Ring in the new… and for crying out loud… throw away that flipflop!!

Pune. India. It is Ganapati Visarjan (the last day of the Ganesh festival when clay statues of the deity are immersed in water bodies). I am about nine years old and in the midst of a loud and festive procession.

The skies above have opened, and the festivities continue in the downpour. The streets are flooded, and people dance and hustle forward shoulder to shoulder in the rain.

My skinny self is smooshed by the crowds and once the water reaches near my knees, I am placed on my sister’s fiance’s shoulder. Drums continue to roll, people continue to dance, the music continues to blare, the rain continues to fall, the water continues to swirl at our feet. I am probably pleased to no longer have to struggle through the knee-deep water, and the vantage view from above, is far better, and far drier.  We are probably trying to get home and it is all quite exciting.

Up until one of my flipflops slips and falls into the water. I flail my arms and cry out, but by the time my family realizes or even hears my shrieks and screams, it is too late. The flip flop is nowhere to be seen. It is lost in the flooded rainwater and the sea of humanity.

I am distraught and predictably, more bawling ensues. I hold on tight to the other flipflop. Honestly, I can’t remember if I hold it safely close to my heart, or if it is still on my foot, with my toes clenched tightly around it. Either situation is possible. I continue to cry – of that, I am quite certain.

My mother assesses the situation and my tears. “Throw the other one away,” she shouts.

I cannot believe it. Even today, I feel that same disbelief creep up inside me as I type this.

“Oh, just throw it away. It’s of no use and it’s only going to make you cry more.”

As I type this, I marvel at her courage. As a parent, I wonder if I would have said something similar to my girl, or ahem… would I have carried the other flipflop carefully back home and made a little shrine for it. Trust me, I really don’t want to know the answer to that question.  

In my eyes, I suppose my mother never lacks courage. In my eyes, I always seem to lack courage.

But back to the flipflop. Funny how that random memory pops into my mind as I get ready to wrap up 2021 and embark on 2022. What would I like for 2022?

A small voice inside me answers… to throw away that flipflop…  

Let go of that flipflop… and of all the things that weigh me down, of all the things that serve me no more, of all the things I am holding on to… tightly… for absolutely no reason…

Not sure if this is an exercise in courage or in letting go. Perhaps the two are intertwined.

You know what your list is… beliefs, memories, traumas, old habits, perhaps, even some people… our lists are different, if we dare to make such a list.

Easier said than done. Just ask my nine-year-old bawling self. For grief is assured. Even when you know you are never ever going to wear it again, that holding on to it is pointless… The act of throwing it away, of chucking it in the flooded waters swirling beneath takes courage and facing that grief and sense of loss takes much bawling. Again, ask my nine-year-old bawling self.

Happy New Year everyone!! May we ring in the new and bravely throw away all that we’re holding on tightly… for no reason.

But wait, how does the Ganapati Visarjan flipflop story end?

I take a deep breath and against every fiber in my body, I let go of the flipflop…  

Which means there is hope and that many years later, I can probably do so again…

Happy 2022 everyone! I hope you find the flipflop/s you wish to throw away! And I hope you find the courage and compassion it will take to do so.

Much Love,

~ Ruta  

 

The sensitive types...

 I never post any of my “free writing”. The kind that starts without a point, a direction, just a feeling, the beating of my heart, thud…thud… and like an itch, which may or may not be safe to scratch, I scratch it… I will share this however… for sometimes when you poke a finger in… it creates a little hole, or widens one that already existed… and perhaps, just perhaps, that is that where Rumi’s words, “the place where the light enters”, ring true.

 

Some just feel more, see more, sense more, intuit more… hurt more. It’s a blessing. It’s a curse.

The sensitive types are the ones who write the most beautiful poems, paint the prettiest pictures, create astounding works of art. They are often also, a little bit broken. From all that they feel, all that they sense, all that which hurts within… that they sometimes turn into art.

Van Gogh, Baudelaire and many other I admire led unbearably sad lives, even when they left behind incredible works of art. Many successful artistes have lived far happier lives and continue to do so.

This is not about artistes whose sensitivity and talent have led to great art. This is about the sensitive types, who exist in the day to day, the mundane. Not that there isn’t art in their lives, or creativity and a little bit of craziness, that comes from the brokenness and the sensitivity. They live in a pragmatic, practical world, with rules and expectations, and defined roles to play… like round pegs in square holes. They fool the world. They cover their broken, they draw safe boundaries around their sensitivity, the wounds, all that within, which could possibly hurt. Sometimes the boundaries become walls.  

They live with the those who are not as sensitive. Those who are practical and efficient, and don’t fall apart and hurt as much. They live with those who take reality as it comes, with grace, with practicality, with rationale thinking. They find the best solution. They do what needs to be done. In that is their salvation, their peace. They don’t hurt as much.

They sensitive ones watch them. For they see everything, notice everything. Judgement sneaks in, rationality even. It seems the right way to live, the right way to be. Why then will the brokenness not go away, when they simply do the right thing that needs to be done. Why doesn’t the hurt go away when the make the wisest choice that is to be made.

Whilst inhabiting with the rationale, the pragmatic, the sensible, why does the hurt grow bigger, the hole wider? Why do they feel weirder, like there is something wrong with them for feeling the way they do? Why must they feel broken or empty while making the smart, wise, practical choices that the world expects them to?

How do the sensitive ones embrace their sensitivity whilst living a normal life in a normal world? Like the “happy artistes” from before, some seem to do so. And that seems like a quest worth taking for the sensitive types…

To live their lives, in the openness, and brokenness of their existence, to show off the wounds, and the sore sensitive parts, and feel at home in the world… in a world that allows it, accepts it… a world that allows those parts, those feelings, without dismissing them simply because they can’t see them, feel them, be them. The world would be lovely. For we need each other to balance it out. To balance us out…