Bringing the old and new…

It has been a little over two weeks since our return from India. Two weeks of readjustment, recalibration, and tuning up. Jet lag was a part of this recalibration, but only one part of it. The sheer length of the travel and what it took out of Anjali and I, needed us to figure out a new way of relating to each other and the place we called home. When we entered our house after an arduous, over 30 hour travel involving two planes, one bus ride and the stop-overs and start-overs in between, Anjali learnt a new word: home. She ran from one end of our living room to the other, repeating in delight – home, home, home. Indeed we were glad to be home, and see Abhi.

What then unfolding was longing. Missing. Comparing. Anji waking up in the middle of the night asking for the place she left. and me missing the old predictable routine we had had before we left. Ah the comparing mind. The only thing it does is bring suffering. After over a week of this dance, I realized this was a new place we were in. This was unchartered territory. Anji was in a new place – new developments, emotions and the pain of sheer growth. and I had to meet her there. We weren’t going back in time – to before our India trip or to the time of the trip itself. We weren’t time travelers.

Once I made that leap, we could go back in time – cheerfully. Visit our photos and videos from the beach, time with grand parents, seeing planes, long air conditioned car rides, ceiling fans, autos and buses. And we could see with new eyes what was in front of us: abundance.

Indeed in the three weeks we were gone – nature came into full bloom. Spring arrived here, loud and clear. The roads lined with flowers, trees heavy with blossoms and bees, sunshine and warmth and the grass so green it felt like you were wearing a green lens. Everything was so green. Surrounded by this beauty, we countered our jet lags and new routines with gentleness.

So now here I am, finally, on a warm sunny day, writing in this space. I missed it. I missed being here. and I am here now. same as old, and yet new and different. As each of us are in every moment, every day. May we allow ourselves to meet this moment with openness and grace.

With Love, S.

The details…

Today I feel a loss of words I want to write so much but I am unable to! Everyday I see people who inspire me. Ordinary people, who bear their burdens, who have lesser than I do, but also have something more that is sweet in its humanness. The woman who did my pedicure yesterday, migrated from Darjeeling India where there are mountains and tea and cold weather and people speak a different language, to here, chennai which is coffee drinking, very hot and people speak Tamil. It was her acceptance that struck me- this is how things are – and the something else she brought to her work, a sort of gentle attention to detail. You can do anything well, with care, that’s what I learn.

Like Mary, who gives me a massage every other day, for Rupees 120, which is the equivalent of 2 $. She comes at 11.00am, after having worked in three houses, since 6.30am. She tells me she hasn’t eaten anything because she is fasting for her youngest son to get married, and will only eat after finishing her work and prayer, at around 2.00pm. And yet her massage is perfect, the pressure, the gentleness, and mainly the attention.

I love the cd of carefully chosen Tamil songs that our driver Chandran has made, that makes you want to drive forever. When he plays with Anji on the beach, I wonder if he plays like that, has the time to, with his 2 year old daughter. Our driver in Mumbai whom Anji calls Abbu, tells me that he still hasn’t seen his sister’s kids, who are 5 and 3, because there hasn’t been any time. When he picks up Anji, his face lights up, the way we have never seen.

I love the way the vegetable vendor chooses the chikkus for us. 40 rupees he says, which is less than a dollar.

Perhaps it is because I’m visiting that I can be a witness. I can hear the different sounds in the morning, of crows, and cars and dogs coexisting and not get annoyed at being woken up, or see the cluttered dining table with fruits and snacks, and medicines and glasses and mosquito vaporizers and not feel the need to clean up. I can simply be. And in being there is this space in which it seems obvious that my problems aren’t much. Here people deal with much more, with a smiling face and a brave front.

And that I have so much. So much to be grateful for.

With love, S.

Making memories…

It is hot hot hot in chennai. We are all complaining, all of us except Anjali, my nineteen month old daughter on her second visit to India. She is totally taking it in her stride with good cheer. And she has her instincts right – be outside in the morning when the breeze from the beach blows, go for drives in the ac car, and avoid crowded marriage halls under all costs.

Our time in chennai has so far been wonderful, relaxed for me, with my mom and dad revolving around Anji in a way that I can’t find words for. Its like magic, seeing their attention given so freely and watching them anticipate her every need and make sure she eats, she sleeps and she plays. On phone calls, I overhear each of them relating proud moments of how quickly she picks up things, how smart she is, and how even tempered (and how good with the iPad!). It is sweet and it makes me realize how special the bond between grandparents and kids are. It makes me glad I made this trip.

In the same room that I once studied for exams, read Jeffrey archer in bed and dreamed of potential boyfriends as a teenager, my darling daughter now lies, curled up on her belly with her face buried in the bed, dreaming her own dreams. It feels incredible that life comes a full circle, that it is my turn to give my parents: joy the kind only grandparents know and presence, of being and listening to their lives and their routines, now lonely without their two daughters, the apples of their eyes.

In this past week, Anjali has met new people, had new experiences and adventures, and our routines have been forgotten as we have played the way one plays during the summer vacation. I am a sucker for routines. Back home, If you told me I would let my child go to bed late or skip nap time to go to the beach, I would have scoffed. And here I am doing it.

I realize I’m learning the art of letting go, not just for myself, but also as an act of generosity, of giving the people I love something they will cherish – new memories. I learn too of the struggles my own parents went through when we were children, the struggles they never talked about, but they can now, with a sense of camaraderie. I too am a parent. This unspoken acknowledgment speaks volumes…

Mostly I feel peace, in this room that I grew up and that my daughter will know, and I hope, will come to make her own sweet memories, of hot summers and water melons and getting muddy on the beach, of power cuts and movie theaters and bhel puri and of crowded restaurants, loving relatives and pampering by her grandpa and grandma,

Tomorrow we head to a different city, Mumbai and Anjali will meet a different set of grandparents and I will get to see my beloved hubby.

So here is to sweet reunions, new experiences and to Childhood lived again, through generations…

With love,
S.

Journeys and destinations – part deux

Moments after my blissful writing of the previous blog entry – savoring the sunshine, and basking in the smugness of my knowing – the roof came crashing. Anjali woke up from her nap prematurely, and started bawling. She looked distraught and kept arching her body backwards. She kept pushing me away, and kept crying, shreiking, like she didn’t know what was going on. I had never seen her like that. My mind went back to our last time when she had the vasculitis and couldn’t walk. She has had an asthma attack from a lung infection as well. What if this was a sort of precursor to a seizure?

I couldn’t get hold of Abhi so I called our Pediatrician. They weren’t very helpful either but the Doc mentioned night terror. That rang a bell. As I talked to the Doc, I knew I didn’t want to take her to the ER. I have learned that isn’t always the wisest move. So I decided to wait it out. I opened the door and showed her outside – and the stroller – and tempted her with a walk to see ‘the construction’. She kept crying and still didn’t say a word. Then she saw the cat. And slowly she came around and she calmed down. The cat saved us.

It had been 45 minutes since she had woken up. Long 45 minutes. When Anji calmed down, I put her in the stroller on the doorstep of our condo– came inside and started weeping uncontrollably.

Here I had been – less than an hour ago – in bliss convinced that my life was perfect and I had all the answers. And the very thing I was talking about had happened – the change. And I didn’t feel like it was any kind of opportunity to grow! It felt terrible – this change. Not the kind of change where baby gets up, needs her diaper changed and we have a snack and go out. Or read and play. No, it was a change of 180 degrees – completely upside down. Where had my idyll gone? I felt utterly alone and utterly clueless. And here I was undertaking by my own choice to spend more time with my kid – instead of a job I was good at and knew what I was getting into. Why would I do that? I wondered.

The moment when that thought came in, I knew I wouldn’t change a thing.

But I felt awful that day – for reacting and panicking and for my own inability to bounce back. Anji did. One hour later, she bounced on the bed and said ‘happy’. I looked at her with a sense of amazement. How is this possible? What does happy mean in this moment? Why couldn’t I be happy?

I battled it all day until I realized – we have to own our feelings. We can’t push them away. Pushing them away only hurts so much more. So I did what was right – I held myself with all the love I could muster. I acknowledged. Of course I was scared and freaked out. And of course it takes time to bounce back.

The next day, I got a baby sitter and finally had some time to myself for the first time all week. In that space came the realization of how much I had needed it – my own space to be me and take care of me. When belly dance class came that evening, I was ecstatic.

So this journey is as much about taking care of us as our babies. Only when we make time for joy and mothering our own bodies and minds can we give others. It is about signing up for that dance class or yoga or going for that walk or starting that book group. It is about making space to figure out who we are, what we believe in, and how we want to live our lives. Not just so we can be better Moms but so we can be better human beings. Less judging, kinder, and more resilient. And when the roofs come crashing and we are not the picture of equanimity – we can start over. Right now.

With love, S.

journeys and destinations – part one

It is a sunny afternoon and I’m sitting outside on our porch with my computer, listening to the birds, the sounds of the neighborhood cars and the humming of the tractors from the construction nearby. Anjali is sleeping upstairs. Just the knowledge of that makes everything peaceful. It makes everything right – me sitting here right now, here in this moment. There are no questions of self-worth or doubts.

It is not often that such moments come by. Motherhood is filled with moments of attachment –to want to do everything right or perfect, to want to do our best, to be patient and kind all the time, to love, to be the model of discipline and control – not too much and not too little. To nourish our little ones with the right food and the right affection, so that we may raise sweet kids who know how to share and be kind, who may know empathy and compassion as well as joy and affection, and who can bring peace and goodness in this world. This is a tall order for a human being.

And then there is also the emotional piece – the holding on, versus letting go that happens every day. Letting our kids explore the neighborhood but not go too far. Letting them feed themselves but still sometimes want to feed them the buttery rice with our own hands, while they wriggle from underneath our grasp. Play run run and catch catch, and as we catch those little bodies and give them a hug, a moment of holding on and then letting go of their squirmy bodies to run some more and explore some more. In this emotional landscape of a parent, it is easy to get attached. We want to do it right and we care so much!

And perhaps that is why this is the biggest opportunity we will ever have for our practice. And the moments when the roof falls over our head – children fall sick, parents fall sick, baby sitters are unavailable, daycare is a germ nest and we wonder why we send our kids there– these moments become opportunities to appreciate how imperfect we really are and how little in control. How all of us are in the same boat – we try so hard, and in that trying is the joy and the peace. As Rumi says, ‘Lo, I am with you always means when you look for God,
 God is in the look of your eyes,
in the thought of looking, nearer to you than your self…’

Sometimes it hits me that while we have a destination in mind – raising a child who will one day grow and be on his or her own feet – independent and strong, gentle and kind, it is the journey that will matter to us in the end. How we travel this journey will make all the difference. The tiny moments of how we approach these dishes in the sink and the folding of this laundry of the umpteenth time this week. This new developmental milestone – that brings the explosion of words and cognition but accompanied also with tantrums and new self-awareness. Or this growth spurt that brings new capabilities – sitting, reaching, seeing – but with day and night of nursing. This meal right now and this walk on the stroller. This fall of Bud, beloved insect friend and the picking up and giving a hug to Bud. And this sweet kiss to Mama. This journey is what will matter at the end.

We don’t have forever. We have now. That’s the deepest realization implicit on this journey of parenthood, indeed in any journey…

May we continue with patience, kindness and love on our journeys…

with Love, S.

Relationships, pain and compassion…

I have been thinking recently of relationships – firstly of how I relate with myself – what is the tone of my inner voice and the quality of my attention. Just how much judging and doubt I bring into it – that mostly starts just as a tiny voice that simply wants to be heard. And also about how I relate to the people around me – especially my daughter Anjali.

At eighteen months, Anji has gone through a new development these past couple of weeks–that of developing emotions and their wider range – and with it, the struggle to hold them. The frustration at things not going her way, the disappointment when things end, and pain that she can’t have all her desires fulfilled. At 5.30am, she doesn’t understand why she can’t go out and see the construction (‘uction’ as she calls it…) And she can’t understand why after she had such a great time with her friend Tali yesterday, she has to leave and go down for a nap. Even though nap she did.

And when she woke up and Tali was not there, she cried. Normally my way of relating to her crying would become to make it about me – how I’m failing as a Mother or not doing the right thing for my daughter. Oh the helplessness of watching one’s child cry and not being able to fix it. But here was the opportunity for teaching empathy and compassion.

So yesterday when she cried, I held her and I gave her the words: ‘Anji upset, Anji crying. Anji miss Tali’. She cried some more and repeated ‘Tali Tali’. I listened and nodded and murmured my understanding. I held her some more. ‘Yes, miss Tali’. A few moments later, the crying gave way to whimpering. And soon after, it was replaced with the delight of playing. The tears were forgotten in jumping on the sofa and reading Danny Digger’s truck.

That was a breakthrough for our changing relationship and a valuable reminder for me yet again – that when we are pain, all we need is a simple acknowledgement and understanding. We don’t need fixes and we don’t need solutions. Just being heard is enough.

So when we sit with our own pain and breathe with our heartbreak, that’s what we do. We listen. We don’t react and we don’t try to figure it out. We listen deeply, attentively, and caringly. Our hearts feel like they are going to break, but we keep listening. And then something miraculous starts to happen. Our hearts start to open. The pain starts to feel sweet like wine because there is compassion. And tender like the morning after rain. And in that silence, we see the beauty of our longing for connection, peace, end of suffering and freedom. In that instant, we become free. Free to experience life in the moment – free to be present and make room for joy, gladness, peace or whatever emotion arises next. Joy too will not last forever, as nothing will, but we will be a bit wiser, a bit more gentle with our pain the next time around.

Wishing peace, S.

Goodbye…

Just last week I was still employed with the college I have worked at for over ten years, and now I no longer am. Its like it never existed, gone, a decade of doing a certain kind of work and being a certain kind of person. As the zen saying goes, now, there is no trace. In a few weeks, my email id too will expire, and then I will no longer be in the system. Perhaps it will be like I never existed at the college. My office occupied by somebody else, someone more ambitious than me, more hard working and capable and some one who will perhaps move up the ladder, into a bigger office. And then, before you know it, somebody else will have moved in. The nametag outside the door, printed on white paper, will be removed by some graduate student who moves into the outer space enclosing my old office – who will maybe wonder for a second, who this person was. Who may hear of me perhaps over some chance conversation about molar absorption spectra. But there the curiosity will end – there is too much work to do!

And I, as I start a new kind of life, will wonder every now and then about my old life, and what people are working on – which new research project and which new grant. It will be a passing inquiry, a sort of wondering that that doesn’t hold on. My attention will wander to other things and I will soon have forgotten about that momentary inquiry. Or perhaps on a sunny Tuesday day, when I’m sitting outside with Anjali watching her play, I will thank my lucky stars that I’m not at the weekly group meeting we always had on Tuesday mornings, that has governed more schedules in my life than anything else. Or perhaps, I will bump into my ex-Boss in town while grocery shopping, and smile at him with the same care I have always felt for him – a camaraderie for someone who is a good man and works hard. Or maybe it will be his wife I meet, and we will exchange greetings. If I’m with Anjali, she will exclaim at how much Anji has grown and changed, and that will be what marks the passage of time.

I haven’t yet thought of what will replace the energy I gave my job for so many years – all of my twenties. Part of the question has already been answered this past year and half – through becoming a Mom and the energy and attention it takes both of the mind and the body. And how in the midst of reacting to a stream of changes, of happenings, of every day routine, there are these pauses that stop time and make me speechless in awe that my life has changed so much, more than I could ever have imagined. These pauses are the reminder that in spite of that shoulder ache or that tight back muscle, my heart feels more and more open. Open in that sweet love that a parent feels for his or her child and in compassion for myself for all the times I fail to be who I want to be. In these moments, life becomes more alive than ever, and feelings become beautiful and there is an ache in the heart sometimes, a wanting to stop time so that I can hold on to this moment just a little more. This hug from my little girl, of touching her small hands, and hearing her new words, and witness her tireless and fearless ability to want to learn new words, actions and way of being.

Leaving science, I’ve somehow made my way to being with the coolest scientist I have ever known – always wanting to explore and view things differently. I’m in awe of this process – of watching her brain make new connections each day, each connection leading to more questions and a sort of wonder and joy at all that life holds. In these moments, when I feel this ache, I want to hold on desperately for just one more second. Then I remember Blake’s words,

‘He who binds to himself, a joy
Does the winged life destroy.
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sunrise.’

And I want to live in eternity’s sunrise. So here I am, in a different place at a different time, leaving something old, and finding something new. I hope I never lose that sense of gratitude and affection for all that my old has taught me and all the ways I have grown in this past decade working the way I did. It has made me who I am, and brought me to this juncture in time. Now it is time to say my good bye, fondly and with affection. The bells are ringing and it’s time to board the train, a new one this time for a different destination. This new journey is promising – more time, more love, more passion and learning. I intend to enjoy this train ride as much as possible and at some point, I will maybe find out where the train is headed…Or maybe not. Right now, I only have intentions – to read, write, teach, follow my passions, be present and never forget to love each day, every day.

With Love, S.

The self we share…

A cup of tea tastes so good at the end of a long, day, especially if it is a Friday. It is especially wonderful on the days when there is nothing on the mind – no complaints, no grievances, no ‘I wish I had’, or ‘I should have’. Just peace. I’m coming to appreciate just how hard earned this peace can be.

Each day seems to have certain crucial moments when the choices I make will decide the course of the day. Many times, these moments have to do with tiredness and my relationship to it. Moments when my tired mind, if unnoticed, slips into reactivity and spirals out of control.

One such moment that occurs often is when I’m giving Anjali, our eighteen-month old daughter, a bath. By that time of the evening, I’ve either spent all day with her or been at work and then spent the last couple of hours with her non-stop. I’m tired and hungry. And if I’m not mindful, soon I’m caught in my own stories – of judgment and blame. In that moment, these stories seem as real as anything else. And they are not pleasant. Tiredness is really not half as bad, as the suffering created by my own drama.

On the days, when I take the bait in that moment, a long tedious battle ensues between my mind and my heart – each one tugging in opposite directions. It reminds me of Rumi’s words, “Thirst is angry with water. Hunger bitter with bread. The cave wants nothing to do with the sun. This is dumb, the self- defeating way we’ve been”.

Yes, it is self-defeating! And how apt that Rumi uses hunger and thirst as metaphors! After watching this play out over and over again, I’ve come to admire the importance and immediacy of this critical juncture in time when my evening could go one way or the other. It could go south, into a full-blown movie, or it could go north.

There are possibilities in the north, and compassion. All it takes is one moment of mindfulness. In that moment, when I lose my attention, I realize what is happening and I come back. I come back first to the feeling of my feet touching the floor. I come back to that smile of my little one playing in the water, joyful as only a child can be. I come back to the sparkle in her eye, and I say a silent prayer that she can’t read my thoughts. And I silently acknowledge: this is what tiredness feels like, and this is what hunger feels like. And all the stories end there.

It is not often that I have the capacity to be present enough to act this skillfully. But on the days that I do make this wise choice, I come down to a loving husband and warm cooked food and then feet up the couch. I rest in the love that my heart feels for Anjali – recounting all the joyful and special moments of the day – most of them simple and yet precious as they can only be for a parent. And the love I feel to have someone to put my feet on and recount my mom stories. And on these days, I feel profoundly grateful, and I remember Rumi’s words: “ You are the source of my life. You separate essence from mud. You honor my soul. You bring rivers from the mountain springs. You brighten my eyes. The wine you offer takes me out of myself into the self we share. Doing that is religion.”

With Love, S.

The gladness of letting go…

On saturday I got to go for my first day-long retreat since Anjali was born eighteen months ago. I can’t believe it has been that long! We did sitting and walking meditation most of the day from 9.00am to 4.00pm and were led by a wonderful, funny, wise and skilled teacher called Chas Dicapua from IMS. I was excited for my first retreat and nervous too because I haven’t sat for long periods of time in a while.

The day came, and the morning was busy making lunches and saying goodbyes to hubby and daughter. I reached there on time, hallelujah. Most of my sits were very sleepy and I realized how tired I was. The sitting was physically difficult. I was hungry as well during the morning sittings, and sat there waiting for lunch time. But sometime in the afternoon during a sitting, I came to ‘know’ that I was sitting, that this was the retreat I was waiting for. And that realization brought joy with it.

Even though the sleepiness remained, there was no longer any judgment about it. I could relax, be compassionate and cheerful through my sits and my sleepiness. Around 3.00pm, during the dhamma talk, I caught this thought in my head – ‘I can’t wait to go home and have those oatmeal raisin cookies. yum!! and see my family and hear Anjali’s sweet voice say ‘knock knock, whose in?” When I heard this thought, I found myself laughing – inside. Here I was at this retreat I had been waiting for – and now I couldn’t wait to get home!! The story of our lives.

Coming back from a retreat was hard – it always is. They should have instructions on that! I was miserable because all my reactivity stared me in my face. I was very tired. And I wanted to go back and have some more of that quiet, of that joy of stillness. The ‘opening to your experience’ that the teacher had talked about, seemed impossible to do. And in the middle of my suffering, I wondered if I would ever regain my equanimity.

Everything changes, nothing lasts forever. Thank Goddess! There was a moment when I came back from a walk, and saw, really saw my daughter and how beautiful and alive she looked. In that moment, the joy in my heart returned, and the connection with this moment right now, happened. I could let go of my need for my experience to be other than what it was in this moment, right now.

So here I am, on a monday morning – feeling just ordinary. body breathing, sitting, hands writing. knowing what gladness arises when we go inside. and how we have to let go of everything, every day, every moment, to be truly happy.

With Love, S.

Uplifted…

This week has been a miracle in terms of weather. We have had sunny skies and soaring temperatures during a time when snow is usually still on the ground and one is weary of a long winter. The effect of this kind of unseasonably warm weather is that it gets your spirits lifted – and you want to enjoy every ounce of being outside – because you have this secret fear that this may not last. So you take out your bike, and your hiking gear, and you go for a run or you play outside with your kids.

The first two days are incredible. You appreciate every moment of the newness, of the unexpected. You appreciate every moment of shadow and sunshine and long days to be outside. You enjoy the taste of the pistachio gelato that you haven’t had since fall last year. You smile at every one for no apparent reason. You like life and everything in it.

Then you forget. You fall back into your old ways, the ways of the winter, when your body was still cloaked in many layers and you hid behind them. You lament that you don’t have any clothes to wear because your summer clothes are still tucked away in a suitcase. You complain that it is too hot and unsettling because you were not prepared. You exclaim that you didn’t get to enjoy spring weather and have gone from winter to summer. And you forget that everything around you becomes invisible when you are in your stories.

At that point, if you are lucky – something or someone reminds you. “Hey!! Wake up! Look around you! This is incredible. This is magic. Look at the tiny yellow flowers. The sky is blue. Come, be outside and run wild, won’t you? ” For me that someone is my daughter Anjali.

This is her first summer (or like-summer) of being mobile, of being able to walk and run outside in the warm sunshine and she is determined to make full use of it every day. Each day to her is this incredible gift – a day where one has to be outside. There simply isn’t any other choice. So, at 7.00am, sometimes earlier, she takes her stand next to the door, and looks at me with her big black eyes and implores: ‘Outu’!!!! The first day I told her, it is still cold baba. Lets go in a little while. She seemed to see sense in that, for 10 minutes anyway. Then again, it was back to the door: ‘Outu!!’ And that moment when I acquiesce (secretly delighted at how much my daughter loves being outside, taking after her mother), she does a little dance and breathes fast in anticipation and says ‘outu outu’, like the words are the secret to the world’s most incredible sight. Of course they are. Children know something we forget.

The other day when we were standing by the berry hush. Anjali picked up a berry from the ground. I stood there watching – anticipating that she would try to put it into her mouth and I would have to say No. Instead, she took and berry and tried to put it back on the tree. Of course. It is that intuitive.

That is where the berry belongs and this right here – in this summer outside is where we belong. What we have today is a gift. Of course we forget. We forget that change is an invitation to start afresh, be more of who we want to be. And then something or someone reminds us. And in that moment, we remember. We become awake. And life becomes a little lighter, a little more interesting. That is when we are uplifted.

So today, I sit outside on the porch. Today, there are no complaints, just unadulterated, unexpected and grateful enjoyment of this gorgeous sunny day.