. 

Transitions

For the past few days, my bedroom floor has seen suitcases strewn around, mouths yawning wide, waiting to be filled and closed. For the past couple days, I have mostly been in bed, waiting for the antibiotics to kick in, trying to avoid looking at those suitcases or the things that need to be done for the upcoming travel.

It’s the transition, and the apprehension that goes with it, I tell myself. Oddly enough I feel better. In acknowledging the transition, the uncertainty of the next stage and the emotional inertia, I give myself the permission to feel what I feel. Even if that doesn’t help me get things done, it helps me feel better, in knowing that it will get done, that it is not as daunting, even if all I do, is turn the other side and burrow my head in the pillow.

It’s truly all about transitions. But let me back up a little. To the long weekend that went by recently.

In second grade, our kid went to an overnight camp through school and ever since, has wanted for us to do the family camp there. It took us four years to finally make it happen. But it did happen this past long weekend, and we spent the weekend close to nature, filled with activities and enthusiastic families. Most activities, even if they seemed challenging, were for most ages and abilities. And till about a decade ago, I wouldn’t have given a second thought about any of them.

But a lot has happened to me physically in the past decade, and I am never quite sure what my body will allow me to do. So I did my share of faltering and evaluating and humming and hawing.

I also realized that it is often mostly about transitions (at least for me). That instance of uncertainty about the next thing about to happen.

As illustrated best, by the catwalk, which involves walking on a log of wood, some 20-30 feet above the ground. It is really not as difficult as the image you may have conjured in your mind. And as I mentioned, a decade ago, I would have had no hesitation. I would have done it cautiously, I’m sure, even then, but without any second guesses. So let me tell you how this one went.

I end up being among the last in the group to go. After watching some complete the course effortlessly (including my husband and kid), and others hesitate, develop cold feet, and not quite make it to the end.  

When it is my turn, I manage to put the harness the wrong way. Hmm… stalling tactic? Then walk to the tree and realize that I need to tie my shoe laces, both shoe laces, but of course. Shoe laces tied, harness the right way, I get up and start climbing the staples on the tree.

“Want to get harnessed first?” the instructor asked. Of course, after stalling, now I am in a rush to get it over with. Embarrassed, I manage a laugh, get the rope hooked to the harness, and climb up. The climb is easy. Now it is time to hold the belay and get on to the log. Transition. I balk.

“Maybe I’ll just climb down the staples on the tree”, I call from the top. The transition seems daunting. The nebulous split second of moving from the tree to the log. The group eggs me on and I decide to get on the log. Not bad, I think as I hold the belay.

I traverse the log. Quite easy, really. I tell the folks below they can be as noisy as they want to. By then I have reached the end. Which means, another transition.

“Come back to the center and then turn around”. I come back to the center and then freeze. Again. Another transition. I realize I will have to take a foot off the log and turn my body. I balk some more. I tell myself I will have to do this if I don’t want to spend the rest of my life on this log. I turn around. Slow, fast, clumsy, elegant… I wouldn’t know. I do know it wasn’t as hard as I made it up in my mind. Success.

But wait, there’s another transition in store. I need to push my feet against the log and sit in the harness – belay like, except there is no wall, no rock to bounce your feet against while coming down. I stall again at the transition. Finally I sit in the harness and push my feet against the log. Again, it’s not bad at all. I’m back on the ground. I realize it was not too difficult, none of it was. Except that I had time to hum and haw before each transition, and I had somehow managed to make it harder.

Long story short, none of these things were particularly difficult or challenging. But the gap before each transition and the mental acrobatics I had filled that space with, increased the apprehension before the next thing.

I wonder how many things in life are easier than we make them out to be. And how many transitions, do we never overcome… 

Community

Like most people, the stabbing incident on the Portland Max was hard to get over. I could not stop thinking about it. Like all awful incidents, it chips away at our soul and makes us question life and its many unfathomable dimensions. Worse yet, is trying to make sense of it… for really, there is no making sense. There is simply no sense in it.

Like many sad incidents, this one was also about bravery and courage on the part of some incredible humans. And much as I tried to remember that, the matter would still not settle. I know there is no resolving certain things. Many things actually. By the end of the week, I wondered if there was a way to turn it into something good. On a whim, we sent out this email…

because life is sweet... even when events around us are unsavory. And to remember that, Anika and I will be doing a weekend of Sucre' after many years.

Sucre was a sweet summer venture my sweet child and I did about six years ago -- when we baked sweet treats once a week and donated proceeds to charity.

Am sure all of you are just as sad by the recent stabbing event on the Max. But it also brings to light that there is good, that there are good people around us, even when things are bad. We would like to donate the proceeds of the bake sale to the families of these brave victims.

And what a sweeter way to do so than with cupcakes. We will have rose, chocolate or red velvet cupcakes. Each cupcake $2. No frosting :) The sweet baker and I will be happy to make sweet deliveries too :)

Here's to adding a little sucre' (which in French, means sweetness) to our world.

~ Anika and Ruta

P.S. The rose cupcakes will be available today (Friday) 6:30 p.m. onwards and the chocolate or red velvet tomorrow (Saturday) late morning (depending on when the tween baker wakes up :) )

The response was amazing. Suddenly the oven was warmed, baking happened… a lot of baking… wonderful aromas wafted out of the kitchen… friends stopped by… cupcakes were distributed…smiles spread…it may all have been for a sad incident, but in the moment there was joy. In the moment I noticed how much others were similarly affected, and how much those around me seemed to want to do something about it. Be a part of something (even as insignificant as a bake sale) that acknowledged the wrong, and the brave, and tried to turn it into something good. We raised a little over three hundred dollars – all of which we donated. I wished I had more energy to bake more, for I know we would have sold more.

The amount may be a drop in the ocean, but it made me realize the strength of community. This community included folks of multiple ethnicities and religions. But none of it mattered. None of it matters. For all that matters is the strength that lies in it.  

Ordinarily, I would have made my donation, quietly, by myself. Ordinarily, I would have scribbled a few lines somewhere, quietly, by myself. This time, however, I included people around me (without thinking or realizing it… like many things I do… without thinking it through…). And in the generosity and perseverance of the community, I saw strength and healing and the reassurance that good will prevail. That there is much good, despite the awful incidents.

I hope we can always find ways to heal as a community… for there is much power in it.

Lockdown

A few months ago, my daughter’s middle school goes into lockdown when I’m volunteering at their book fair. I am surrounded by many books and a dozen kids. I look around bewildered, unsure of what to do. The kids, on the other hand, know exactly what to do.

“Close the blinds, turn off the lights”, they instruct me.

I dutifully obey. I attempt to keep a composed exterior. I am completely flustered inside. The kids on the other hand are at ease and move about knowing how to proceed. They put their training into practice. They break into groups and squat down behind the bookshelves and tables. I wonder what to do with myself. I creep down under the table – a vantage point from where I can see most kids. I am the only adult in the room. That puts me in charge, I suppose. I hear snippets of their conversation:  

“The announcement didn’t say it was a drill”. “Didn’t it say it was a drill last time?” “You think it’s the real thing?”

My eyes widen in the dark. The door, I think. It doesn’t have a lock. I creep out slowly from my post and block the door with a stack of piled chairs. The chairs are heavy, but what if it is the real thing?

I marvel at the kids. They are composed, nonchalant and matter-of-fact. None of them seems to be particularly anxious. They chat and giggle in whispers. They know the drill. They do what they’re supposed to do. I look at them from under the table. It seems unfair that these sixth graders should be so well-versed in what to do in times like these. And that times like these should be such a normal part of their lives.

I request the kids to not play games on their phones and shush them to be quiet. I hear sounds outside. Sitting in the dark, a zillion thoughts dash through my head. How unfair is it for these kids to have to go through this? Is this just a drill? What is happening out there? Why would anyone want to hurt children in a school? What is wrong with our society? When did all this become routine? Will we always live in a certain state of paranoia? How do we teach our children to be prepared without being excessively anxious?

I huddle beneath the table with my thoughts for what seems like eternity. In reality, it is more like twenty minutes. It turns out the lockdown was activated accidentally. I am relieved that it’s over and that kids know what to do in times as these.

I read the news today. I question the mindlessness of an attack at a concert filled with youngsters.  

The same questions from the time under the table in a dark room, run through my head again.

I remember reading (a few years ago) how in reality, the crime rate in the US has not changed drastically in the past two to three decades, but given the nature of mass attacks, our perception and preparedness of it has dramatically changed. Not sure if it this still holds ground.

But despite the bleak outlook, I find hope in our youth -- the group of sixth graders, who did the needful, but didn’t seem terribly bogged down by it.

Perhaps this is their reality or at least their perception of it. And no matter how unsavory, I can’t but help feel there is hope given their tenacity and their ability to take things in their stride.  

Junk food and TV

Approximately three months ago…

All I am going to do… is eat junk food and watch TV … for the rest of my life.

My husband looks up, raises his brow, and laughs at my proclamation.
I’m serious, I tell him. 
You’ll soon be bored, he speculates.

Well, doing all the “right things” and being proactive, hasn’t helped. So how about I try the other end of the spectrum.

Even if it seems unlikely, it feels oddly liberating. Like a weight off my chest.

I think back of the zillion things I have tried to get healthier, avoid surgery, recover from surgery, recover from complications of surgery, to be well, to function, to simply be able to walk straight… the list seems never-ending.

Not to be ungrateful. I do realize that I am very fortunate to have the time, and resources for all of this – doctors, naturopaths, acupunturists, dieticians, homeopaths, ayurvedic doctors, chiropractors…  

I have met wonderful folks. I am friends with some. They have supported me. For when I see them, I don’t need to keep face, I can tell them how crummy I feel.

I think of the many strange things I have tried… water fasting in a nature cure place, or the rice and moong bean diet from an ayurvedic doctor. Trust me, that doesn’t even scratch the surface of the strangest things I’ve tried. 

Each time, there is hope – in the treatment, in the practitioner’s expertise. 

Each time, I wonder if I’m trusting something external, greater than me, but also giving up a tiny sense of what I would like to do.

Apparently, all I want to do is eat junk food and watch TV and not think about anything.

Last week…

Mom, are you working on the book? My kid eyes a book with post-its hanging out like a dog with multiple tongues, as we bundle ourselves and her gear into the car.

Just research, I suppose. I reply hesitantly, non-committedly
I’m so excited about it, Mom.

I am both delighted and scared by her faith in me. I wonder if it will ever see the light of day. I decide to focus on the infection of her enthusiasm. I decide to work on it a little more that night. Or at least, develop the small part forming in my head.

Till the pain begins. Not again, I grimace. It has been consistent several nights, turning me into a zombie-like creature. I feel only half-human, yet pretend to be full-human, or whatever semblance of it. It has been going on for several months, but the reason why it was happening earlier, no longer presents, so I decide not to bug the doctors.

In my desire to not be consumed by the illness and all that it brings, I choose not to dwell on it, especially when I get the slightest respite.

But today I think of my kid’s enthusiasm and my book. I decide to call the doctor’s office. Even if I shudder at the thought of talking to the triage nurses. I keep my sight on the book and the multitude pink post-its sticking out. 

I tell myself this is really no need to steel myself for this task. Then I remember their practiced and perfected condescension. I remember how I am made to feel like a nuisance or a whiny child. I remember the time I called them after an infectious diseases doctor swabbed my incision wound and it would not stop bleeding.

“Talk to the doctor who took the swab. He caused it, he should take care of it.”   
“But he’s an infectious diseases doctor. He wouldn’t know what to do with a surgery incision. He doesn’t know everything that has happened.” Shouldn’t they know that?

They pass the buck. I call the infectious diseases doctor. His nurse tells me he wouldn’t know what to do and to call the other doctor’s office again. Again, they shake it off as not being their problem.

I hang up the phone in tears from the sheer fatigue and frustration of it all. I give up. I deal with the pain and the fear of it. No one takes a look. It heals on its own.

I realize that this could have ended badly – that there could have been a perforation in a wound already deep. Would it have then have been my fault to have given up from the exhaustion of pleading with an uncooperative and condescending nurse? To have been far too tired and in pain to continue arguing?

This is one of many occasions and it makes me wonder how big a role a patient needs to play in self-advocacy, and this on top of the fear, pain and uncertainty they already face.

On the other hand, I get it. They are all eager to wash their hands off of me. They have other more urgent cases to deal with. Maybe they would prefer if I only ate junk food and watched TV. Maybe the condescension is practiced so I won’t bug them as much.

But no, I cannot simply eat junk food and watch TV (by the way, I hardly did any of either, I simply gave myself the permission to do so, and enjoyed the freedom of that feeling). But being a pushy advocate is neither what I hope to be, nor comes naturally to me. And to top it, I must now somehow believe I am not really a hypochondriac nuisance even when I’m shooed away like a pesky, annoying child.

Yes, I have a book to write. And whether or not I actually write it, I don’t want illness to be an excuse (Ahem.. I already have a zillion other). I have a life to live. I have a child to raise.

So no, eating junk food and watching TV is not going to work. And even if it seems a sheer waste of my energy and even if I wonder if it comes in the way of my healing, I will somehow have to find a way to develop a thicker skin, be my own advocate, and at least feel that I have done everything in my capacity.

Sorry TV and junk food. Alas...It could have been a beautiful friendship...sigh...

The short irises

The green stem cracks its way out of the cold wintery ground. The fresh tender green leaves full of promise, contrast the dry dead mulch around it. Holding the promise of spring, my irises begin to bloom. I am beyond delighted.

I think of fall and how I barely managed to get the bulbs in. Well, a good chunk of them at least. Serves me right, to get a warehouse size bag of bulbs from Costco. Why couldn’t I buy a mere dozen from a garden store?

But again, thinking of beautiful purple-petaled beauties, keeps my knees planted to the ground. For years, I have wanted irises in the yard. My determined look and general ineptitude with the shovel, elicits my husband’s help. I see a sea of irises (okay more like a few clumps), waving elegantly on tall stems, turning my garden into a spring paradise.

I put the bulbs in. I mostly forget about them. As also the spots where I plant them. Till the earth cracks and the leaves pop out.

The irises arrive. Tiny irises. Short irises. I look at them puzzled.  

Sure, you’re sweet and pretty. But where are my long stemmed beauties?

I can’t bring myself to completely accept these as mine. The irises in my mind are tall and imposing, after all. I wonder if I did something wrong. Did I not plant them deep enough, should I have added some special iris food? Did I get the wrong kind? There are kinds…?

Surely, these can’t be mine. Yet they are. Each time I look at them, I feel a strange simultaneous twinge of happy and sad. 

Quietly, I wonder how many short irises there have been in my life.

The short irises are indeed delicate and pretty, on their own accord. Yet, not what I was expecting. Had I set my expectation so high, that I can no longer bring myself to love their shorter counterparts?

Worse yet, I secretly admonish myself for my unfair treatment of the short irises. These pretty irises deserve so much more, so much better. 

They are pretty and dainty and their petals make the same perfect formation. So what if they are not a reflection of what my mind held? They are perfect in their own way. Who am I do decide how they should be? Why should it even be this big an effort to accept them the way I would have the tall elegant ones. Am I shallow, judgemental, or simply stubborn?

I decide I am neither. My tiny short irises are perfect. Once I am no longer hung up on the tall ones. Once I can shift my focus on the beauty of the short irises, rather than their lack, which is really not even their lack in the first place, but more a perception of a lack in my eyes.

They may not be what I was expecting. But they’re gorgeous and precious on their own. And it remains up to me to choose between enjoying my short irises to the very fullest, or hankering for the long stemmed ones. I hope I will make the right choice.

Again, I wonder how many short irises there have been in my life.

Here’s to giving each short iris its own place and worth… here’s to noticing and enjoying its beauty… one short iris at a time…

Things are trying to happen… do we simply let them?

March 2017

I wait in line at the bakery. I ask for sourdough bread. As he takes it away to slice, I eye the latte dunker that I often get for my kid. It’s a favorite. I think of getting it, the thought slides, I pay for the bread. The lady behind the counter asks me,

“Would you like a latte dunker? Looks like this one didn’t get enough of the top layer. It’s yummy all the same. ”

I stare at her. I watch her pack the freshly baked, sticky rectangle of goodness, my face incredulous. I laugh as I take the brown bag, I thank her (I hope) I’m still a little taken aback by the synchronicity of thoughts and events.

June 2016

Two tiny figlets (?? I think it’s the perfect name – and I’m sticking with it) appear on the fig tree. I am excited for the tree and me and summer.

There’s always something reassuring about the reappearance of things. Especially pleasant ones. Okay, only pleasant ones.

The year before, we had a whopping four figs on the tree. I am happy with my two. Each time I am in the yard, I peek beneath the beautiful fig leaves, to say hello and to check on them. By now a third has appeared. Life is good. I made a mental note to keep an eye, to allow them to sun-ripen on the tree, to make sure I pick them just in time – before they fall off, or before the birds, (who I believe, already have designs on them) get them. Yes. The mental list gets longer. I get more involved. Hmm…

July 2016

Overnight, the fig tree is laden with tiny green fruit. Hundreds of figlets, everywhere. The tree is exploding.

I shake my head thinking, ‘’The poor suckers don’t stand a chance – Turkish figs take long to ripen. Summer will be long gone before they can turn purple. Poor things. Sigh…”

I focus all attention on my my first, second and third-borns.  I watch them get plumper and darker – my sun-kissed beauties. One gets pecked by birds and falls to the ground. I leave it on the ground for the birds to eat. The remaining two are sweet and pulpy, velvety and delicious. (My kid won’t touch it, of course).

I pay no more attention to the fig tree or the green figlets.

August 2016

We return from vacation. I potter in the yard, when suddenly, I notice bees on the top branch of the fig tree. They are attacking a plump fig that looks like it’s going to burst open at the seams. The tree is full of purple figs awaiting their fate -- either be picked or be plagued by bees.

I marvel at the tree and the fruits and the warm warm summer. I think of the attention I gave to the three figs, and the complete lack thereof to their siblings. 

Yet there they are. Juicy and succulent in their purple glory. Waiting for me to pick them. Something about them seemed effortless and easy.   

Just when I was not looking, just as I let go of all expectations, nature decides to give me a sweet gift. And to everyone who stopped by our place those couple of weeks.

September 2016

Back to school shopping for my kid. The list says a pouch with a three-hole-punch. I think a clear one will be better so she can see the zillion things stuffed inside. Only, there isn’t a clear one in the store. There’s blue and purple and pink and yellow, paisley and cartoon prints. No plain clear one. I can see the one she’s picked packed choc a bloc. I see its contents tumbling out as her fingers dive in to get an eraser. I suggest we get one from another store or look online.  

“No mom, this is fine,” she picks one. I look some more. I offer to take her to another store yet again. Finally I decide to care less and let it go.

The following week, we get a packet from Amazon. In it lies a clear pouch with three-hole-punches. My husband had ordered something, and this is what they sent, accidentally. Freaky, you say? My reaction, totally, in a happy kinda way.

He calls Amazon and they tell him they will ship his cables. When he asks about returning the pouch, they tell him to just keep it. It costs all of two dollars and it’s not worth the shipping costs.

I laugh and shake my head in disbelief. “Maybe we should stop watching Stranger Things,” he quips.  

I insist my kid use the pouch that “the universe has sent our way in mysterious ways”.  

“Sure,” she shrugs. She is just as fine with the other one.

Now I don’t particularly think of myself as a “lucky” person. At times, it seems like bad luck seems to dog me quite faithfully.

But just we aren’t looking, it seems like things are trying to happen happen the way we want them to – more often than we think. Perhaps they get lost in the noise of our daily lives.

Perhaps I need to have a little chat with the Universe. The latte dunker is really great, but truly, there are other areas where I could possibly use more assistance. Sigh… the Universe wants me to figure those things out for myself.

These are random stories. You will have yours when you notice them. And when we do notice them, it is a wondrous thing… Just when we’re not looking. Just when we let go, let up, things happen, with a beautiful synchronicity and serendipity… and we simply have to let them…

Angry kitty

I skip home from school. Beyond excited. My four-year-self is very aware there is a teeny tiny kitten waiting for me at home.

Every cell in my body is beaming and exploding with excitement. So ready to love this tiny being. I can see our many fun days together. I can’t wait to meet her.

I’m told she’s hiding in the alcove of our old desk. This solid wood desk has a deep alcove and she’s found refuge in its dark recess.

My little feet cannot contain the excitement. My little heart cannot contain the love.

I get down on my knees and crawl into the alcove, close to the kitty, huddled and shivering in the corner. My biggest smile. My sweetest voice. My excited hands trying to touch her.

She hisses. Loudly. Angrily. Fiercely. Maybe she scratches me. I don’t remember. All I remember is her anger and sheer rejection. The pain of rejection.   

Scared, surprised, heartbroken, I move back. Possibly bumping my head against the roof of the table. It wouldn’t be the first or last time, anyhow.

I am devastated. How can a kitty so fragile, so sweet, be so full of anger and hatred towards me? I am to be her best friend. Doesn’t she know it?

All I want to do is to love her and she somehow can’t bear the sight of me.
At four, or at forty even, we are sometimes unable to see the story (or fear) on the other side.

Perhaps memory is a wise and devious charlatan. Perhaps stories have a strange way of reappearing in our lives. Perhaps they have a reason for reappearing – a possible raison d’etre even, who knows. Not quite sure why this one pops in my mind. But it won’t leave. Till I write it down perhaps.

It does however make me marvel at the innate and immeasurable capacity to heal and to forgive and to continue to love unconditionally. No matter the treatment? To continue to believe determinedly, doggedly even, in what a child wants the truth to be. To maintain optimism in that truth.

If so, I wish I could be my four-year-old self.

Children have such huge amazing reserves of forgiveness, such deep capacities to love unconditionally.

And although I don’t remember the ensuing chain of events -- if I went crying to someone older, wiser; if I was consoled; if I kept it all inside, not breathing a word, (sounds most likely) refusing to admit it ever happened; if I was wary for a while… who knows.

What I do know is that one determined four-year-old was convinced to be this kitten’s best friend.   
What I do know is that I absolutely mauled that kitty with an outpouring of my love (poor kitty!). I put the hurt and pain and the scratches aside. We had those many happy days together. I was indeed her best friend.
Well, at least in my version and memory of the story. She may have an entirely different story to tell. Love and torture (ahem..) may be used interchangeably given a four-year-old and her kitty. Oh well…

As we age, is it still possible to put pain, and harsh words and anger (and fears) of others completely aside, as a four-year-old is able to do. No cynicism, no apprehension, no hurt and pain-gone-stale and sour.

There is after all, the matter of “learning from our mistakes”, and “rationality” and “wisdom” and “fairness” and “boundaries” – all good things no doubt and essential.  

Yet, I doubt the four-year-old uses any of those.  

Simply because she has complete faith in her own love. Simply because she knows what she wants, knows what is important to her. Simply so certain in her conviction of it (despite a vivid memory of the hissing), she will put everything aside and start afresh… and afresh… and afresh.

Wise or foolish?

When our lives slow…

February 17, 2017

Portland OR

I drive towards Hawthorne Bridge and the lights begin to blink.

“No…no… drawbridge… please… not now… Stay down… you’re so much prettier that way.”

No luck. I harrumph, stop the car and watch the middle of the bridge grunt, groan and beep its way to the top.

I am, of course, the very first car to have to stop. A minute and a half early, and I would be across the river by now.

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, I fidget. I wonder how long it’s going to be. I wonder if I will make it home before my kid gets home. I drum my fingers some more.

I look at the book of poems sitting patiently in the passenger seat next to me. Last night I had heard its author, or rather poet, Tracy Smith, speak. I remember the first poem. There’s a reason that book is here (and ahem… because I don’t clean my car?). But those are the words I need to read.

Here's the excerpt from the poem:

…When our lives slow

And we can hold all that we love, it sprawls
In our laps like a gangly doll. When the storm
Kicks up and nothing is ours, we go chasing
After all we’re certain to lose, so alive –
Faces radiant with panic.

~ Tracy Smith, Life on Mars

I have stared at the haunting words. Earlier today, I clicked a picture and texted to friends.

And right now, I decide I need to notice the advice in the words, to allow my life to slow.

I do just that. I marvel at the bridge and its chunk of metal going up. I gaze at the bright sunshine, blue skies (so rare these days), and the waters below glistening like stars. I find a song I like. My own “gangly” arm reaches for the loaf of freshly baked sourdough bread.

Not half bad, I think, as I snack on the bread, listen to music and admire the skies and waters around me. Quite a treat really, I decide.

And I quietly thank the poet for reminding me how close we are, we always are, to a face “radiant with panic” and to our life slowing…

Wrote this last Friday, got slammed by a cold and forgot to post

Feminism…activism… plain humanity…and everything in between... and its expression

As a kid, I help (on my mom’s behest) our cleaning lady’s kids with their studies. My mother sighs and notes the daughter is smarter, but our cleaning lady wants to focus mostly on her son’s education. It’s always so, my mother tells me. I decide to focus on the daughter. The boy is not very interested anyhow.

In college, a friend calls me to tell me she is getting married. In ten days. An arranged match, she’s met the guy only a couple of times. She sounds quiet and serious and very grown-up. She is 20. I am 18. I am completely rattled. I picture her being forced into marriage against her wishes. I must do something. I know a women’s activist from the newspaper office where I work. I contact her. But first I must collect facts.

I drag my best friend – I need a partner in crime after all, and we decide to go see our friend and find out what is going on. We circle a part of town we’ve somehow never been in. Dusty streets and unclear directions, notwithstanding, we find her house. She is wearing a sari and a subdued air. Members of her joint family eye us with curiosity. I continue to make up stories in my head.

Until she tells us she’s really really happy. I am not convinced. I look for problems. She tells us she really really likes the guy. Not what I was expecting. But I suppose I am relieved. I have no idea what our plan was had she not been a willing bride. Hmm… never got that far. Happy to say she’s been happily married ever since. 

Some days ago, my daughter and I make signs for the Women’s March. My kid is uncertain and wants more information. She is not thrilled as she is packed tight like a sardine on the Max train.  

She is not thrilled that it is wet and cold, but she doesn’t complain. We wave our signs. She has a lot of questions. About other signs. Signs that talk about body parts and such. “That’s weird. What does that even mean?”

I tell her about objectification of the woman body and how women like to be considered more than just their bodies. I never thought I was a feminist. Simply because I never thought about it. But again, isn’t every woman a feminist? Wouldn’t every woman want to be treated an equal. And really, isn’t that the same for other groups of individuals who are put in a category, any category, and denied rights, simply for belonging to a category.

 

These are all random stories that crop up in my mind for no particular reason. There are others. I notice that I don’t know if my actions/ intentions ever made a difference. Clearly, my friend didn’t need our meddling (and thankfully so).

I suppose it is hard to say if we make a difference. But then, is that reason to stop caring? For wouldn’t that only allow a sense of apathy or helplessness or defeat to set in.

I suppose there are times when even if we don’t know how far the impact of our expression will be, we must. For the sake of participation in democracy, for believing in what we believe in, for faith in what we believe in and what we believe the right thing to be.

Expression may be all we have in certain times. For at the heart of it, we all know right from wrong and good from evil, and we are all born with an inherent sense of what is equal and fair for one, is for the other. The courage to express and hold our own for what we believe in, may matter more in certain times than others.

Creating joy… cupcake by cupcake…

Last night, a writer friend says, given the way things are, she really feels the need to create joy. Her words are simple and heartfelt and resonate deeply.

This morning her words keep ringing in my ears. And unlike the occasional ringing in the ear, I encounter, her words are inspiring. By afternoon, I find myself elbow deep in flour, butter, sugar and eggs. I’m baking. I’m creating joy… cupcake by cupcake…by cupcake…by cupcake. Did I mention I can’t seem to stop?

Sure, a certain calm spreads, as do pleasant aromas all over the kitchen. I’m concocting a lavender cupcake recipe (whew… successfully) and lemon cupcakes. I look at the counter – a hundred and twenty cupcakes stare back at me.

“And you’re the one who has problems with the standard American diet?” their words drip in sarcasm.  

“But you’re here to help me create joy,” I remind them. “See how light and fluffy you are, and how good you smell, and how happy you’ll make a child”. Ahem… even to myself, I sound like the witch in Hansel and Gretel.

By now, my entire kitchen is judging me, “Surely you can find healthier ways to create joy. When was the last time you saw the insides of that health club?”

I shoo away all the critical voices in and around my head. And even if I shake my head as I stare at the counter filled with cupcakes, I think of all the folks I will give them to. Surely there’s joy in that.  

Long story short. A lot of things in the world may seem unfair and unsavory and just plain awful. But the world itself, is really not awful. And yes, one bite into my lavender cupcake will convince you of that. The world remains. We remain. And along with it, remains our ability and desire to create joy (in healthful ways or not). And once we've created joy, we can believe good will win.

And listen to lovely friends who voice it, as  mine did last night, and whose words ring in our ear.  And before you know it, you’ve created joy. Or at least, had the desire to. One cupcake at a time…

Novelty…wonder… routine…boredom…

Tokyo
My kid and I mix into the crowd at the Tokyo metro station. It’s the only thing to do. Over thirteen million people in the city. Over thirty seven million people in the greater Tokyo area. We join in. Thirty seven million and one, thirty seven million and two.

At least a third of them must be at a metro station, in rush hour. Even if a thousandth of that population were to be on our train… And yes, that’s your math workout for today.

Even if you choose not to do the math (slacker), you know well, it accounts for busy trains and metro stations. Despite the rush, there seems to be a lack of excessive scrambling. Despite the crowds, there seems to be a lack of excessive noise. I think of similar train stations in New York and DC and Mumbai. How can it be so quiet? And then there is the business of: “Sumimasen” (Excuse me/ pardon), the officials say, as the shove folks onto trains, with the help of a stick held horizontally.  

Nobody minds. Everyone minds their own business, does their own thing – as during a commute in any metropolitan city.

But we are tourists. I glance at folks around me. The elderly ladies smile at me. I notice the teenagers, take in the culture, fashions and trends, the overall politeness, a sense of grace and courtesy, the lack of noise…

We look at the map and travel book. We figure out what train to take next. We read about places. Yes, we’re tourists. We have the time and inclination to look around.

Unlike the woman sitting in front of me, who is probably thinking about dinner or the work she needs to finish, I have nothing much going on in my head. I am on vacation.

Yes, being on vacation is an interesting state of being. We give ourselves permission to not occupy our mind with the multitude of (inconsequential?) things we lay so much emphasis on.

We are in a new environment. Our curiosity and state of wonder gets activated. Sometimes, I feel, it even releases a certain self-awareness. I notice things about myself that I find hard to believe I never knew (ahem… not to say that is always a pleasant or happy thing).

Yes, there is a certain heightened awareness. An awareness that wants to take things in. An awareness that processes the experiences.

What happens then, when we come back to our mundane?

Is it completely unrealistic to keep up with that sense of spirit and awareness and wonder? What if, for the rest of today, I go about experiencing whatever it is that I see with a sense of wonder, or at least, a teeny tiny bit of enthusiasm? Is that even possible given that I have been down that same grocery aisle a zillion times before? So unless they have a monstrously giant chocolate truffle in that aisle, it sounds pretty exhausting.

Certainly, there is comfort in knowing and security in sameness.

But what about those parts of the brain that wake up and fire up when provided with fodder of wonder and new experiences?

Portland
The snow comes down in fat flurries, converting the world into a soft magical white marshmallow land. It is delicious. I marvel at the soft-footed calm that spreads, despite sledding kids. The same trees and houses and streets encased in this white wintery magic are completely different beings.  

And then there are the snowy white nights. When it never really turns completely dark. A certain light exudes from the ground, the world… the skies seem to reflect it. I remember my friend mentioning emails I exchanged years ago, describing my first experience of fall colors and falling snow and snow-filled nighttime light. I wonder what I may have said. I don’t have those emails or that email account or that frame of mind anymore.

Yes. My world, my street, my house is the same. Yet completely transformed. All I can do is to stand and look. And marvel. And take in the wonder. And a week later, swear beneath my breath… ahem, just saying…

It appears there is a certain continuum. Novelty…wonder… routine…boredom…

Unlike, like the woman on the Tokyo train in front of me, who probably gets on the same train, at the same spot, at the same time, and sits in the same spot even, day in and day out, I am hungrily taking it all in. Marveling at everything. And more. My life. My world (her world actually) is so very interesting in that moment. My moment.

So what I’m wondering is if we close our minds to some degree in our day to day. What would be novel, becomes an annoyance, or something ‘extra’.  Do we need to close our mind to some degree for efficiency? To be able to get things done? To maintain the peace and ease of a routine?

Is there some way to maintain the peace from a routine, and yet, keep our minds open?