Rewriting stories

Last month, I saw my naturopath’s resident for bodywork and visceral manipulation. My body was in constant pain, I had incessant headaches, nausea, I wasn’t sleeping well… I was ill at ease all the time. I get impatient and frustrated in periods such as these. For there is no single solution, no single ailment to fix and address. It feels like an avalanche in the present, with roots in the past – decades of illness, surgeries gone wrong, intestinal perforation, months of hospital stay, truckloads of medication, ensuing complications – liver disease, scar tissues… you get the gist. The medical system worked hard to keep me alive, they did their everything, they succeeded. But despite their “success”, I live with what seems to me, unresolved pain and the outcomes of the illness and medical events.

It has been a journey and countless people have helped me. Family, friends, strangers, the medical community, the alternate medicine community who I rely on greatly… I am lucky to be alive and to live a normal life. Which is why I feel a twinge of guilt each time I am pissed at my lot, the aches and pains, and limitations, and the irritation that I will never be rid of it. Never. Ever. Grrrrr…

This piece is not to reveal my inner inadequacies in maturity, grace, acceptance… even if I may be doing a fine job of it so far. I simply want to share something this wise practitioner said to me, that gives me pause. And a certain hope.

We studied my abdomen as she decided what needed the most work. I started narrating the events of the past – of how the surgeon accidentally nicked my small bowel, of how the sutures came undone, and the ensuing mayhem which explains my pain years later.

A lot had happened. And my practitioner was aware. She listened and quietly said to me that my body was beautiful and amazing. That it could endure so much and be who it is, that my inner organs were wonderful.

It was hard for me to receive her kind words. She was speaking of a certain beauty, while all I could see were problems.

She continued hesitantly, asking for my permission to share an idea. The curious cat that I am, on a constant quest to make sense of the world, I was not passing up on perspectives from this lovely person. I nodded.

She said sometimes it is important for us to rewrite our stories. While there was no denying the bad, sometimes we need to shed light on the good occurring alongside. She spoke of a body-mind connection and of how our bodies are listening to our stories and how the healing process may gain from it. And reduce the stress. Once again, she reminded me of how strong I was, how beautiful my body was, to go through everything it had gone through and be what it is today.

I realized that each time I am in pain, my mind probably goes back to that time of botched surgery. I suppose it gives me an explanation of why I feel crummy. A justification even.

And easy as she made it sound to rewrite our stories, is it truly that simple?

Who would I be without that story? Was I willing to give it up? Did I need to give it up? It was one story. Maybe I could see that story alongside other stories of survival and strength, and kindness from others and sheer love. Those stories exist too. And they have always been there. Waiting. Patiently.  

How then, do I own these stories? Wholeheartedly, compassionately, without undermining any of it? In the wake of the other horrible stories occurring alongside? 

Perhaps I will have to be a braver version of myself. Perhaps I will have to give up certain stories that I am holding on tightly to. That may no longer be serving me.

Happy New Year my friends! May we be able to rewrite our stories to bring back our peace. That it gives us strength and brings the power back to ourselves, rather than to the villains of our past – events, circumstances, people who caused us pain. Let our stories be those of the strength we showed in those times. Of our perseverance, compassion, gentleness and courage.

And maybe it will loosen the grip of the ghosts of our past, giving us a certain freedom to move forward in the direction we would like to. In the direction of our true selves. For our true selves can only be radiant and luminous. Happy 2023!

Love,

Ruta

“But Why??”

My head and heart often seem to be at odds. Not in any clear obvious way, not like the Greek tragedies we studied in college with a tragic hero/heroine (me) at the center, who must choose between love and duty.  However dramatic I may seem, my life is pretty plain.

How are things “supposed” to be?

I wrestle with the thought – wrangle it, watch it, fear it… with uneasiness, with open curiosity, steeped in judgement, in compassion. Yes. Welcome to my headspace – you can do all of that in the same space and in the same timeframe.

I stare some more at the question. I am brave enough to take it out of my head, out of its assimilated state mixed in with the other stuff, stale beliefs, etc. I squint. I gaze. I walk around it in wonder. I stare some more. With curiosity. With puzzlement.

My head acts like the boss. It knows. Facts are facts. That’s the way things are supposed to be. That’s the path of safety and security. It is the policeman who knows its job is to keep me safe.

My heart is not quite convinced. It wanders around it with puzzlement and open curiosity. Once the head is a little removed, it can hear its own beating. And all it feels is puzzlement. It has many questions. Like my child who would flood me with endless “But why??”. Only for my every very logical response to be faced with another never-ending, never-satisfied “But why??”.

I could never tell if it was a game to her or if it was genuine perplexity. In the case of my heart, I know. It is perplexity. A lot of it. From many years ago.

Who made the rules, it wants to know. And why? My heart looks at my head in askance. Why do you give so much importance to so many things that you don’t really care about. Okay correction, that I (heart) really don’t care about. Is it because others value it? Because society values it? Because you were told so? Because you feared you would be nothing without it? Like my child, all my heart wants to say to my head is “But why??”.

Small things, big things, programmed things, acquired things. Tiny little metal boxes of inflexible beliefs and fears, sticking out, poking at us, waiting possibly to simply gather rust. They may be valuable to society or a greater belief system. Do they add luminosity to our life and being? Or do they weigh us down?

Really, I’m not asking us to break all the rules. Please return your library books on time and stop at the traffic light. I’m questioning the expectations and tiny rules we make for ourselves. Those that seem to matter to us when they really may not matter to us very much. The strictness we may introduce into our lives, which may be the result of lives led, past experiences, how we were raised, the list is endless…

The heart knows if something matters to us. And different things matter to different people. All the heart may want is a little more freedom, to breathe, to be. To be itself, and not be dragged about.

Maybe, all it wants is for the rhythm of its beating to be acknowledged. For its “But Why??” to be heard.

Grateful for me

If I write a blog sometime around my birthday, it is often about September, and changing seasons, and transitions, and the end of summer and perhaps, just a little metaphorically, of youth and energy.

I thought about it today as I walked the dog, and was struck by something entirely new, something entirely alien to my being. It was a quiet realization that I was grateful for who I was.

I suddenly appreciated my age and being older. I appreciated who I was and where I came from, the family I came from, the challenges, the wonderful experiences, my spirit as a child, the strength of people around me as a child.

In a talk I once attended by Tara Westover, author of Educated, she said we see ourselves through the lens of our family and how they perceive us and that and that has the power to make or break us (paraphrasing here). The thought stayed with me, and I wondered how it applies to the families we marry into, or if we move away from our families, to the communities that surround us. That seems like a slippery slope, one filled with needs of validation and reinforcement.

And yet, on my walk today, it was just me, appreciating myself – my broken body, my resilience, my quirkiness, my mad adventures, my talents – even if I let them dwindle away, my curiosity, my determination, and so on…   

Now, if there were one negative thing, I would most likely not associate with myself, that would be pomposity. And yet, this thought reeked of it. Yeah yeah, my pompous head is no longer capable of passing through doors. As I started deflecting my thoughts and deflating the swollen head with humor. I stopped myself. Humor was my way out. It’s easy to self-deprecate and diminish oneself, and many of us are good at it. 

Owning the good about oneself is hard. Congratulating oneself is hard. And yet, quietly and simply, I was suddenly able to do so. And I was in awe. I wondered if it was because it was a lovely morning and walk. Deflecting again. And the answer, even if yes, was no. My calves hurt, I was battling constant fatigue from a rough recovery from Covid, my kid had recently got Dengue fever, it had been a rough summer.

Yet, despite the less than perfect situation, I was able to see it all as fleeting. I was able to see myself and my life as not completely consumed by the challenges. Deep down, I knew that I would see through it all and that I had support.   

Dude, this has got to be some kind of growth. And how can I make this feeling last? It all sounds and feels so centered and mature. Almost Zen master-ish. I never want it to end.

Truth is - it probably will end. But the fact that I was able to catch its wispy tails, even if it fleets away like the summer, and the fleeing fall leaves, it is a feeling worth noticing and savoring.

I hope you will too 😊

 

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…

The ten heads of Ravana… a retelling… of a retelling…

Today is Dassera. The day Rama destroyed Ravana in an epic battle involving monkey armies, monkey Gods, intriguing and powerful demons, and much valor and bravery. I have always loved the allegorical telling of this mythology… the victory of good over evil. Of Rama, the conqueror of all evil, the restorer of all good.

This morning, I peek into my yard and am delighted to see bountiful marigolds, yellow and orange. Nostalgic reminders of Dassera spent decades ago in India. Of my tiny fingers enthusiastically stringing marigolds garlands interspersed with mango leaves, of the bright orange and strings dotted with green, everywhere. Of books, vehicles, all “instruments” honored with marigold offerings. A bright auspicious day of new beginnings, fresh starts, of good overcoming the bad, the old, the unworthy.

Over the past years, I have seen images of Dassera wishes that depict the victory of good over evil within us. Ram is within us, as is Ravana. More allegorical mythology. I have paused, I have appreciated the thought and the retelling.

Images show a brave Rama destroying Ravana and his ten heads, often depicted as a shadow, emerging from the same place as does Rama. Rama and Ravana are intertwined, and Rama destroys Ravana and his ten heads, each of which depicts a vice within us – victory of good over evil, within ourselves.

In the past, these images have given me pause. I have appreciated them. I have aspired to awaken the Rama within, to destroy the demonic Ravana with the ten heads – each symbolizing vices that don’t I don’t need … fear, anger, insecurity, jealousy, worry… you get the drift.

Today, I see one such image. It gives me pause, again. But something feels different, and I poke and prod that uncomfortable feeling. And it gives me pause, again.

The ugly ten heads of Ravana do exist in most of us – like from an ice-cream parlor, each of us has our own ten flavors and ten heads. And while it would be wonderful to be a brave and valiant Rama, destroying, crushing to the ground, turning to ash, those ugly heads that we no longer wish to have inside us, I suspect it may be more complicated – for they are far too interwoven in our being. Whether or not we may be proud of them, whether or not we may be aware of their existence, whether or not we may be in denial of their being, truth remains that they are still a part of us, and a part of who we are. 

This realization and my analysis or retelling even, of the symbolic heads of Ravana seems doomed. It has neither the valor, nor the grandiosity of the mythological narration, nor the romanticized allegorical beauty or happy ending. The inspiring story I have grown up with, is far more satisfying and one I want to believe in for it tells me that the brave will win, and the menacing will be vanquished.

But again, can we simply tear down the ugly ten heads inside us – entwined in us, forming a part of who we are? There may be a reason why each of those heads came to be in the first place. And where I stand today, it feels impossible to simply destroy those ugly heads without understanding how and why they came to be and why they exert a force, desirable or not it may be.

From where I stand today, something tells me that rather than make them our enemies, and destroy them with bows and brave arrows, we must somehow inch closer to them, to see them, understand them. Maybe even find the courage to befriend them a little.

And while it seems far less heroic or romantic than pelting them with brave arrows and blows, it may take far more courage than that involving those brave arrows and blows. And it may need compassion, big, brave compassion, which may seem incongruous in their face; it may need maturity and understanding and self-love, to get closer to them, to not hate them, to not see them as their enemy.

And maybe that will cause them to soften and lose their grip over us. And that may still be victory of good over evil. Even if it looks different from the mythological tales.

They may not be reduced to dust to simply vanish from our being, but they will lose their grip over us and allow us to be free. They may always continue to exist and may always have the potential to rear their ugly heads, for they are a part of us… and yet, we may have won… without going to battle…

Another September…

Birthdays are for cake and celebration and plenty of attention. As we age, birthdays are often, for reflection.

It may not be the fact of another year passing, or the increased wisdom acquired from another year (ahem… even I claim so, despite its wobbly truth), it’s simply the time of the year. Each year.

I have written other blog posts about September and birthdays, about passing years, and changing seasons, about time and its fluidity and I continue to wonder where we fit in this continuum. Are we bystanders watching time flow and leaves change color? Are we in a symbiotic dance with it, influenced by it, influencing it? Are we trying to control it, wanting to turn it, taking charge of the now, so we can influence its course? Time passing now, connected to the future… are we living in that future, in a time that is yet to happen, futile even if it may be…or are we eyeing the heap of passaged time, wondering where it went, what we did, regrets, joys, hopes… all part of that heap?

Clearly, I have no answers. Only questions. And fleeting thoughts… like time fleeting…

I love that my birthday coincides with a season of change. Is youth the warm summer soaked in sunshine that I don’t want to see end? And yet, it must... and I must let it go. Will I do so with ease and grace and wisdom, or will there be kicking and screaming involved?  Wisdom (recently acquired or not) tells me there is only one way to do so, and the feathery, falling leaves show me how.

I love that my birthday coincides with a season of change. Inviting movement, inviting letting go, changing… Like the leaves turning colors, and swirling away from the trees, I wonder how much there is to let go of, how much is held inside me, from the passing year, from the passing years… Can it just as organically, swirl and move away from my body and being… like a floating leaf of autumn? All that no longer serves me, all that which is best released, leaving me lighter, happier in the now…  

Another September… another year passing… wispy thoughts… swirling about in the autumn breeze…