The furious rustling outside was not the wind but snow. It had begun by snowing softly, the flakes dancing gently on the wind, riding the air currents in a curious ballet. But now it hurled itself through the air ferociously, capriciously driving itself this way and that in some random rhythm. Great masses of it fell, blinding out the light like a sandstorm that hissed and crackled.
The wind direction was mostly southwest it seemed and it smashed the sheets of snow against the balcony wall, piling it up in one corner outside the window where she sat, in her arm chair, right at the glass with her nose pressed up against it, so that it seemed that the snow hurled itself straight at her face. A gust of strong wind driven snow attacked the window at reckless speed and she recoiled, instinctively throwing her arm up over her face and ducking to protect herself. It smashed itself against the glass, futile in terms of breaking it, but making it rattle and shudder.
The wind dropped now and the whacks became infrequent. But it still fell relentlessly and determinedly to the ground some flakes now much bigger than the others.
The shrouded cars stood lined up in the parking lot like a tame obedient herd in its stalls. One lone man struggled up the road battered by the sharp stinging pinpricks and driven back by the resistance of the flurry and reached his car. After a while she noticed that he drove off, but the zigzagging tracks showed his cautious search for the road now hidden under the uniform white. The heating in the room she sat in gurgled, another car hesitated in the middle of the road trying to make out where the road continued, it turned, the wind picked up again the flakes now defying gravity and moving in a upward swirl like confetti thrown by a wayward child in maniacal glee, the pile outside her door grew higher, the flakes fenced and clashed with each other in a deaf roar, the car now stood still in the middle of the smooth white flat stretch, its tracks behind and the road ahead swiftly hidden, lost.
Tuesday 19 February, 2013
Her came to her his heart breaking
He came to her struck down by bewildering pain and loss.
He came to her for comfort as all children do, seeking out the reassuring warmth of her love that flowed constant and unbroken towards him, unaltered by his actions, successes or failures. The first hours were awkward as they negotiated their new relationship to each other, not helped by the foreign surroundings and unfamiliar atmosphere. At first there was anger, resentment even. Unspoken but reflected in his short sentences, quickly taken offences, shrugs in the place of answers. But then it became better. Especially when they reached home to the modest house with its warm furnishings.
He walked into the kitchen as she bent over the kitchen counter cooking him a meal.
It evoked memories. As a small child he would trail her curiously in the kitchen observing her every move, asking about things he didn’t quite understand, his big black eyes noticing every small detail, waiting for the moment when she would finish her task and sit him on his high chair with his own special little patterned plate in front of him. He saw her now and the familiarity of the posture and the recognition of the care broke down his barriers.
"Ma" he said brokenly and opened his arms to her. She held him to her, head reaching only as high as his chest, her heart cracking open with the paradoxical joy of being reached out to and sadness at the loss reflected on his face. She felt the breath shudder through his large frame.
"Why, Ma, why?" The tension in his shoulders was incredible as he held himself back from breaking down, trying hard to be the man, pretending he had it all under control. It was just a part of life after all, just a failed relationship, just heartbreak, just a simple shaken self belief. It was too much as the tears coursed down his cheeks. For the first time since she knew him the tears were not from anger, frustration or rejection. They were born of pure sadness. An agonizing sense of loss.
She felt the warmth of his tears on her face. The knowledge that every mother holds about her child was present within that moment. The years of striving, of failure real and perceived, the hopes that rose and were dashed again, of trying to hold on to self belief despite the being of the outlier, the odd man out, the strange one.
She cried too, full of compassion and sad understanding. She had no words, no reassurances, and no wisdom to give him. She cried with him as he bid goodbye to one stage of life and ushered in the next, and felt their collective tears pool on her face, warm and full of the essence of life, in the space between them.
He came to her for comfort as all children do, seeking out the reassuring warmth of her love that flowed constant and unbroken towards him, unaltered by his actions, successes or failures. The first hours were awkward as they negotiated their new relationship to each other, not helped by the foreign surroundings and unfamiliar atmosphere. At first there was anger, resentment even. Unspoken but reflected in his short sentences, quickly taken offences, shrugs in the place of answers. But then it became better. Especially when they reached home to the modest house with its warm furnishings.
He walked into the kitchen as she bent over the kitchen counter cooking him a meal.
It evoked memories. As a small child he would trail her curiously in the kitchen observing her every move, asking about things he didn’t quite understand, his big black eyes noticing every small detail, waiting for the moment when she would finish her task and sit him on his high chair with his own special little patterned plate in front of him. He saw her now and the familiarity of the posture and the recognition of the care broke down his barriers.
"Ma" he said brokenly and opened his arms to her. She held him to her, head reaching only as high as his chest, her heart cracking open with the paradoxical joy of being reached out to and sadness at the loss reflected on his face. She felt the breath shudder through his large frame.
"Why, Ma, why?" The tension in his shoulders was incredible as he held himself back from breaking down, trying hard to be the man, pretending he had it all under control. It was just a part of life after all, just a failed relationship, just heartbreak, just a simple shaken self belief. It was too much as the tears coursed down his cheeks. For the first time since she knew him the tears were not from anger, frustration or rejection. They were born of pure sadness. An agonizing sense of loss.
She felt the warmth of his tears on her face. The knowledge that every mother holds about her child was present within that moment. The years of striving, of failure real and perceived, the hopes that rose and were dashed again, of trying to hold on to self belief despite the being of the outlier, the odd man out, the strange one.
She cried too, full of compassion and sad understanding. She had no words, no reassurances, and no wisdom to give him. She cried with him as he bid goodbye to one stage of life and ushered in the next, and felt their collective tears pool on her face, warm and full of the essence of life, in the space between them.
Saturday 19 January, 2013
Devotion is human endeavor
Our world is ever changing, insecure and unsteady. Our happiness is momentary: so fleeting and elusive that we can hold it only momentarily before it dissipates. Our sense of feeling grounded and of our world being in order is nebulous and often short lived before the next crisis brings us to a precipice.
How do we see and conceive of ourselves against this ever shifting background?
It is my assertion that self concept is the shadow that changes and distorts itself as is falls upon the geography of our mental landscape. Just as the shadow of a mighty tree that falls upon even ground is straight and strong as the tree; its shadow upon uneven ground is twisted and distorted. Similarly when we think of ourselves as powerful, we stride in the radiance of positive thoughts and our shadow is full and strong as it soars out invincible from under our feet and leads the way. When we feel weak and ineffective or are suffused with shame and self loathing it cringes under our feet twisted and distorted, creeping about in a cowardly fashion behind or beneath us. In the dark oppressive void of doubt and dread it vanishes altogether fleeing into the darkness, annihilated by anguish and despair.
Thus our mind is the battlefield where the battle of opposing forces takes place. Of being lifted up by life events versus being thrown down. Life finds itself in chaos: the constant surging up and the constant slipping down. We are the flickering lamp in the wind: shining steadily only for a brief moment before the winds of destiny threaten to extinguish us. And yet the light, the concept of ‘light’ that the lamp is a part of, does not flicker. Light itself is unwavering is it not?
Human endeavor is a striving for this unwavering state of serene steadiness in the face of constant trials. Devotion is one of the paths to attain it.
It (devotion) is a way of focusing on something which is beyond the quality to so fluctuate. It is invulnerable, indestructible, impervious but not impassive. To connect with this entity is to feel held steady, held safe and to share these qualities. One can then go about ones life knowing that though the light flickers and quivers; at its core it burns strong. When we can identify with this steadily burning core, or at least connect with it, we find the strength to endure.
Piety is one way to do so. It is however not the only form of devotion that can fulfill this need.
Devotion to an Art form also keeps us steady. Art is infinite and springs from an eternal source that is beyond good and bad artists and beyond criticism. It is never less than it appears, only more. We can let ourselves down in our pursuit or mastery of it but it never lets us down. We can fail to live up to it, not comprehend it, or be simply mediocre. True immersion in Art, true immersion in its discovery, an immersion that takes us beyond the social confines, can also be the devotion that keeps us safe and steady.
For those of us who have neither piety nor art - there is Social Order. Steadiness comes from rigid fixed rules and expectations. Norms provide protection through predictability and chaos is kept at bay. An illusion of being unassailable is created. The order of things, the scheme of life, and the concept of family, patriotism, ideals and duties we pledge unwavering loyalty to: These keep us anchored. Our shadows walk strong and steady when we walk this line well.
The end goal is then the same. The world burns us. Trials throw us down. We have to pick ourselves up repeatedly and walk ourselves to the end line. And what is this end line? It is not death or about facing death. It’s about getting through life. And piety, devotion as well as obedience are only different paths to this end.
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