Maya - The Parrot

It was a beautiful day in the valley. Chilly and overcast. It looked like the world around me was filtered through making every hue appear deeper, every detail appear more intricate. The kid duo prompted me to drive up the hill and drive down upon picking them up - so the influence is slow, but utterly sure. They look for the placement of the sun and the landscape basking underneath. "Look" the first born pointed out - "I see such finer detail and more homes up the faraway hills. I think they are washed out in the brightness on a sunny day" 
There's a saying in my native tongue - about Parrots and the way they speak - It loosely translates to "To which ever nest the parrot belongs, that language it speaks" 

I know, There's no trace of the topic Of Maya the parrot as yet, except this random, useless incident of my day, and this random useless capture I did on my smartphone - but what's a woman to do? I feel compelled to hand hold you through the silliest of my thoughts with the silliest of props.

Yeah, we'll get there momentarily, but to get to Maya the parrot- I need to do a prologue that dates back to my third grade. This was the time when my love for color and painting was emerging. The brand Camlin made a watercolor palette for kids, that was called "Camlin Cadet, students' watercolor cakes" - It had this assortment of fifteen water color tablets and those were my best friends in that day and age up until the day I found a loose wooden bird that fell off of a knick knack that was on my father's working desk in his office. I tinkered with the bird - which was carved out of unlacqured/ unpainted plain wood. So the bird in question that got estranged from her clique had species ambiguity. I got her with me and painted her a few saturated coats of parrot green with the watercolors giving it a crimson beak and collar- the results weren't vibrant and glossy but the easy to please kid was pleased nevertheless. Thus, her new pet Mynah the parrot came into being. Now please do not ask an eight year old why she would call a parrot a Mynah and no, the parrot didn't have an identity crisis. I assure. 

Mynah came with me to school, tucked safely into my pencil box. Yeah, she was tiny. But she packed a big punch of joy with her. On retrospect, I realize I had such rich imagination. I used to speak to Mynah - tell her random things about me and my life. Like I tell this scroll even today - Old habit and all that wisdom, case in point, it is so true :)
So anyway, right there was my yearning to somehow have a parrot for a friend. To hold one, to pet one, to speak to one and like Uncle Cohelo says 


"When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you achieve it."

Surely indeed, the universe took close to a couple decades to materialize this yearning. What you are seeking, is seeking you - Right? right!

Enter Maya.

Maya was a Indian rose ringed parakeet, The exact one I tried to model my Mynah after, years ago. She was the pet of our friend and neighbor's five year old son. When I first learned of Maya and her entry into this household, I couldn't stop myself from paying her a visit. The day I actually got to meet her wasn't sooner as I yearned. So when I went, the family had stories and stories about her quirks, how shy she is and how it is better I enjoy her from a safe distance. 

Who'd have thunk that Maya would make an eye contact with me - an intense 'there you are' kindaa one. And before I knew or someone stopped me, I opened the door of her cage and offered her my hand as a perch. 

Maya came hopping and landed right on my wrist and to the utter surprise of our audience, I find myself settled in the family's easy chair with Maya settled snugly in my lap. As she made herself comfortable, she found a button on my shirt and started pecking at it, punctuating her chore with looking up at me every now and then. Maya felt hollow and was extremely agile - she stomped up and down my torso pecking at the buttons and looking at me as if to watch for my reaction. she and I spent a chunk of time while her family wondered in the background.

"She never does this. Trust us she is so shy"

(I kind of related to what they had to say as my own five year old toddler did the same thing to me once in a while. "She has stranger anxiety" I once told the stranger in the railways station back home when they offered to carry her - and my little baby decided to smile at them and offer her hands to be carried"  Talk about life's little speed breakers ;))

I didn't have much to say to what they said. I was in the middle of feeling like Potter that had discovered that he was a parsletongue. Ever since, Maya and I had our frequent hangouts. Every opportunity I got, I used to sneak out and pay her a visit. In the process of bonding with Maya, I did useless research about parrots and found trivia that is fascinating. No, I won't share any here. Rest assured. I do not want to up the bore-o-meter of this ponder.Or may be it would make this banter interesting - But we'll let it be :)

One day, Maya flew away. Phew....she just made it into the backyard and poof...gone! Domesticated birds aren't supposed to do that. The grandma of the five year old was mighty pleased. She thought it was a torture to have birds as pets. But according to my research, the domesticated birds cannot make it on their own in the wild. Maya metaphorically lived her name. She was here, and then she wasn't. Even till date, I wonder what had happened to her. May be she's one of those oddities that defied norms - that's possibly why she chose to fly away.

"So I love you because the entire universe conspired to help me find you"


My thoughts drift to Maya every now and then. She's made a very intense childhood dream of mine into a reality. I hope, she's out there somewhere livin it up in her own terms, making her own dreams come true. 

One nought two

The little yellow rascals 

Bloom in bunches

Popping up here and there

Like sparks from

The camp fire

Accenting a bed of green.

I let them be. 

What if they aren’t planted?

How cool actually 

That they spring up on their own.

What grit! What inner drive

To sprout and survive.

Weeds!

That condescending sound

Their name makes..

Would feel

Challenged don’t you think?

Once it spots itself 

Labeling a dandelion in full bloom

Looking like a feather ball

A halo 

A wishing prop!

A wand of bubbles

Waiting to be blown

In the party of sunshine.

We pluck one. And another 

“I want to blow them”

She squeals

Chasing after the specks 

Once they unravel in her gentle exhale.

Weeds. 

The ones that need to be uprooted

Morph and melt into meager miracles

Making wishes out of 

Something so disdained!

101. And counting.

I had been hit by the block lately, Eversince the recording of the hundredth blog for the year, there's a mental slack that kicked in despite desperate measures to keep at punching the key board to take the tally a notch up. I have about seven to 8 blogs marinating on random topics that might or might not see the light of the screen. This morning, I had wiled a chunky portion of my productive morning hours squinting at the screen, nodding my head in disbelief at the kind of stuff I was typing out and holding the backspace to make it run a reverse marathon to obliterate the said horrors of the said musings.

Some still wait in hope to be salvaged and published but we'll see....

In the afternoon, being the screen nazi that I am, I didn't let the second born watch any tv. It's veterans day and a long weekend for the rugrats. While the first born paced the entry way, looking every bit like a Ted talker and practising her mock 'Ted talk' for a language art credit which kept her busy and off my back (Don't ask me if she sounded like a Ted talker as well. The talk is about "being present" by the way - yeah - Charity, clarity and all that mighty lofty stuff begins at home, or I hope they began at home in this case atleast ;)) the second born found novel ways to keep herself busy, once in a wile pouting and begging for some screen time.The pleas were promptly dismissed.  Around after lunch I started feeling bad for her when she was entertaining herself talking to the fresh white mums in the vase. It occured to me that I'd never really hung out with the second born by herself - so Her and I decided to go have some ice cream at the nearby plaza and wile some more time, but ofcourse in a funner way than raking head over passable ponderable musings.

The usually independent and "I can take care of everything by myself" Kiddo came and held my hand in a firm grip once we parked our car and got out to walk to the ice cream shop. "Let me hold your hand amma, cars can come and scratch people in parking spaces" she offered her wisdom and caution.I took this moment to hold her small, warm hand gently in mine. I was suddenly pondering about the comfort and security a simple holding of hands could offer. As if the universe wanted to resonate and validate my thoughts, I saw people holding hands everywhere - a young father walked past us, holding both of his daughters' hands and a teen couple crossed our paths with entwined hands, to a point where they looked conjoined. I let out a smile thinking of the manifestation of this simple, loving gesture. But the hand holding that really caught my eye was the senior couple's. These beautiful people were walking just a couple of feet before us. I saw the interlaced fingers, the way they stepped forward in unison - wondering if the choice of their red and blue outfits is in some way meant to commemorate the Veterans today. Just as I swooped my phone out to capture that tenderness on my lens, the lady stopped and turned back. She put up her foot on a nearby fowerpot and restrapped her sandals. We made eye contact and she smiled. 

For a second, I was disappointed that the hand holding came undone and wasn't sure if they would resume again. Sure enough, the gentleman waited by his lady, with a eager hand out. She quickly grabbed it again on off they went on their unified stroll. 

I grinned. And then did a hasty click fest on the cam, making sure to filter through the outcome to choose the one capture that would preserve their privacy but freeze their affection all the same on my ponering space here in this virtual cosmos. 

I looked at them till they disappeared into the nearby coffee shop. And as the second born and I walked back to the car, I smiled at the tinyness and the warmth of that little hand in mine, as she gripped my hand tight and firm. I quickly snapped a picture of our hand holding, of the long skewed evening shadows ofcourse, in a selfie of sorts.

As I walked, I remembered a mystic's words I'd heard in the past - words that spoke about the power of joined hands in the "Namaskaram" pose the hindus make as a greeting. In the same speech, he spoke about how when we hold our own hands together, would connect and balance our own divine masculine and feminie within. 

"Do the right things with these control panels" he offered.

And what more can be righter than holding another person's hand - in love, companionship and security!

Thoughtless

Thursdays

The ones that are supposed to be thoughtless.

Submerged in spirit, removed from identity.

The day that the Guru loves -

Occurring mid way, like crisis' contra-entry

Thursdays make everything special

That scoop of ice cream tastes creamier

A new scarf wrapped around the neck

lends a special flair.

That phone call to a dearest,

Wait, even a heart wrenching loss

Becomes soul drenching on this day.

Morning sun filtered through blinds

Catching a gleam on the china

Making the cup transform into a work of art!
It’s got to be the day!
"Wow" I gasp.

The bystander offspring makes an eye roll

"Mother, you are an abuser of Wows"

"On top of being an abuser of that phone cam"

"Why would you click pics of critters and cups?"

"Of the boring and the blah??"
The teen didn’t get the memo looks like!
It’s a Thursday.
It’s like putting a monkey on substance
When you put her Mom in a Thursday.
And what better day to complete a one hundred?
Here goes the century
The celebration.
The supposedly thoughtless
Meditative, non contemplative
Irony’s lost child
Yelling in triumph that
It’s a Thursday.
And on this day,
Blah should sound like Bliss.
And a teacup should look like the Taj!
It should, it should. It has no choice.

This and That

It was some kind of a maze

Grown to make one get lost

That was the whole purpose..

The lost, lonely, panicky feeling;

The thrill it offers.

The relief, the triumph 

When you steam through
The dead ends, 

The bare walls

That stand and greet you

Only to deceit you.

But he marched along, nevertheless

Holding the sister's hand, firmly, gently.

Trotting in a way 

His Four years on the planet

Kind of step back and wonder,

If they had counted themselves right!

I follow him armed with my DSLR

Trying to aid my heart's capture 

With supporting visuals.

He removes his shoes

And jumps into the corn pit

And stomps away.

I stop, to look at him

Wait till the eyes lock.

He holds the gaze a second longer.

Don't these kernels hurt your feet?

He looks at me and smiles

And looks through me, with a dusty gaze

Like I am a piece of glass, a sheet of paper.

He holds his sister's hand again

And replies 

"They hurt my feet, but not my walking"

I freeze.

And I gasp and sigh

on a piece of my screen

The depth of those words!!

Pictured - The Corn maze by the pumpkin patch. Somewhere in the Golden state.

Verse

For every dusk witnessed 

For every dawn survived 

Those moments lived on between 

Those breaths taken in rhythm 

With the orchestration.

For every pain sustained 

For every joy cherished 

The mundane, the magical

Captures on the mind’s lens

For the dreams inside the dream

The pretenses inside the act

For the unconsciousness 

Trumping the awareness 

For the childishness 

Clouding the wisdom  

For these stray thoughts 

Like these lost steps

Traced with mere words 

Merging with meaning 

And melting into muted Being

Let this plot unfold

Like a dew drop on the lily pad

Attached  but detached 

Attuned but free 

Flying over the setting sun

To the nest of destiny 

Into His open armed vastness

Transitioning the make believe.

Let the soul merge..

Emerge!

A sweet page in my Story

Arcee quiet literally, barged into my life. He didn't knock, he didn't ask if it was okay to step in. Right off the bat, when I was reluctantly made a part of my school group, Arcee was there to welcome me, with funny memes, absolute comfort zone, like he had known me all his life. He wasted no time in shortening my name to a never before version and that stuck like glue for the rest of my tenure in the group. Truth be told, we weren't in the same classroom though we belonged in the same batch and I could faintly recollect seeing him in the school assembly and corridors. So I stepped back and wondered if he had known me. And my game plan in the group had changed. What started off as 'let me be polite and accept the join request and put the group in mute' took a turn that I didn't ever imagine. His friendliness rubbed on on me. It made me feel like I returned home. It peeled the layers of fear of crowds and my introversion and made me go in a full blown cycle of 'self discovery'.

I say self discovery, because, Arcee's owning me in a very strange way, helped me discover my deep connection with the school and all the memories that dwell in me, which were never really spoken out or processed. After a long long time, I finally felt like I belonged somewhere. Like there is a group of people out there, that would relate to all my seemingly trivial experiences of life and welcome me into my own world, with open arms. Suddenly, I was mining musable material that could fill in a biography if I wished to attempt one. I identified so many treasures and deep impact lessons from my first decade of life and gave them words. I didn't know when it happened, but that group became my virtual home. It was homecoming. And it was glorious - the most happy and content arrival of all.

As I discovered myself, I was presented with the purest forms of love as an added bonus. It failed me to understand how Arcee could just see everything I said or did in such absolute unconditional love. He played the 'I'll love you and spoil you rotten' mom's role. If I made a remark on a picture, he'd pop in from somewhere, wondering how I got that idea, or the appropriate words to convey it. If I said I was busy, he used to step back and say "I have to learn how to focus and do first things first from you." If I said I needed a break he said "But of course you need one. You are here to accomplish a lot of things, people like me can wait. It's a privilege to wait for you." If I said Hello, he'd say "That's the sweetest hello I'd ever heard. If I stayed silent - he'd say "Even your silence is soothing"

So you get the idea - it is about his ability to love. I was in  awe for the sweetest soul that never ever made anything about himself. He always shed such understanding and  positive light on the most silliest things I did or said to a point where I used to feel an overwhelming gratitude and embarrassment at the same time for all the lavish praise.

When we finally met, Arcee walked past a sea of people, directly to me, took my hand, held it with both his hands and said "Let your grace rub onto me" - At this point, I was like - "Yeah right, let it rub on...to me actually, let me learn how to love for the sake of loving"

In the three days we spent together attending the event, he played my personal Chauffeur. It was an utmost privilege to meet his inside and out beautiful wife and darling adorable children. When I met his wife she broke in the sweetest peals of laughter and said "There you are, I finally meet you. Ever since you joined the group, all Arcee was chanting was your name."
 Those three days were mine and just mine. I forgot who I was, whose wife and daughter and mother I was, I forgot my name, my address - and transformed into pure being. I stepped out of all my labels and breathed in pure existence, devoid of duties and running around. A piece of my life that lived for myself. His wife and kids happily took the back seat while the guest of honor was indulged with lavish love and attention. Every time I sat next to him in our ride, He dedicated a song and played it for me. I had the honor of discovering what a wonderful soul mate he scored for himself when I saw his wife being the same absolute sweetheart to everyone around her - speak about matches made in heaven!

In those three days, Arcee gifted me the experience of a life time, whether it was hauling me first thing in the day, to meet a friend and spend some time in the special need education school she runs, making sure that he showered the same kind of love on everyone that crossed his path and  making the efforts to organize a boat ride with all childhood friends, against all odds, just and just because I asked. Being the little frog in the well I am, that spent the majority of life in a closed circuit doing what mattered to me, I was overwhelmed by the love, the belonging and the concern that was being bestowed upon me. Knowing this kind of love reformatted me for good, in a profound way and I have kind souls like Arcee to thank for it.

After I took a permanent break from my smart device and social hang outs, Arcee still pops up, once in a while, with a sweet email message, never once sulking that his previous message went unanswered or never once taking turns and expecting me to follow through. The latest email he sent kind of made me flip over in joy and love - "I envy your kids" it read. "They are with you and get your love all along - For this Diwali, I hope you'll share some love with me"

I realized that I smile at his mention, at the sweet little things he did and does to make my life brighter, the little wicks of light he sends my way with his "no expectations attached" love.  Ironically, the one that keeps giving poses like the receiver - may be that's what true love is, the giving soul that whole heatedly and in all grounding and humility believes that it is getting instead.

Arcee - I am too analytical, logical, pseudo intellectual, selfish and detached to engage in your kind of giving. Bless your heart for being you. For how you make me feel like a child being doted on by a parent every time you cross my path. I might be a horrible in reciprocation, but just know, that I can never, ever put into words the gift you have given me, the experiences, the purity of friendship like it is supposed to be in an ideal world. My life is blessed with your presence and I had become a better person just by knowing you. For this Diwali, I want you to know that no matter what I give you, it'll pale in comparison to what I got in return.



And I am sure Rumi met his Arcee somewhere, to have thought of this quote.

And for this Diwali, I wish everyone experiences this kind of love in their lifetimes. Happy Diwali :)

Ponder

In the past decade, I had seen several cases of cancer in my close circle. Just as I am typing thes thoughts, I’d counted the loss of eight lives. Lives that had crossed mine in big and little ways, all of these people had some emotional connection or another with me. Five of them were ladies. Three of them hadn’t seen past their 30s. Four of them passed on with breast cancer. One of them left a direct and deep impact on the collective lives of me and my immediate family. 

Breasts. I often think that these appendages probably qualify as a the most 'obsessed about' body part of the female anatomy ,for obvious reasons. They render such allure and attraction to the female form, they function as nourishment to the human species, they sit over the heart. Recall how that sleazy  chart buster in Khalnayak dodges us to the apparent containment of the Choli?  But Of course, the breasts are located right above the heart, the power station where the weight of human emotions are processed. So a malignant tumor might be the manifestation of a weight carried under those breasts, in the heart center.  

Now, there are numerous reasons why people get breast cancer - I say people cause I learned that men are prone to it as well, though not as commonly as women. It could be one of the many random reasons that can trigger any form of cancer. But as I hear and read a lot of literature about the subject of cancer as the significant other does his research, I gasp as the variety of reasons that could trigger it in a human body. I was particularly intrigued by the fact that unprocessed emotions, traumas and turmoils play a part in the onset of breast cancer. I read a research paper recently, that pointed out in the direction that studies connect bottling up of emotions to the trigger of certain forms of cancer, with special reference to the breast kind. 

A very dear friend of mine, that had been fighting bravely against a nasty lymph node cancer told this to me in our many conversations about life and its content "Drop the stories - my therapist told me" she said. "I had carried too much of unprocessed emotions in my throat all my life - to a point where it wanted to burst out and here I am with this ailment" I listen to this woman in hypnotic awe and wonder if my own family member's breast cancer was in some way a weight that she carried, unprocessed and unaddressed. She is long gone to speak or validate my doubts but I sit here and shudder for all those bottled up emotions we carry around, denying them a let out. 

As I ponder about the mental and emotional side of the triggers, I cannot help but address the well meaning, probing questions  and judgments an ailing person or family is subjected to. When I told one of my friends about my MIL's breast cancer, the first question she asked me was "Oh...Why? Didn't she breast feed?" I didn't know how to answer that. Now, how delightful would it be if breastfeeding worked as a vaccination against breast cancer! Right? "Oh but she isn't a non vegetarian either" another acquaintance offered the elimination diagnosis.  I particularly cringe over the viral posts that are shared as awareness spreaders. I once read one such post a dear friend forwarded to me. It was a critical analysis about how Sonalee Bendre, the actress suffering from cancer, brought on to herself this fate, by poor lifestyle choices and extreme dieting practices. It had a condescending tone to it, almost sounding as if the actor somehow deserved to get the disease and we need to use her as a bad example to educate all and sundry about the stupidity of the choices she'd made. I wasn't angered when I read the article. I was saddened. We are such paragons of rightful living that we take it upon ourselves to dissect and shame a person battling life and death. I remember getting into an altercation with the friend for supporting and circulating the insensitive content, but I don't think the objective of the argument was met. 

We quickly, conveniently, somehow feel this intense urge to attribute, dissect and judge something even as grave as a life threatening illness. I am not sure if we can pin point the reasons of any illness with accuracy, but the 'bottling up' of emotions made absolute sense to me. We as humans carry unseen loads in our hearts, not all of us are brave or strong or alpha or even lucky enough to speak out our hearts and address our baggage. An oncologist friend of mine that practices in India once told me how some women patients that come to her often have stories of heavy oppression and emotional turmoil and abuse that precede the occurrence of cancer. To all the folks out there, with special reference to the families, I want to share what little I think would really help us in awareness and avoidance of a chronic illnesses. Please look around your surroundings and loved ones and offer support and attention. Listen, care, let hem let out the emotional toxins that come as side effects of living. Better yet, prevent causing stress and distress to your dear ones. Give time to your relationships. converse, offer love. As they say. happiness is the antidote to all illnesses. Also, don't duck breast exams. Early diagnosis is key to winning over the ailment. 

Sometimes I cannot help but laugh at the collective obsession of the human kind over breasts. How both men and women participate in it with equal vigor.  The ladies obsess over the size, or the shape or the sag or the perk and the opposite sex, over the other side of what these fat tissues present to them. We have a billion dollar augmentation surgery industry and a porn industry cashing over this obsession. So as we find pleasure in them, let us also find reasons to treasure what lies beneath them - the heart - the power center. Let's not let a shallow allure override a deep effect. Let's not limit the fondling to the flesh.

Let's atleast not hurt if we cannot heal. 

Why?

Questions address you 
As to Why?
Why do you write??
I attempt an answer 
And fall silent.
Is it that hard
To speak out what I can write?
It perhaps is -
Because when I write
I operate from a level beyond
My senses and sensory trails lead me to.
I write, as countless emotions
Cross my mind, like overlapped radio stations.
Things not meant for me
End up with a new destiny
Frothing out in my scribbles
Finding words to awkward silence.
I write because I purge
The pains that I push away
Denying them an existence.
I release little joys that hover around
Into words, and viola - they find a new lease of life
Preserved to be retraced, relived!
What a relief, a therapy this writing!
And then I write some more 
To tell stories that I would never live
In places I'd never be
Donning many bodies I'd never dwell in.

But the magic carpet of this imagination
Transforms. Launches,
Manifests a new reality.
I write to capture the tears that well up
Upon witnessing a sunset,
And seeing the humming bird vibrate around the vine outside my window.

I write to speak about how I miss, the people I miss
How I love the people I love.
How madly, deeply I feel
The feelings that elude expressions.
I write to record
How little, insignificant moments 
Add up to a life of meaning, of magic.
I write to crystallize tears into carefully carved art
I smear word salve
On the nips sustained
I heal, as I write -

I write because
I don't need a listener to my unspoken words.
It becomes a conversation with myself.
In a insane way, it preserves sanity.
Talk about poetic justice
And how it is served to me
While it is denied in a parallel world of speech and sly.

I write to rip my heart open
And empty its contents into unfiltered spaces
Sometimes I gasp
Cause I find that I tell this scroll
What I hadn't told myself.

And I am still asked why I write.
I do.
Because I breath.
And this writing renders a meaning into my breath.

Ponder

As the new school year commenced, ahem, a couple of months ago (*jaw drop optional* - it's been two months already? :-0 ) I had to look far and wide for a new preschool - the second born is all ready to extend her scope into some learning. While, we as parents, do not put too much pain into making sure the academics are Ivy league worthy, I did realize that by the age four, the first born was reading fluently while the second is still in the process of identifying her alphabet. Now, back in the day, my parenting was pretty hardcore - I didn't have a diversion from my full time parenting gig and all I seemed to have done was spend copious amounts of time with the first born, so by three and a half, I taught her every teachable thing that could be thought to a toddler, and then some.

Fast forward to the second in line, I seemed to have figured out the 'take it easy' route. While I still spend relatively large amounts of time with this one, I let her do her own thang - like leaving all the playdoh jars open to air dry the content to a useless crust, scribbling on furniture and walls with crayons and using washable finger paint to explore the Piccasso in the making. In short, I let her own spontaneity take the course and just watch her while she lives it up. It occurred to me that she'll start kinder the next year and we need to do some readiness and a curriculum based pre-k was the need of the hour so she learns some order and alphabet. The co-op prek the first one attended is shelved in this part of the town and I wasn't sure if I wanted to drive a 30 mt road trip to deposit her there, twice times two, if we count the drop and getting back - the reluctant driver that I am, I found a place closer - not as close I wanted it to be, mind you, but closer than the hour back and forthing I talked about.

When I first followed my GPS and drove to apply at the pre school, I was kind of miffed at the traffic signals and the time it took me to get there. I quickly finished the formalities and got home. Not until the second or third trip around was I able to spot the beauty of the route as I was previously engrossed in following the directions lest I lose way.

What started off as a chore has now become the most awaited routine of the day. I mute my radio, clutch to the steering and breath in the view after view I am greeted with, while I drive my precious cargo to destination learning. When I dip the steering right into the subdivision, I drive through a natural arbor of lush green trees, arching over from both sides of the road, creating a cool and comfort that makes me want to park the car smack dab in the center road and do an alfresco camping. No, I am not that cuckoo yet, not yet! trust me, to act on that whim, but one of these days, if I find the road deserted enough, I'll quickly click the image for sure, to reference here. 

I drive past the left that leads me to the school just so I can drive back down hill to get a sprawling view of the valley below, with homes and barren land, punctuated with a green carpet of a golf course. Sometimes I parallel park and freeze looking at that serendipity. Who would have thunk,  that apart from getting the kid to count and read, I get my daily dose of ponder worth marvelous - just driving a few miles that actually transforms me into a vacation of sorts, twice a day, all week.

When the heavens are extra generous, I even get to sneak a peek at the heavenly show off - like this gorgeous guy, playing around with the mackerel clouds, putting up a show that calls for a stand up ovation and a capture in the smart device. One really doesn't need filters when nature does it for ya....

Then I realize, for the zillionth time in this life time, that the world is full of beauty when the heart is full of love. All it takes is a perspective and a will to spot what's right there.

Bring on the chores I say - adjust the mirrors and the paradigm, they might end up looking like magic!

Matt and Bessie time.

Despite making Bessie and Matt dwell in my mind 24x7, like some kind of a wall paper behind my daily grind, I do not give them the scope to be here as much as I really think of them. Drawing makes up for more effort than my lazy, old bones are willing to take up I guess, or perhaps, the procrastination thingie is a bigger wallpaper than these two. Any which way, They take the back seat and I thought that shouldn't happen. "Too fair", If my second born is to be quoted. She uses that in lieu of not fair, BTW. She has her own set of grammar and wordage established at that tender age, and momma is mighty proud - like a momma ought to be. 

Now, momma is also mighty proud of Bessie and Matt, who are incarnates of the same soul so to speak- a soul that has elaborate  string of symbols, old lazy bones and a friend of life that  gently nudges her to take it easy...after all, homemaking and parenting are full time jobs by themselves - aren't she supposed to get a breather and make some things wait?  - but not for long, not for long - so The duo makes a sloppy, cheesy appearance. Something better than nothing, sometimes late better than never - I know you'd agree :)