Attack of the weeds

So I walk into my yard. Reluctantly, optimistically, doubtfully. Optimistic for the flowers and vegetables that could be, reluctant – given the weeds that await me, doubtful of how far I will get this year.

I walk bravely into the yard. Studying the overall unkemptness, I sigh big, tragic sighs. Think small, I tell myself. Obediently, I focus my attention on two vegetable beds. I decide to tackle the weeds and prep the soil.

I start plucking away at the weeds. Have I mentioned the therapeutic effects of weeding? Sometimes I wish I could pluck out all the problems in my life, the same way. Sometimes I imagine I am plucking away the problems in my life. Pluck…pluck…pluck…

(Now, if any of you are convinced of this therapy, I will tell you where I live, there will be plenty of therapy and meditation for you to practice. Hmm… Tom Sawyer and whitewash wall, come to mind, anyone?). Hmm… moving on…

My gloved hand reaches into a clump of weeds – to seize their last breath, to deliver the cruel kiss of death… when suddenly I am under attack! The weeds fight back!

They blast countless, minuscule green things all over me. Aphids – I think in dismay. There will be no planting this year, more dismay (some relief?). Willing and rather quick to give up, I pick the few weeds I have disturbed. Nothing springs up. I don’t see any aphids. Now most gardeners would know stuff like this, but since I’m only a phony, I am curious and peer down to see teeny tiny, green, wound up thingies (I know, I know - very eloquent and educated descriptions).

I poke another set – and right there, I’m under attack again! I sputter as tiny green things fly all over my face. What!! I’m being attacked by the weeds? Just how low am I on the food chain and how did I get here?

Determined to get to the root of this (bad pun and everything), and attempting to maintain my dignity before the weeds, I poke at the same weed (already disturbed). Nothing flies out. Ah… it’s their defense mechanism. I find a long, tall rake to outsmart them. I poke around and let things fly out wildly.

Later, as I bend down and yank away, I mentally murmur an apology for circumventing their beautiful nature-designed defense mechanism. I can’t but admire nature who equips even these frail weeds with means to defend themselves.

Defense mechanisms may be a thing of beauty. Well literally… as my mind wanders to years ago, to a balmy night in a bioluminescent bay. A guide takes our small group on a midnight kayak tour into the bay, on a near new moon night. I wonder what I have got us into (of course, this would have to have been my idea), as my muddy legs wade through the dark, marshy bog as we drag our kayaks into the bay. But the moment we climb in and oar away, all doubts dissolve into the bioluminescence.

The water around the kayak lights up, the water at the end of the oar lights up. My hand draws a line through the water. A line of light forms where my fingers have been. I revel in the disbelief of it all.  

We reach the middle of the bay, tie the kayaks together and swim in the balmy waters. We swim in speechless awe. We swim as light forms all around us, circular halos floating in the dark waters.

The marvel of the moments is from an extremely high concentration of algae in the bay. Their defense mechanism is to emit light when disturbed. Even if the light we generated by our movements in water seemed like poetry to us, it was disturbance to them.

I remember noticing the irony. I remember thanking the algae for allowing us to scare them, for allowing us to experience immense beauty in their fear, in their defense mechanism.

Till I get stung by jelly fish. Talk about defense mechanism. Only two individuals in the group get stung. And of course, one has to be – yours truly. Even if I retreat meekly to my kayak, even if my hand hurts like crazy, I remain in awe of nature, of interactions between species, of inner-programming of self-defense, of attempts to ward off the stronger species.  

What about us humans? We too have our defense mechanisms. Each of us develops uniquely our own set above and beyond what we innately possess. At times, they may be useful, at times, I suspect may come in the way of our happiness. And a few people may already know how to circumvent them with the long, tall rake they may use for us.

I suppose they are there for a reason, and we develop them for a reason, for self-protection, for guarding. But a mechanism, a learned response, may be hard to unwind from, even when we don’t need it. What are our defense mechanisms? How many of those do we need? Can we let them rest, knowing they will spring up when we really truly need them.
Can we let our guards down, knowing they will be there if and when we need them?

And perhaps there is beauty and vulnerability in these defense mechanism, just like the algae in the bioluminescent bay. And maybe it's okay to hold them in compassion and see its luminescent wonder, even if it stems from fear.


 

Te bagh…

The energy is bristling. 105 teams comprising kids from nearly 40 countries. The Lego World Championship is loud, noisy, high-energy, exhausting, amazing.

So much to take in. So much innovation and ingenuity at so many levels. Even if our young team of 4^th and 5^th graders widen their eyes and drop their jaws as they watch the big robots battle and form alliances (robots that high schoolers have built), I wonder how much of all this they are able to take in.

A zillion fun and exciting things happen. They meet kids from all over the world, they collect candy from all over the world. Sugar-rushed, they run, they leap, they shout, they even participate in a parade before a Cardinals game at the ballpark. They take it in. Yet, I notice amazing things – things they may be too young to comprehend.

A certain Middle Eastern team catches my eye. A mixed team of girls and boys. The girls are traditionally dressed in their hijab or head scarves. Yet team, or perhaps teen spirit seems to rule, and multi-colored dazzling lighted neon strings pour out from over their heads, from over their black hijabs. They match nicely the multi-colored neon head gears the boys wear. It makes me smile. I love these girls, conforming to their beliefs, yet displaying their teenage spirit and verve.

I wonder what it must mean for these girls to be part of a robotics team, to be here. I chat with them. I understand there are familial and societal challenges they have overcome, that it means so much for them to be here, that their participation is an inspiration to other girls in their country, in the Middle East region. I feel an inexplicable joy at their being there.  

“You ask me to bagh a lot” my kid tells me. Puzzled, till I realize she’s using a Marathi word in an English sentence.

“Te bagh,” I often say to her in Marathi, check that out, in English. Something noteworthy, notice-worthy -- according to me. I laugh. I suppose I do.

As parents, we want to point out what is interesting, important, curious, worth noticing… in our eyes. Our kids have their own energy and perspectives – which even if may not match ours, is a joy to share in, share with.

On their last robot performance round, seven small faces stare intensely at the robot table. Previous rounds have not gone quite as desired and on one round, their pineapple bot (robot name), even decides to power down.

Every part of their being seems to focus on the robot. For months on end, this pineapple bot has been programmed and reprogrammed, its limbs (read extensions) built and rebuilt, amputated, restored, tweaked, teased… its moment has arrived. And pineapple bot decides to rise to the occasion.

Even if the score is not high enough to win a prize, they achieve the best score possible for them. And they are beyond themselves in delight.

We watch them, we experience that inexplicable joy of watching your kids achieve the maximum potential possible for them.

There are tears in many a parent eye, the jubilation is bigger than the time they are declared state champions. For in that moment, each parent and child is completely present and participating, bated breath, and in tandem. We are experiencing the joy and success with them, through them. There is no prize, but victory seems huge.

We celebrate our children. As we must. Sometimes, we celebrate even when it seems like the last thing we want for them. As my then six-year-old climbs over 30 feet high on a conifer in the park, calling out, waving in delight with one hand. I gasp inwardly, and in the best even-keel voice possible, shout, “It’s okay to not wave when you’re so high”. I hide my panic and share her achievement and joy.

The joy in sharing their joy and perspective is inexplicable. Even if it is ours, it is bigger and better than many things that bring us joy in other ways. But again, every parent knows that.

And even if my child doesn't say te bagh to me, hopefully, when it matters, I will bagh, and I will share the moment...

 

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.