Scatter and fall…

About ten days ago, I have a fall. No reason for alarm, I’m fine. Really.

I get out of the car, walk on to the pavement, step on the water meter cover, the water meter cover caves in. Yes, the cover completely goes in; in goes my foot, I spill on the pavement. Of course, with the most elegant flair - my scarf whirls in the air, my long tresses toss stylishly, the beautiful silks of my dress rustle, while I fall to the ground ever so gracefully…

Yeah right… can’t remember if I scream, or how loudly, but as I fall…yes, while my body is going from vertical to horizontal, mid-air, these are my thoughts…

“Oh man, I really liked that shoe…” (the shoe is now off my foot and in the hole under the water meter cover).

“No concussions, no concussions…don’t let the head hit the ground”. Three people I know have had concussions the previous week, and I am somehow determined to not let that happen. I assume I torque and twist my neck, but I don’t allow it to touch the ground.  

Other thoughts later (I am amazed at how many thoughts we can cram into a moment), I am on the ground.

All I can now think of, is that GIANT slug… right next to my bare foot… who I swear, is rapidly inching its way towards me.

“Will it be able to reach my foot? Is it a fast-moving slug? Are there fast-moving slugs?” Yes, rather than wonder if my ankle is sprained, or bones are broken, or if I will ever walk again… my mind is occupied by this Usain Bolt of slugs.

A sweet couple sees me fall, rushes to where I am. I point to the slug near my foot, mutter something unintelligible (I presume). I want to warn them of the slug. The woman assumes I am pointing to my foot and holds it and starts to move it. Lovely and kind as she is, I do not want her to turn my foot or twist/retwist/untwist my possibly twisted ankle. Yes, my inner-paranoia is still intact. I notice that.

By now, my husband gets out of the car. Not sure he sees me fall, or hears me scream, maybe he sees that he can no longer see me… and hence I must be on the ground… Elementary, my dear Watson…

He notices the slug. Relief rushes through me.
“He may truly be my soulmate, after all...” (my husband, not the slug).

Still on the ground, no attempt has been made to see if I am able to stand.  

“Maybe it’s not so bad after all. I may still be able to go dandiya dancing (Indian festival) tonight” (!!!! Yeah – same reaction - you and me both).

No. I do not go dancing or leave my bed for many hours. I do however wonder about the physics of the fall, given that I have bruises on both sides of my body.

I recount the fall to my acupuncturist and also recount my random thoughts during the fall; shaking my head at the realization of how shallow I must be to be concerned about the shoe, rather than the fall.

My acupuncturist tells me that it is often natural to fixate or be hypervigilant about something altogether different in an acute moment, so as to not feel the impact of the more pressing matter.

The wise man’s words make sense. I may not be crazy, after all. This may be our mind’s way to protect us from the intensity of an intense moment. To diffuse it, perhaps. To lighten the impact. To not have to process the moment, just then. For we may not have the ability or skills or nerves, or strength to do so in that moment.

Of late, I am increasingly aware of the layers of emotions we live in. How we layer our emotions like a multi layered cake or lasagna. (So much more delicious than the layers-of the-onion analogy, right?) But yes, sadness over love, anger over sadness… the layers go on…

I wonder if this distraction from the emotion of the moment, causes more layering…  

Maybe it does. But maybe it helps us stay safe from complete panic in the moment. And that is a beautiful thing…

And now, I will answer the one question on all of your minds – Yes. I found the shoe.


 

Happy crises

Every time I sink my teeth into a good book, I realize how hungry I am… for beautiful prose, and thoughts, and ideas that wake you up, experiences that make you feel things and think things… words that in a flash, make your ordinary day and life so extraordinary. Words that infuse pain, and joy and laughter and horror, and understanding of mankind and history, and social processes and humanity… I could go on and on with this, but you get the gist.

And in this deep deep satisfaction of a good book and beautiful prose, is melancholy. And panic. And dissatisfaction even.

For it leaves me hungry, and wanting more. And dissatisfied, because I know there is a huge ocean of more such, yet completely different, and possibly more exquisite, out there. And panicky, because I may never touch it, or reach it, that I may run out of time, or energy, or health. After all, time and energy and “priorities” are simply not in direct proportion to the vast amounts of amazing things out there.

Wait… did I just turn a happy story of a beautiful book into a crisis of sorts?

I hear Anthony Doerr speak a few years ago, and his book math rings in my head, each time I have my “book crisis”. He breaks it down something like this (paraphrasing…) If we read one book a week, that’s about 50 books in a year; and if we live another 40 years, that would make it about 2000 books.

That’s it??? Only 2000 books? From so many out there. Not to mention the gorgeous new ones that will show up on bookshelves each year.

I look again wistfully at the gorgeous book I just finished. And even if I may be panic stricken about the millions of gorgeous books I may never touch, I don’t feel ready to start a new book just yet. Just like, when we eat something absolutely delicious, we want to continue to savor its taste, and don’t want to risk losing it by eating over it.

I’ve been lucky. I’ve hit a lucky continuous spate of a few good books with no “duds” mixed in between. My 2000 will be a wonderful 2000, I decide.

Hmm… I wonder if I dragged you into my “happy moment crisis”. If so, I apologize. And yes, that’s what I’m calling these…

For these are the crises we create in moments of euphoric satisfaction, wondering, knowing, that we have tasted only a drop – only a drop in this ocean, this ocean that we know is filled with many many mysterious, different drops, waiting to be tasted, that we may never ever get to savor…

The more you travel, the more you know, how little you have seen…

The more you read, the more you know, how little you have read…

This could go on forever. Each one of us would add our own “the more you…”s

And yet, even if it is indeed a crisis – one that I have created entirely out of the needless wandering of my jumpy mind, I will take it. For the only thing it can ever suggest, is deep curiosity, appreciation of beauty and an awareness of its infinity…

Even when we know that we will never experience it all, there is joy in knowing its wide never-ending expanse… And it brings a certain appreciation of the world we live in and the beauty and knowledge in it, that is endless…

Yes. These crises, I can live with.

 

Lost in the fluster

Last night. Like the approximate 20,000 people gathered, I feel fortunate to hear Michelle Obama speak. Social media, facebook pages, texts and twitter feeds, all buzz today about the talk -- how wonderful, how inspiring, how authentic, how witty, how real… and I don’t need to repeat any of it.

The whole time there, I wish my daughter were with me. That she hear every word. Oddly enough, the seat next to mine is empty. I look at it and wish more so.

Tickets to this event have been on my mind, but due to low energy levels, I don’t quite get around to it. The day of the event, I wake up and decide I have to try. I find two tickets and call a friend who I know wants to go. As deals like these go, I meet the person in a Starbucks and transfer the tickets. Score! We are on.

A few hours before the show, I bustle about, drop my kid to her activity, fix dinner, try to squeeze in a nap… I am moving, thinking, organizing… I don’t slow down, I don’t check email (not that the two are related in any way).

After the show, as I’m heading to bed, I see an email from the person who sold me the tickets. The email says that he had one more ticket as another person in their group is not able to make it. My eyes widen. That seat next to mine. The one that could have been my daughter’s! I see another email from him, sent an hour and a half before the show…

If you want it, I'll transfer it to you for free. I just want someone to use the ticket at this point! Lol

I shake my head in disbelief. That seat was truly meant to be hers. I would have been more than happy to pay for it. I want to kick myself. I wonder if my bustling and hurrying and scrambling got in the way?

Nooooo… I shake my head some more and decide not to beat myself over it. My kid is thirteen. She will have ample opportunities to hear remarkable and inspiring women (and men) speak. I fervidly hope she will seek out such opportunities.

Yet, I wonder, if given that I operate on less energy, do I scramble more, in a bid to get things done in a similar manner to how, a younger, healthier version of me would have? Does that cause a certain stress, that no longer allows me to be in touch with the bigger picture of things?

Sometimes, it feels like the Universe is trying to align itself, in our interest. In times such as these, do I get in the way? In the way of beautiful synchronicities that are trying to happen? How then do we stay open and relaxed and in a position to receive completely?

Interestingly, I am reminded of Michelle Obama’s anecdote of how she first met Barrack Obama. There are many remarkable elements in her talk. This one seems relevant.
He is reporting to her office for his first day of internship. He is late (from figuring out trains) and he is wet. She is not impressed. However, she narrates how he is not in the least flustered – despite arriving late, and wet, on his first day. He apologizes for being late, mentions he didn’t carry an umbrella… but maintains his persona and calm and is completely at ease and completely centered and himself, focusing on what he needs to do and why he is there.  

Greatness, clearly, is not arrived at in a hurry, or through scrambling and stressing, and losing focus of the bigger picture.  But we always knew that.  

So, although I may not be vying for greatness of any kind, remaining unflustered even when there is something totally fluster-worthy and being able to see the bigger picture may be something worth moving towards.

Not to say that I would have certainly checked my email if I weren’t as winded, but I know for sure my two hours before the show would have been more relaxed, and most likely, everything I needed to do, would have been done. Hmmm…

Expressions of love…

In my youth, I write plenty of poetry. Not sure about the general caliber of the poems, but I sometimes write verses for friends going through a rough patch, in times of success, departures, weddings... It is my way of helping, or celebrating, or simply expressing… It seems like a normal thing to do …

I remember a letter I once write to a friend after his father’s demise. It is the hardest letter I ever write as a teenager. It may be the one I ever spend the most amount of time on, wondering how to articulate something I cannot comprehend, yet trying to offer support. He tells me that he read it several times. It makes me believe in the power of words – to heal, to make things better, even when they don’t really do anything.

In journalism school, we pass notes in class in rhyme, sometimes continuing the verse. The end result is both hilarious and brilliant. I am, after all, surrounded by a gifted bunch of writers and it seems like a normal thing to do.  

A few decades ago, when my husband and I are dating, I write him a poem (I may have written him a few – but this one I remember well). If you look at the first letter of the first word of every line (vertically), it aligns to say: I love you and his name. I know… I know… cheesy and mushy – but again 20-year-olds do things like that. Despite the cheesy format, the actual poem is decent (ahem…so I think…).

I give it to him in the car and I suppose he puts it in the glove box. He leaves for graduate school in the US, soon after. About a year later, he and his mom pick me up in the same car. His mom nonchalantly pulls out the paper from the glove box – (I recognize the handmade paper with alarm) and with equal nonchalance says, “I found this in the car – would you like to keep it”.

Beetroot faced, I grab it from her. Neither she nor my husband (boyfriend at the time – yeah, I married him despite this!) seem to be particularly reacting. I, on the other hand, am mortified. I wonder how many people have read it. I cringe some more. If I can’t jump out of the window, I want the car seat to swallow me and to never emerge again from the foam. Neither happens. I feign nonchalance (I think). I also never write a poem for him after that day.  

Sometimes I write notes for my girl and put them in her lunch box. Some are sweet, some are funny, some are pretty darn neat (ahem… in my opinion). She comes homes, empties out her lunch box, throws the notes – straight into the trash. The first time I see her do that, my eyes widen. Whaaat…. My exquisite little note… I sigh…

After all, she reads my expression of love, receives it, is done with it and is now ready to move on to other things…In due fairness, I remember the notes and cards this little hallmark elf makes for us, when little – I keep a few, many end in the recycle bin.

I am now beginning to understand the value of doing something simply because we value it, or simply for us. After all, we may often not assign the same value to another person’s gestures when we are at the receiving end.

I know how much joy and connection I feel when I write to someone. And that is my joy. Simple. Pure. In the moment. Writing is just one example. We all have our own expressions. Some may be as fancy as a painting, while others may be as mundane as doing the dishes.  

Yes. Love is a strange thing. Maybe it doesn’t always come full circle. Maybe it is not always made of full circles. Maybe it is a half-rainbow-like circle that we send to one another. And just like a rainbow, it may be strong and bright or at times, wispy and light.

And if we look closely, there are more love-filled rainbows around us than we notice. They come from family and friends and pets and even strangers, and we give them out – knowingly, and sometimes when we don’t realize.

I rarely write letters anymore and I never write poems. That chapter is done, and I have turned a page. But I did start putting one together, after writing the above.

Fifteen minutes and a cup of tea later, I see I have no intention of completing it. So will post it even if it’s unfinished or unpolished… just to make sure my half rainbow goes out… Happy Valentine’s day!

What is love?

It’s the wine, chocolates and cheese
It’s sometimes doing the dishes

That tender feeling that rushes

When gripped by a baby’s fingers

That deep stirring of empathy

In seeing our parents aging

It’s the space we hold for another

Be it a friend or sometimes stranger

A glance to steady another

A gentle squeeze on the shoulder

Yet to receive it, requires
An openness of the heart
Even when there’s more than we know
Engulfing us all around…

 

Maybe someday, I will sit down, polish it and complete it… till then…

Jetlag 2019

3:15 a.m. I stare at the ceiling. Jetlag *&%*@#$*, I grimace and turn the other side. I open my eyes again and I know it’s not just the disturbed sleep pattern leaving me restless. That inexplicable hollow feeling inside doesn’t come from lack of sleep. It comes from leaving a life and people, continents behind. It comes from being soaked in life and love and then surgically removing yourself from it.

3:30 a.m. I think of my friend narrating how her dog recently tore her favorite cushions. As we share chai, brought back from India, she recounts how during a family gathering, the dog is surrounded by lots of people, receiving love and attention all day. He is then left by himself later and possibly confused on being alone, tears apart the poor cushions.   

Am I just this labradoodle, I wonder?

4:00 a.m. I stare at the ceiling some more, and think of India as a bowl – a large, noisy, chaotic, colorful bowl, filled with an overload of sounds and smells and flavors. The only way to survive it, is to give in. To become part of the color and chaos. To develop the lightheartedness, and sense of humor, to get through it and to enjoy it. To even lose yourself a little to the collective whole. You don’t choose to be in the bowl. You are already in the bowl, and in many bowls even. Your job is to figure out how to navigate the bowl.

On the other hand, in the West, each one is a bit of an island. Islands do come together and form beautiful patches of land. But it is a conscious effort. These patches of land can be harmonious for they are filled with intention, and purpose and definite direction and knowledge of where they are headed. Proactivity and individualistic decisions are guiding forces that steer these islands towards creating larger patches of land, that they may choose.

And if you don’t make the effort, you will always remain an island.

I suppose, both have advantages and disadvantages and ultimately, people are wired differently, and some may prefer bowls, with ready-made environments, while some may prefer islands, with their vast expanse of openness.

4:30 a.m I think I should go downstairs and write. Hmm… seems pointless. It feels like I say similar things over and over, in the same format even, each time I am jetlagged.

I try to remember what I have written earlier. Memory being vague, a few ideas emerge… Of collective vs. individualistic societies and communities in the East vs. the West.

Of being a round peg, that is now square. Which no longer completely fits in the round hole, but is still a little too round to fit in the square hole.

Of maybe the purpose of jetlag is to process everything we experienced in another time zone and make sense of it in the current.  

5:00 a.m. I decide to go downstairs and cook lunch. My mother often wakes up very early, and instead of trying to go back to sleep, she will finish cooking for the day. This last trip, I warn her each night when I stay with her, “No pressure cookers at 4:30 a.m., no blenders at 5 p.m…” Hmm… I had better be quiet in my cooking.

5:45 a.m. Lunch is ready. Jetlag may not be such a bad thing after all… I make myself a cup of tea and reach out for bakarwadi. As I put the bakarwadi in my mouth, I am flooded once again with musings of India.

I know that as I pack lunches and walk the dog and go about my routine, these musings will fade away like fog in sunlight. Maybe that is the whole point of jetlag… that you lay awake in the quiet of the night, in the stillness of your home, and process the thoughts and emotions involved in shifting continents, from moving from your place of origin to a new place you now call home, of noticing round pegs in square holes…

Maybe I will feel the same each time I travel. Maybe I will make better sense of it, after each trip. Maybe, I will learn to better process it emotionally, with better acceptance. Maybe I will learn to treat it as a vacation and stop wondering why returning from India, never feels like returning from a vacation.

Or maybe I won’t. And maybe I will write the same things, in the same format over and over again...