Purpose

I spot her, among the many miracles 

Punctuating the walking trail

Amid aquamarine waters

Topped with diamond froth,

Emerald grasses grazing the footsteps.

She looks like a fleck

With an aura larger than her dainty form

Like a blueprint for a camp fire

Or the orange ball blazing the skies.

Wildflower, like the queen lioness 

Packs her presence despite her littleness 

Living her finite lifetime

In her obliviousness

Spreading herself unconditionally 

Unfamiliar with her own magic.

As I arrest my thought and connect with her being

A purpose ties us like a mystic web

This meeting was a cosmic pact

For her to feed my awe

And for me to freeze her grace

Those ombre petals inspire my words in praise

A gist that fits in my pincer grasp

Yet surpasses everything I am

And every word I string.

I humbly surrender to her highness 

The tiny bloom that blessed my way.

Release

It is always fun to receive flowers. No matter what they say about the flowers dying quickly or being substituted by a plant or something else that lives longer. I mean, everything perishes eventually, so enjoy the creation just for the 'blink and wither' beauty they offer. In a way flowers are metaphorically there to remind me the transience of everything around! Speaking of transience, I have to mention the trigger of this ponder - we received flowers for the Man of the house's birthday. The two of us, namely the second in birth order and yours truly got them to the table with a grin plastered ear to ear, as the arrangement looked yummy and had a couple of balloons attached to them, to boot. Now throw in some yummy flowers and colorful balloons and that's got to be the definition to a party alright.  Cake, is customary, but we can make it optional as and when the situation demands.

We soon discovered that they were literally yummy - these flowers. Now, I didn't use 'Literally' figuratively like it is being used lately, but these were literal 'edible' arrangements. Bits of fruits cut like assorted flowers and topped with colorful sprinkles on dipped melted chocolate. Me, being the intuitive being that I was, knew in a jiffy that the rest of the two members of the family would just have a pictorial evidence of this consumable piece of work. So I clicked a pic and promptly got to devouring the bouquet. When it comes to fruit, there is little one can do to compete with the resident fruit monster aka the second born, so I let her have her easy win while I nibbled on pineapples cut like daffodils and honeydews lending them the green leaf company.

Once the basic instinct to fill the bellies was taken care of, we settled comfortably in the couch, kicking around the helium balloons to address the entertainment that nourished bodies seek. Now that's where the title and the picture prop for this rattling would come into play, if you are still with me and wondering where this is all up to, and if this was really a plot hole. Nay not so people. this isn't such. The balloons kept finding the ceilings once in a while and the living dining space that opens to the second level wasn't a very conducive arrangement to pull them back against gravity. But it was entertaining all the same. It is amazing how a simple ole helium balloon still stays relevant in keeping the human monkey occupied in the time of high flying virtual gadgets that keep us hooked. The timepass we both got out these things was outstanding. Eventually, we put some weights at the end of the strings and let them be accessible for the next time we wanted them to be our playmates.

And like all things that have their up and down graph, these balloons succumbed to their downward curve. They didn't still lose their ability to defy gravity mind you - they just lost their ability to hold the interest of the three year old and her mom that lost count of how old she is due to early onset of age related amnesia. And did you hear them say "Necessity is the mother of invention"? Trust me people, it is a tried and tested adage and how do I know you might ask - it is just because I was one of the participants of the lab testing for that adage. So, obviously, you need to be on the top of your game to keep an antsy, hyperactive toddler engaged for the day, specially when you, in all your old fashioned glory would guard the said toddler from screens of all shapes and sizes. As I saw the two forlorn balloons in the corner, the flash of the light bulb got lit from within. I collected the balloons in one hand and said "Do you want to say bye bye to the balloons and let them go in the sky?" 
"In the sky?" came a question for the question. She did a slight turn askance looking like a confused puppy and complied. Quickly we parked ourselves comfy on the garden bench in the front yard and did our final good byes to the balloon duo. I know, such dramatics are very necessary in toddler care giving. They work like a charm.

We gently let the balloons go and watched them lazily drift into the sky, first it was above the neighborhood ever green, then a thousand feet above. We both cranked our necks till we could see specks of the balloons rising up and up. A part of me wondered if she'd ask for them again and what the plan B for that situation should be. Luckily, she seemed to be absolutely at peace with the let go. It kind of made me ponder if kids are our actual spiritual gurus in the way they live their lives - feisty, spirited and in the moment, not lamenting too long on the hold ons...I wished that let go for the grown up world, where each of us, absolutely move on from the clings we experience once in a while and release all the fears, the bad experiences and the hurts like they were just balloons. 

Well, wishful thinking is a thing and hope trumps in human existence.

pic courtesy - Poster of Disney Pixar's animated feature UP.

Mastercraft

I look around, it never fails me
His vast canvas, this green globe,
To supply the props for ponders.
I hear a whisper of air, a moist drop on the skin
And look up.
The blue space mocks at my littleness
Then smiles like it was kidding.
The streaks of nimbus put up a show
"There's your cue" they seem to chuckle
Like He was in a mood to play on his canvas
Running his paintbrush dipped in clouds.
His strokes shape shift
Now looking like a dainty Georgette veil
Sneak peeking the gorgeous infinite beyond
Now like a caricature of a flirty dragon
Serenading the crescent.
I trace the creation, devouring the craft
Determined to pay a tribute to His skill
I flatter Him
With a humble imitation.
And make puny tributes
In Mediocre wordage.
Till the little heart beats
And these five senses perform
I vow to sing his praise
Forever in awe
Never getting over the Source that inspires
Gasping, enamored and in complete surrender. 

Untruth

She unsaw him, he unsaw her
Walking through the same road,
No forks on the way, no blind spots
But they unsaw each other uncrossed.

Their eyes unmet, Their hearts unknew
They walked side by side, unaware.
Entangled but not unraveled
They traveled blissfully unpaired,
And Unthought, unsought and unbound

Unmade promises unkept
Unrealized bonds undiscovered
Until the end of the uneven road
Of Unfelt feelings unspoken.


Unlikely, unusual untold
This unaware story of love
Cause unowned is the way to own
And unsaid leaves it unhurt.

Unown  - that's the only way one owns.

Fan mail to Miss.Alcott

I was a middle schooler. Eighth grade to be precise. I was in a new school, new medium of instruction. It was newness overload. I was looking for familiarity. Things that make me belong. I didn't have to look far or wide. For the Library was right there, prominent - announcing its existence with quaint tell tale signs, one of which was a little black board dangling to a post. "Library" it read, in white paint. I was led inside, like I was under a spell. This was amazing, really exiting and guess what? It was all out there, and I believed, specially thought through for me to discover its content. 

The book cases were stacked to the ceiling, with glass panels showing off neatly arranged stacks of books. Being the government organization that it was, it had both the pros and cons of being one. The upside was that it was stocked like no other Library my humble small town had that was accessible to me.  On the flip, it looked like it wasn't really appreciated for its worth. I lugged around a little ladder and just took a feel of the inventory. The isles felt surreal, like out of a story book. The books smelt of age, doused in thick, untouched dust. I browsed through them all, my jaw grazing the floor and paused when I read a particular title.  "Little women" It read. 

The title oh so resonated with my adolescent psyche. I somehow believed that I was this know all, full grown, mature woman in my thirteen year old head, (A delusion that didn't dissipate until lately, but that's beyond the point and worth a blog space of its own) and Little and Woman put together fit the bill of my perfect oxymoron. It was almost like Louisa May Alcott coined that title thinking of this small town teen in a remote Indian territory. The next few days kind of shaped up a good part of who I had to become in my grown years. The March sisters came to life in my little head, thanks to the craft of Miss Alcott, and just like that, I was introduced to a layered, holistic learning. Ironically, decades down the lane, I make a feeble attempt to pay a tribute to the role this book played in my life, not just as a literary masterpiece but as a lesson of life.

Josphine March became a larger than life idol for me. Even to this day, when I think of a woman with substance, I have faint traces of Jo March flash in my head. Yea, it was a falling in love beyond teen crushes. Jo was my bromance. My super hero and there's something each of the March sisters taught me.

When Beth passes on with scarlet fever, the pain I felt was palpable. It isn't just the loss of her that I felt, but I was just beside myself with awe at the craft of Alcott. I vividly remember transitioning into a new chapter and just like that Beth's passing was conveyed in the most subtlest of word choice. There wasn't a mention of the word death anywhere. I traced back and forth in total awe, beside myself with disbelief at the power of a written word in the 'show don't tell' glory. I can confidently say that it was at that instance that my ability to see the unseen and hear the unsaid took its roots. Talk about the influence of an author on someone.

I realize that I really didn't revisit the March sisters ever since but a part of them stayed in the whole of me, like a gift that kept giving along the years. As I type this, I fell amazed and blessed to have crossed paths with Alcott and to have made that 'not so coincidental' decision of choosing that red calico bound book titled in Gold lettering. I swear, something nudged me, reaching out of that book, drawing me in like a boon from the book heavens. 

As I age, I freeze in awe at the network of orchestrated events in my life, like they were meant to be. It is numbing to realize that we all have our own road maps in place, in a seemingly chaotic world that looks as arbitrary as arbitrary can get. I sit here, feeling blessed than ever to have aged, to have read the little I read and retained the little I retained. 

Nothing is a coincidence and being a part of this intricate, personalized web of the cosmic illusion is, if anything, a magic in itself.

To Lousia May Alcott - with overwhelming love. Thank you for touching my life, giving my thoughts a shape, giving my heart a dream and being one of the masters that unraveled life to me.

pic courtesy - Cover of Kindle Edition of 'Little Women' By Louisa May Alcott.

The curse - Of too many inspirations

Writer's block is a thing. I don't really care what they say about busting it. One can sit there looking through the window, scanning every possible thought in the head and every possible vision that meets the eye, but it eludes you, the ability to write. But I linger on the other side of the spectrum of this aforesaid block as we speak - What do we call it? The antonym of Writer's block - I need to cogitate on a name as I type about this unique predicament that greets me every once in a while.

There's something fascinating about turning life's pages. Yeah, I mean ageing. "Every experience, good, bad and in between is here to help us evolve" This isn't a personal insight though, if the source of this insight is to be believed, we have it all embedded within, every scrap of wisdom we'd ever need as we are none other than a replica of the infinite source in this finite form, interconnected in a web of coincidence. Well, I'll stick to the ponder and get back to the problem on hand. What does one do when every little thing triggers this epiphany of sorts...It feels like a ploy to remind you of your human limitations while ever so slightly hinting at the limitlessness inside. Tricky right? I cannot agree more. So every where I see, I see a unusual bird through the window, with an unusual tweet, or an unusual coloring or body shape. I see sprouts of greens from the germinating garden, I see lush, abundant blooms and random critters crawling around. I hear minute sounds. A rush of things I need to ponder about floods through the confused lanes of the grey matter and I sit here, multiple windows open, with multiple titles forming a hodgepodge of things that need to be said, that need to be heard!

I resort to silence. The sought after stillness, the aperture between inhale and exhale where the cosmic energy is supposed to be gathered, unraveling every answer we ever need to know. I seek solace in that very silence, trying to shut the thought narrative that runs in an infinite loop, but only succeed in temporarily pausing it. And then it seems to manifest itself again, this flood of inspiration - like something inside is unclogged and is running free flow. Pray, who would have thunk that nothingness could be so awe inspiring? And I get back to square one of the contra entry of the infamous Writer's block.

I know I have miles to go before I sleep, and bummer that I don't know how much time there is left to cover these miles..none of us know right? But as I look for an antidote for the antonym of the Writer's block, I decide to engage in an indulgence of wordage on my little cocoon in the vast virtualness. I make feeble attempts to christen it...

Presenting the Writer's unblock! (Thanks to my chamber of catharsis, this dear, darling blog of mine)

Closure

Get the door behind you

Before the slash

Bleeds into the void

Of abandonment.

Pause for just a moment more

A burden on your business albeit

Cause it takes just that, a flash

To adjourn a false farce.

Flex that hand, snap it shut

It shouldn't demand too much elbow grease

To clean up on the messes

Of beautiful deceits.

Get the door, behind you

For humanity is a thing.

It might mitigate those fresh incisions

To a little effect.

If nothing else, 

It might bolt out new convulsions

Throbbing through the inlets.

Get the door...may be not.

It is perhaps a little less tedious

To do the honors 

Shunning expectations 

From emptiness.

How are you?

It is amazing how the most mundane of things present themselves in new light when we stop to notice all the lessons the cosmos is trying to unfold before us. We make insurance policies for our lives and vehicles, we save for a rainy day and we create trusts on the name of our children, subconsciously acknowledging that we might not be here to stay in the next moment. But more often than not, we fail to apply that knowledge to the smaller, more important aspects of our lives. We let the wisdom of our being mortal fall through the cracks and haggle for the pettiest of things in life. The other day, I was talking to a fellow spiritual seeker and told her that it is like we are in an exam hall, the answers are being dictated to us...all the wisdom we ever need to live a fulfilling life is right there, but we turn a deaf ear. 

Ironical. True. Sad.

But then, the persistent teacher that the cosmic plan is, it doesn't give up on us. It keeps sending us the right insights and inputs all over. All we need to do is blindly trust the institution and unblind ourselves beyond the trust, to see, to seek, to apply and stream through this divine illusion called life.

The lady was probably my mom's age, her tightly cropped curls shining in their silver glory. She was at the cash register where I went to pay for some goods. "How are you?" I always like beating the other person to that question. "Blessed. and you?" came the beaming, joyous answer.

It took me a few seconds to process that unusual reply. I usually say "Not bad at all" - the wordy, self proclaimed 'show not tell' prude that I am. I was wondering if she said "A blast" Instead of blessed and just at that very moment, her colleague at the next register asked her the same question. I listened with the concentration of a samurai ready to charge.

"Blessed. and you?" came the answer. I had no doubts this time but was not really over the joy this lady emitted when she said what she said. "Did you say Blessed?" I had to confirm. She looked at me kindly and smiled a cryptic smile, like she was conspiring with the universe to deliver to me the dose of wisdom I needed to cruise through my first world cares. "I am profusely blessed and I like telling it out loud so HE listens how grateful I am" She paused and leaned over the counter as if she were about to whisper a top secret. "Now" She paused. "It isn't that there are no challenges" (I was loving the choice of words here. Challenges, not troubles, mind you) "It is that they are there to make us more blessed"

I let out an inadvertent sigh. What a twist on a seemingly generic "How are you?" A question that we all probably ask, but never pause to think through to answer, or listen to an answer.

"Have a blessed day" She said as she handed over the shopping bag to me.

"Stay blessed" I smiled and walked out, with a spring in my step.