Community

Loneliness and belongingness

Like cloud joining cloud.

Posted by

0

Loss Too Deep for Words

When all that seems real is lost,
where words blur and fail,
where intention cannot reach the depth,
where heart hungers
and soul starves.

Only the warmth in the heart of another
finds the pulse,
like cloud joining cloud,
a delicate meeting
before language.

Seeing and seen,
no grandeur, no pretence.

Not words.
Not healing.
Not intention.

Not reviving.
Not demanding.
Not offering.
Not outside, just there, stepped inside.
Rare.

Once isolated, unreachable,
now golden sun emerging, real.

Only that which is real
can touch that which is real.

Nothing survives
that is not love.

  • By Tony Bisson

(Tony is a bereaved father. He wrote this poem expressing what being in the Circle of Rememberance means to him.)

Let there be colour.

Posted by

0

In this land of limited resources, every day we see ingenious use of everyday things – old saris stitched together to cover a car, old tyres reused as planting pots and old t-shirts repurposed for dusting or cleaning.

When I moved to the UK, I was horrified at the amount of paper that was binned for the smallest of reasons – a slight crinkle, a minor misprint, a tiny smudge. People failed to notice that there were two usable sides to every A4 sheet. If one side was unusable, the other was there to jot down a list, play knots and crosses, or simply, create a doodle. It is refreshing to return to a place where hardly anything is discarded as useless, unless it really is. The inventiveness of the people is inspiring, even though it is motivated by saving money. They probably don’t know it, but they are also helping save the environment.

Limitations can serve creativity. That is why deadlines work. They push you to finish. It is easier to write in response to a writing prompt as it focuses the mind. Newton came up with the Theory of Calculus in quarantine. Faith Ringgold was born in Harlem. She was an arts teacher who wanted to paint large canvasses but didn’t have the space needed. So, she started stitching themed pictures into quilts, which she could carry and display with ease.

Recently, I’ve been wondering if my creative efforts at teaching Spoken English to the local kids will be of any use to them in the long run. The school’s modus operandi is cramming. They have a verb for it – by-hearting. I believe corporal punishment is forbidden on paper, but you wouldn’t know that in practice. The rule remains stuck to the paper.

If nothing else, we create a few light moments in the day. Some colour, some play, some laughter, some movement. Maybe that’s enough for now.

Resources: How to be more creative: https://youtu.be/oTAdkDyVa9s?si=xFA3h5PEaZ-fIiuN

Love is …

Posted by

0

Her name is Devi. I see her every day. She works in the big house next door. We smile at each other when we meet accidentally. I see her in the garden, watering their plants, taking out rubbish bins, sweeping dead leaves. I see her in the courtyard, putting things out to dry in the sun – red chilies, black pepper and coffee beans. We have no common language except our smiles.

My neighbour says she was born in this village and has hardly ever left. She has been a house-help for decades. She doesn’t have a phone. She doesn’t like dogs. She doesn’t talk much. She has no teeth and loves drinking coffee. She takes Fridays off. Her husband died a long time ago. Her son moved to some big town some distance away. Her granddaughter goes to architecture school. That’s all I know.

She is a woman. A wife. A mother. Working. Making ends meet. She has suffered losses of various kinds and she smiles often, especially when someone smiles at her. She is looking after herself the best she can.

On a closer look, she is like me. We have a lot in common. While our bodies are materially different, we are nourished by the same air and the same Earth. The same sun and stars shine upon us, and we come from the same soil. We both wear green glass bangles.

My thoughts, feelings and stories are possibly different from hers, but we are both aware of our respective experiences. What is it that’s aware of all this? If my mind would journey back from the stuff of life to the source of its knowing, where would it find itself? In a field of awareness. We both have that field in common. Each of our minds shares the same awareness. The aspiration of the mind is to be relieved of all the limitations of its perception. That is why my heart is happy to see her in the mornings. While I respect our differences at a relative level, I hold a deep understanding that we are essentially, the same infinite being.

The experience of love is that intuition of our shared being with all Beings! No two. Only one. If each one of us could take this understanding into every situation, I wonder what kind of place our world would be.

(Inspired by the Advaita, or Non-Duality teachings of Rupert Spira)

Why do love and crying go together?

Posted by

0

(From The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo)

At a recent wedding, halfway through his speech, the bride’s father was overcome with tears. He was so happy for his daughter that he couldn’t help but cry. It was a sparkling moment of a mixture of affection, achievement and perhaps relief. Even though it took him by surprise, it was perfectly normal and rather sweet.

At the hospital, I watched men and women cry with joy at the first sight of their newborn baby. It was joy to behold their love and terror of having this amazing miracle happen to them. I have taken many photos of those moist eyes brimming with love.

Babies cry to express their hunger or discomfort or pain. Adults also cry to express themselves but somehow, they don’t seem to have as much permission as kids. When we’re happy, we laugh and that’s okay. When we’re sad, we cry and that’s often not okay.

Jesus wept. (John 11:35)

When he visited the tomb of his friend, Lazarus, Jesus was moved to tears seeing the sorrow of those mourning his death. The verse comforts believers by showing them that Jesus had empathy for the grief, loss, and pain that humans endure. Despite knowing he was about to raise Lazarus, he felt for them in that moment. He had solidarity with the human heart.

The protective mechanisms built into our bodies are very subtle. The eyelids blink to ensure that the cornea remains moist, so we can continue to see clearly. It happens without us noticing. As soon as we put something in our mouths, our saliva starts to counter potential troublemakers in our food. When we change our position from sitting to standing, the biomechanics in the body readjust to ensure that we don’t fall over. A sense of balance in innate to us while standing and walking.

Crying also protects. It works as a pressure-release valve. When our emotions are intense and difficult to contain, crying helps to reestablish emotional equilibrium. It is a cue for connection with others as it is founded in our vulnerability as humans.

To stay with each other until the flood subsides.

To hold each other. Talk. Listen. Be present

That’s how we hold space for feelings, allowing them to be fully expressed.

That is how we experience divine love.

Resource:

CORe: Circle of Remembrance. A free online peer support group for bereaved parents, where crying is honoured.

New things.

Posted by

0

They opened her sister’s tummy and took out a thing that looked like a red chili. Their mother was very worried, but the doctor said ‘all went well’. She was so relieved, she brought her a blue silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins. She had managed to buy a nearly new one for pennies at the village market from a heap of random goods piled up on the roadside.

New things never happened to Amita. She was the fifth of six kids. One girl. 3 boys. Her. One more boy. Most of her childhood was spent in boy’s clothes. When she was seven, she could finally wear her sister’s tattered old frocks. All she wanted was something new.

Amita started complaining of tummy aches that were so strong she had to miss school. She hardly ate anything and became scrawnier every week. She looked sallow. Her parents took her from one doctor to the next. They were exasperated. Finally, the fifth doctor said they would have to open her tummy and look inside. Amita’s dream was coming true. She smiled inwardly. Her operation was scheduled for Monday.

On Sunday night, in her hospital bed she remembered when her aunt had come to visit from Bangalore, she had brought one plastic doll for the girls to share. Its golden hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her head was round with two very round brown eyes. When you lay her on her back, her eyelids closed over. Thick long black lashes touched her pink cheeks. On standing her up, the lids mechanically snapped open. Her elder sister claimed the doll all for herself. When no one was looking, Amita would hold the doll like a baby, rock it from side to side and stroke its cheeks.

On Monday morning, she was super-excited. As she was going off to sleep, the blue silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins danced in front of her eyes.

When she woke up, Amita had a huge red gash right down the middle of her tummy. It was so painful that she could hardly breathe but Amita didn’t care. She waited for her mum. When the visiting hour arrived, her mum brought her a gift – a red silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins. It was even more beautiful than the blue one. Amita felt victorious. She had a new thing, all for herself.  She could hardly wait to show it to the smiley nurse who routinely looked after her.

That night, Amita slept peacefully in her hospital bed, clutching on to her silk purse.

The next morning, the smiley nurse came in with a thermometer and placed the tip of it under Amita’s tongue with a smile. She then started writing her notes. Just then, Amita pulled out the purse from under her pillow and held it up for her to see, her eyes popping out but unable to speak.

“Oh! For me? How kind! Thank you.” said the nurse and received the purse with both her lovely hands.

                                                ****    ****    ****

Resource: This story is inspired by an anecdote from the book “Nonviolent Communication. A language of Life.‘ by Marshall B. Rosenberg. PhD. In Chapter 4, he addresses the heavy cost of unexpressed feelings about unmet needs.