Old blog… new blog… Letting go…Letting be

My inability to let go, I believed was a roadblock to my happiness – or so I thought.

I start the letting go experiment blog – hoping it will remind me to let go easier. I start it, hoping I will write again – as writing feels freeing to me. I don’t post everything I write; I am not sure the thrust of the blog posts remains focused on letting go (or so thinks the former journalist in me).

After spending a good chunk of last summer in the hospital, I question the letting go experiment. I also question if my inability to let go has kept me alive. The many moments in which I think I will not make it, in which I doggedly refuse to let go. Grumpy, confused, scared, sullen, tenacious. The following may have had something to do with it:

Just as I am about to leave for the hospital, my daughter runs out and says in a serious tone, “Mom… don’t die, okay?”

I laugh it off and say, “Of course not. I’m going to be around to harass you for many years”

Truth is - I don’t think I’m in any danger and think I will be back soon. But things go south – as they sometimes do.

Perhaps she saved my life. Perhaps she saves my life every day.

The letting go experiment was never against strength and determination. Besides, things are different in a crisis and there are times we hold on with all our might and refuse to let go. We simply must.

Once the ‘big crisis’ is averted, there are often the ‘smaller crises’ or the aftermath to deal with and clean up. In many ways this is far more difficult. For in the ‘big crisis’, we pool in everything we have, we allow ourselves to be taken care of, to feel the pain, to be vulnerable.

Then we get up and stand on our feet again – for that is what we must do, right? Yet, the feet are wobbly, the pain still lingers, the fears still loom… Yet, we are back on our feet, we plod through our days and our lives. Good thing. Difficult thing.

In doing so, do we toughen up more than we can? Although I have written posts about letting go of tightening up and pressure, and expectations, and about self-compassion, and allow things to roll, something seems off.

I wonder if I am not giving myself permission to be sullen or scared, or whatever ‘negative’ emotion I feel - simply because as you and I both know -- these are things we want to “let go” of.

Yet, I needed to feel those things, perhaps I still do – to move past them.

In martial arts, the wisdom is that you have to first move in the direction of the opponent. Only then, can you divert or gain control.

Letting go feels like pressure, like yet-another-thing-I need-to-do. It makes me feel more discontented about who I am – in all my sullen, scared splendor.

Exhausted, I decide to simply let it be.
Besides that is the only thing I feel capable of. Sour grapes or not, I’m not sure. But I am relieved for the space in which I can allow myself to feel the pain, or fear or frustration, or anger, or sadness, without chiding myself for not trying harder to move past it.

It feels true. It feels real. It feels oddly calming.

The intention of course was not/is not to remain stuck in it (hopefully), in a stagnant morass of gloom.

But sweeping those feelings under the rug, or turning our back, or an impatience to let go of them, seems to make it worse. As in Vipassana meditation, maybe we need to be non-judgmental and show equanimity towards the emotions that arise, knowing they will rise and eventually fall.

And even if letting go is a wonderful thing, perhaps, there are times, when --

instead of letting it go… we simply need to let it be…


 

Real voice… Fake voice…

While clearing a bookshelf today, I may have found my fake voice. Ha. Nothing like a confusing statement to start a blog post, huh?
I may have found this fake voice in a tiny little booklet called Mind Sound Resonance Technique.

Simply put, the technique in the book, I had picked in India, is a kind of sound meditation. The idea is to chant certain sounds and feel vibrations of the chants all over the body. I decide to give it a try.

In a deep serious voice, I begin the series of chants – Aa… Uu… Mm… AaUuMm. Om…

I feel no vibrations. I remember trying it before. I remember not noticing vibrations. Total hogwash, I decide.
Hmm… could it be that perhaps some people are not meant to be spiritually enlightened yogis?

I decide to give up my quest – spiritual enlightenment can wait, I decide. That piece of chocolate, on the other hand, and my list of chores will not wait forever.  

Spiritual seeker or not, my curiosity is piqued. I go back to the book and sit down and close my eyes. Once again, in a deep, strong tone, I make the first sound. I study myself – so intent and serious. I wonder if I am trying too hard. I try a different pitch.  

This one isn’t as strong or important sounding as the previous. It seems more feeble, softer, gentler, less assertive or emphatic. It also feels more real. Somewhat disappointed, I continue.  

I realize I like the stronger voice better. Besides, that is my voice too. Yet, for whatever reason, it feels imposed and superficial. The softer, shakier pitch rings true. Seems right.

Even if both voices belong to the same person, the stronger one has more appeal. That would be who I would want to be, that would be how I would want to project myself – strong, confident, not-quivering. Why then does it feel more exhausting, less authentic?

In choosing the ‘better’, the ‘right’, the ‘sensible’, the ‘practical’, the ‘appealing’, the ‘acceptable’, the ‘approvable’, do we lost our authentic voice?

We’ve all done that. Smiled too wide, spoken in a pitch too high, smiled when we would rather glare, found our sweetest tone, when all we want to do it scream. Those are all our voices too. And to some extent, some of that may not be going away in the name of diplomacy. I can’t even begin to tell you how hard this is for the undiplomatic few. Sigh…

I wonder how we can remain true to our own voice. Our true authentic voice. How much of our life do we spend making sounds other than our own? How much of our life do we give up to these sounds? Do we snuff it out, no longer listen to it; does it seem less acceptable, too erratic, less predictable?  

I think of some shelved writing projects. Since last summer, I have not gone near any of them. A few short stories and a children’s book (that may never see the light of day).

Now writing can be a scary affair. It brings out authenticity and truth. I stopped writing for months last summer – fearful of what I would write, fearful that I would write only sad stuff. Perhaps I do.

In almost a year, I have not gone anywhere near the shelved writing projects, dreading that I will turn them into weepy tearful sagas. Yet the thought of sugar coating, or continuing in the vein I was writing them, seems phony and insincere. Why on worth would I want to do that? So I simply stay away.

We all know there is beauty in authenticity. Whether the voice is sad, or cheerful, or funny, or strong, or vulnerable – it will be beautiful when it is genuine. It will make sense, it will feel right when it is the real sound.

In the society we have created and in which we live, can we live only with only our authentic voices? How many times do I tell my kid, “don’t glare”? In “keeping face”, doing what we perceive is “better” and more “correct”, do we lose our authentic voice? Simply because it sometimes doesn’t sound as strong, or pretty or happy or virtuous, as the other ones we are capable of making?

Do we need to give ourselves permission to be who we truly are? Do we need to give ourselves permission to listen and to acknowledge our authentic voice?

Can we recognize the sound of our real voice?

Silken skeins – webbed or stray?

My daughter’s last annual medical check-up involves a blood draw. Eyes widen as she methodically evaluates each item on the tray – tourniquet, syringe, needle… The room steadily fills with tension emanating from her little being. As I watch her squirm at the thought of her looming fate, I wish for a giant syringe to draw out the tension from the room.

When the nurse momentarily leaves the room, two sets of eyes (hers and mine) stare at the tray on the table. Hers - with a sense of impending doom; mine – with apprehension about her reaction.

That feeling is familiar - that prickly hedgehog-like stiffness she exhibits. I have done the same on several occasions during my hospital stay. Rats… another wrong gene? 

“Can I tell you a secret?” I ask.

“Sure,” eyes still on the tray, tone suggesting a questionable level of interest.

“Sometimes,” I continue, refusing to let the tone discourage me, “I simply imagine that the person holding the syringe, is my friend. I even say a mental ‘thank-you for helping me feel better’.”

She lets out a sigh and an all too familiar shake of the head.

“That helps me relax and makes it all just a little bit better. Would you like to try?”

Her vague shrug serves as answer, but she seems to reflect (or continues to stare at the menacing tray).
…

“Did it help?” I am curious.

“Can we get ice-cream since I was so brave?” I laugh and give in.

As we lick our ice-creams, I wonder if she used my little trick. I wonder if she will remember it in the future.

I think of the many times in the recent past, when I had told myself, “This person is my friend. They are here to help me” and made a strange connection, to help reduce panic and ease the situation (mostly for myself – the other person was thankfully blithely unaware of this craziness and forced friendship).  But given that most health professionals are kind people, they probably wouldn’t mind.

Does a sense of connection ease panic? Does a sense of connection improve a situation? Does a sense of connection promote well-being?  

Is it really that simple? If so, why then are we not better at it, even if we seem to be programmed for it?

Would there be world peace if we simply connected better, if we shared the pain and sorrow, if we didn’t see ourselves so separate from others. If we didn’t try to guard ourselves as much – even in light of a menacing needle.

Is this self-protection? Is it ego? Just what gets in the way?

I know I get reclusive when I’m sick. My body gets into a state of guardedness that my mind doesn’t understand. It seems safer to be reclusive than to connect. It seems safer to not share this internal unhappiness, to spread the low-energy.

Yet, I understand life is more beautiful, more easy, more the way-its-supposed-to-be. We may only be a small skein in the larger web of life, but we need to attach, stay connected to the web to hold form.

In our webbed lives, how can we remain a stray skein away from the rest? All stray skeins need their silken counterparts to intermingle, to hold each other, to know that they are part of the web.

And even if the level of connections vary, the knowledge that we are more connected than we think, must help.

It must. If it helps me get through a menacing needle, it truly must.

The great book seduction…

A bookstore, a library, a book shelf, an old leather bound, a crisp paperback… they all have one thing in common. They make me happy. Yes. They make me happy inside. Deep inside. In a quiet inexplicable, fluttery, want-to-skip way. Books. All books. I’m simply happy to be in their presence. And they make me beam within.  

Little strange? Maybe. True? Definitely.

I’ve had this relationship with books, ever since I can remember. My eyes have widened, my pulse has quickened, a smile has creased my face… why, I may have had a crush or two on a character or two.

Like an early romance, books have been met with starry eyes. Like an early romance, they have been full of possibility and hope and excitement and discovery. Their capacity to make me feel, to make me think, to inform, to question, to love, to laugh, to cry… to allow my eyes to gleam with the joy of knowledge…

Despite our past, I now seem to have a fickle relationship with them. I still love them, but am not always able to connect with them. I no longer get so absorbed in a book, that I forget all else and everybody else. So lost in their company, that I’m lost to the world. The world around me now continues to exist with its mundane realities and obligations. Books no longer seem to have the power to make me forget everything, to take me away from everything.  

They continue to excite me, they continue to hold possibility. I remain surrounded by them – the coffee table, the bookshelves, my bag, my car...

But I’m now a fickle fiend in my relationship with them, unable to commit. Many will end rejected, will feel unloved, be replaced by another, before I can give them a decent chance, a respectful opportunity of what may be.    

Yet, at times, books call out to me – yes, by my name, with a quiet seduction, that threaten to take me away. Away from it all.

As we grow older and become responsible adults and engulf ourselves in that which seems right and important, do we lose some of our ability to give in, to lose ourselves?

I’m no longer what I would consider a big reader. I read slowly, leave books unfinished, get distracted, lose focus, interest, patience.

And yet, I feel their seductive power. Every now and then, I am held in raptures by a few lines, or pages, or the whole text, that I forget to breathe. I sigh deep sighs.

And on the increasingly rare occasion that this happens, a quiet satisfaction spreads in my mind. The entire world makes sense. Everything seems to be okay, once again…

Epilogue (little dramatic, I know, didn’t know what else to call this)

I wrote this a while back, but didn’t post it. I found it today and wondered why. Apparently it had a missing piece. That piece came to me quickly, easily and somewhat painfully.

Someone close to me was a reader and possibly introduced me to the world of books. In the annals of memory, is a tiny alley with a tinier bookstore piled so high with books, that I waited for them to tumble - they never did. As a child, I would watch peace spread over his face, when engrossed in a book. I rarely saw him as I grew up. Yet, his first question to me was always, “What are you reading?” My heart wrenched at the realization.

My reading had to do with an old emotional piece, rather than everything I had written above – so lightheartedly? What about knowledge and feelings stuffed beautifully in lines and pages, and my relationship to those words? My emotionality was surprising and somewhat dismissive of hitherto held notions. I was not sure which piece was more powerful.   

I wondered why I had chosen to write about it, in the first place. I wasn’t reading as much, or was finding it harder to read, and yet, was not willing to relinquish this part of me.

We are a sum of many parts, many complicated parts. Many parts we’ll never know or understand. I gave up trying to figure it out.  

My daughter is a reader. We have on several occasion snuggled on either side of our much-loved, yet ugly sofa, sharing a blanket, absorbed in our own book. I wondered if that was her reason for reading. It has often been our thing to do, when I’m too tired for anything else. Yet, it seemed dismissive of her love for books, in her own rightful capacity.   

Again, I told myself - we are a sum of many parts, many complicated parts. Many parts we’ll never know or understand. I gave up trying to figure it out.  

I understood that books will remain a part of my life. Whatever the reason. Whatever the extent. That I need not fear that this piece will be wiped off.

Joy. Relief. Quiet satisfaction.

 

Moments of faltering faith

Strange rituals sometimes take shape in our home. I sing to my kid each time she is scared to go upstairs, negotiate the dark hallway, and the loud whoosh of the water in the tub, when she turns it on. I have done so - diligently and tunelessly - since moving into this house over five years ago.

She may no longer be as fearful of the shadowy rooms with black gaping mouths, and our silly routine is possibly on its way out. But it continues to happen every now and then. 

“You can stop singing now,” she calls out, once the water is running, and the lights are on.   

Not to reveal the strange workings of our household or the general mental state of its inhabitants, but I sing the very same song that I sang the first time. For years, I have done so with an uncanny precision. With no recollection of how the original goes, mine has been mostly - off key, mechanical and blaring (after all, my voice had to reach upstairs, surpass and drown out the whoosh of the water).

When my vocal chords are asked to give another rendition, I sometimes wonder how long I will continue to do so. Is she still sometimes scared, or is it now general entertainment? Parenting involves many roles and court jester seems to be one of them.

So, the other day, when I hear the familiar, “Mom, can you sing to me?”, I reply in my most pep-talky-tone, “I have full faith in you. I know you can go upstairs and turn on the lights”.

She turns back on the stairs with a quizzical look, and says, “Yes… but will you still sing to me?”
I do.

Yes. She knows I have faith in her. But she needs to hear it (as discordant and off-key as it may be), when she comes face to face with the dark rooms upstairs. My singing voice is perhaps a symbol of the faith I have in her – and the louder and shriekier, the better.

For once, I try to see things her way. It is easier than I imagine. I recognize and even share the sentiment. Perhaps in times of faltering faith, we need to ride on the faith of others, or on the faith they have in us. Simply because they see what we cannot see or what we are not able to.  

I feel surprised at how sentiments are similar, even when degrees vary. Since last summer, I seem to have received several blows and confidence in recovery, at times, falters. Certain days, I do not find the strength to believe that things will be okay. An inexplicable dull wrenching festers, till I sweep it away.

“Hang in there. Rest on us, those who care for you”, texts a friend after I get back from the hospital.
This is a school friend I have not met in over a decade. She texts me several times a week. She has done so since my return from the hospital.

A friend visits me several times in the hospital (I remember only a few) to simply hold my hand.

There are others stories and others, who support and believe in me – more than I do. I feel humble and lucky.

Is it possible then, to hold faith in ourselves, in this vicarious manner?

Easier said than done – you and I both know this. For, in trying times, even when surrounded by love and well wishes, our guards are so high, and faith so low, it is hard to even receive the love and hope others offer. And of course, there are some who can turn guardedness into an art. Sigh…

So, is it really that simple? In times of our heightened fear and doubt, to look around and find the faith in others?
I understand this is a beautiful thing and I wish it were somehow easier to simply fall into this nurturing cushion. Effortlessly, without self-judgement or feeling like a burden, past the guardedness and self-protection.
Finding strength in tenderness, support in freedom. 

As for my kid, I’ll continue to sing to her till she leaves for college – unless of course, I accompany her there – to sing to her if the dorm hallways are too dark.
Oh well, at least I can threaten to do so.
 

Just don’t take this bullsh**. Ever.

You have been given these challenges – because you can handle them.

Bad things happen to good people.

This lot of difficulties was handed to you because God knows you can tackle them..

If you ever go through a rough patch and get doled out such platitudes, you have my permission to growl back. Growl such a growl that the lions in the Savannahs will welcome you into their tribe.

And glare. Glare such a glare, that every teenager out there, will envy your abilities.

In truth, I have neither glared, nor growled at anyone (so far), but I am learning to brush it off.
For this is total bullsh**. And you have my permission to never take it from anyone.

No one is happy to be handling difficult situations. If they are doing so well, that’s wonderful. Tell them whatever it is that you feel about them, tell them how they, or their handling of the situation make a difference to your lives. DO NOT, let me repeat in caps again, DO NOT tell them they are they are going through it because they can handle it. And DO NOT receive any such BS from anyone either.

For even if the intention is well-meaning, as it normally is, what it seems to endorse, is that it is their rightful share – that they deserve it in some way. And that is simply not true. Ever.

What it seems to endorse, is that things will continue in this manner – always – because there is an element of misfortune attached to them and their lives. And that is simply not true. Ever.

What it seems to endorse, is helplessness, a general overarching belief that the world believes this is their lot and that they’re stuck with it. And that is simply not true. Ever.

If you want to help the person, be their friend, believe in them and for them. Even when they don’t find the strength to believe in themselves. Find a stash of optimism or strength, and gift it to the person.

Please do not validate (no matter how well-intended), their situation or predicament in any way that suggests that they deserve it, or that it is their lot – simply because they can handle it.  

And we can leave the growling to the lions and the glaring to the teenagers.

 

Creating space around travel experiences…

The suitcases are stacked away, travel clothes are put away… I continue to sort things – in my head – about travel in general. I continue to write about it.

Here… let me take you on a travel-planning tour… ahem…inside my head. A germ of an idea settles in. The squiggly thing worms around causing sizable neural sparks. Each time a new possibility hits the neural pathway – be it a possible destination, a historical fact, a monument, a museum, a local delicacy… the lightening along the neural network is dazzling. Or so I imagine it must be. 

Yes. I stare wide-eyed at pictures, hold my breath as I read about places, squint at images – nose sticking into computer, stroke magazine pages with amazement, wonder and optimism.

I believe many of us do so in the planning process. Then of course, is the matter of gathering poise and composure and sharing details nonchalantly with the spouse. Admittedly, in the last decade, my plans have been a lot less adventurous and his apprehension lower, questions fewer. But we can save that for another blogpost.

Let’s blame it on the cynicism of age and dwindling of spirit, but I now wonder if the daydreaming and excitement over an upcoming trip, may be the best part of the travel experience.

For in that moment is the sweet knowledge that this will soon be reality. Yet, in that moment, there is no interference from flight delays and dusty roads, and stomach bugs. In that moment, there is no exhaustion from staring at things – no matter how wonderful they may be.

Is there truly such a thing as too much of a good thing? Can there be actual fatigue from taking in too much art, too much history, too much architecture?
Is this all a case of sour grapes – as I find myself more exhausted when I travel? Or old age? Perhaps.

Why then, when I think of the Louvre in Paris, do I think fondly of the café au lait in a tiny café in the adjoining alley? Did I get weary looking at all the art and wonder in the museum? So much so, that rather than Mona Lisa’s smile, I remember my own - filled with satisfaction, sipping the café au lait?

Why then, when I think of the Sistine Chapel, do I think of a to-die-for gelato and a silly salad comprising only roasted peppers that I got, thanks to bad translation? Despite all the wonder, did I get tired of standing in lines and craning my neck, until a wall of humanity pushed me away from beneath Michelangelo’s fresco?  

Why then, when I think of the Rialto bridge in Venice, do I think of a tiny sandwich shop crammed with people? The owner spoke little or no English. Nor did he have time to try and explain. It smelt wonderful in there and apparently, by the crowds filled in the tiny space, the small sandwiches waiting patiently behind glass cases were pieces of art.  They were.

We will never know for sure what we ate. But we polished off every last crumb in wonder, and laughed as we almost spat out one – evidently, we had not acquired the taste for whatever it was inside the sandwich requiring an acquired taste.  

Clearly, I seem to have no taste for art, history or architecture and can think only of coffee and ice-cream and silly salads, and sandwiches with who-knows-what in them. Sigh… yet the person planning the trip, excitedly jotting down possible destinations - picking, choosing, discarding places is doing so based on art, architecture, history and not gelatos or makhanlal’s lassi in the heart of Jodhpur’s old city in Rajasthan (which by the way, needs its own post).

Does a certain saturation set in our mind and our eyes from too much of a good thing? Of staring at things and reading historical factoids, one after another. And no matter how beautiful, does a certain exhaustion creep in?

Take our recent trip to Rajasthan. We stare in awe at palaces and marble structures, chiseled temples and monuments – so much art, so much history, so much wonder… Why then, do pictures progressively decline as we move from day 1 to day 7? I look for pictures of the City palace in Udaipur – I find only a handful, I find fewer that seemed to be clicked with care. Hmm… dusty, hot, tired and ah… right after that delicious traditional lunch we had in the… okay okay…

Not to reveal apparent gaucherie and gluttony in wake of famous, awe inspiring art and history, but does a been-there-done-that mentality creep in as we join the hordes that explore the palace in Udaipur? The palace can be explored only in one direction -- the hallways are tiny, ceilings are low, crowds are plenty. There is boredom in my daughter’s eyes as we look at opulent remnants of bygone times. We seem to politely click pictures for it is beautiful and we know it, yet, we walk with a quickened pace and there is relief on my kid’s face, once we're outside - in the sunshine, away from the opulence.

A series of doors remarkably aligned that they look like framed mirrors
Now only if I had actually stopped walking and taken a good pictures  ~City Palace, Udaipur 

 

Like any framed artwork which shows better with some blank space around it, do my travel experiences need moments of vacant spaces around them to appreciate them better? Do the café au lait and gelato constitute that empty space?

Perhaps it is in these moments of rest – of gelatos and lassis, and unpronounceable salads and sandwiches, that we catch our breath – away from the spectacular wonder. And perhaps, these moments filled with rest and tired and empty staring, add spots of vacant mental gaps and a certain space around everything the eyes and minds and soul have experienced.

A little empty background that allows the wonder to stick out.

Staring at a giant iron kadhai bubbling with Rajasthani kachoris

Lilt of the flute provides space around the marbled opulence

 

Traditional music in the Mehrangarh fort - a musical respite from the amazing architecture and artifacts