I have aged sixty years.

And become the notebook lady.

The orange moleskin is the Core notebook that goes everywhere with me. Its orange strings mark the current pages. Our most recent meetings were numbered 112/146 (Wed/Sat). In all, we’ve met 258 times. Can you believe it?

The bright yellow A4 Ryman ruled book is for Morning pages. Recently I found a receipt in German for 2 coffees and croissants from Frankfurt airport from mid-July this year.

The pliable green Matthew Williamson one with peacock feathers printed on it houses my poetry collection. It has no strings, but a dried maple leaf lives in there, being Autumn, absorbing poems.

The hard-bound thick one with zig-zag pastel shapes on it contains my Solution-focussed Brief therapy notes. I bought it from a Tibetan monk at Namdroling Tibetan monastery near us. A postcard with the picture of a smiling Dalai Lama reminds me to smile and stay warm-hearted. His Holiness addressed the youth recently and said that being warm-hearted is as important as education, if not more.

The green and blue one notes the developments on our farm. It begins with tree-planting plans and recently I have started jotting down some ideas for the interiors of our house at the back of the book. A thin plastic ruler marks the page presently relevant.

The old brown one assembles notes on writing in the first half and old song lyrics at the back. This morning I found a white, brown and blue feather tucked into it. It comes from a previous life in which I once went for a walk in Dulwich park with my son. A feather sparkled at us both, lying on the edge of the lake. One of the ducks must’ve dropped it. I must’ve picked it up and brought it home.

That was a good life. He was there.

This is a good life. He is here.

I have aged sixty years.

My notebooks are my joy and my treasure. Even though they make my suitcase very heavy, they go travelling with me.. I am learning to enjoy what I enjoy and share what I learn.

Enjoy what you enjoy and share what you learn.

That’ll be a NO.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

The singing lesson online was ending. My teacher is a good one, possibly a couple of decades younger than me. She suddenly declared that there will be a test next week.

What test?

It’s just a small one. Everyone must take it after 25 lessons.

I complete assignments every week, and you give me feedback. That’s enough for me.

This is the rule. Everybody is doing it.

I am not everybody and I shall not be doing it.

Well, all teachers have been told every student has to be tested. By the management.

Is it the same management that makes you wear that boring hospital-blue jacket on top of your nice clothes for lessons and you trust their judgement? I wanted to say but did not.

They make the rules. We have to follow.

I am too old to follow rules that don’t make sense to me. I don’t do tests.

It will only take ten minutes.

I would rather spend ten minutes doing something else – listening, learning, singing.

It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.

If it’s nothing, then let’s not do it. I was thinking of buying another ten lessons but if I’m forced to do tests, I will not. Please would you tell the management for me?

Yes. I will, she said, as she shrunk a little.

Pause.

It’s not an exam. It’s only a test.

I am not fifteen. You can’t make me do it.

The emphasis on testing and scoring in India is possibly the reason why most students are into rote learning rather than enjoying the process of gaining skills. It is also the root cause of much anxiety and shame.

Students accounted for 7.6% of all suicides in India in 2022. The number is an astounding 12,000 per year which amounts to 32 per day and rising. There is a fundamental need for culture change for these numbers to come down.

Reference:

https://qz.com/india/1728666/indias-high-stakes-testing-culture-needs-to-be-dismantled

Varanasi

Posted by kidsaregifts20

This ancient city of learning and burning sits on the banks of the river Ganga which is home to Saagar’s ashes. We were here twice, within a few months of Saagar’s passing for various ceremonies related with the sudden and tragic nature of his death. A year ago, my Irish medium who I have come to rely on, informed me that the elaborate prayer services that were held for him here had been greatly helpful in freeing his soul. I have no reason to not believe her as everything else she tells me makes sense.

Last month I was back in this iconic city for a long weekend, celebrating the writings of my favourite 15^th century poet and philosopher, Saint Kabir.

“Scholars are never made

from reading countless books.

You only need to understand ‘love’

to be a true scholar.”

Twenty three years ago I left India as a motivated young professional thirsty for knowledge, professional growth and ‘success’. I was a naive kid. I did not know who I was. Now it feels like I’ve taken a tortuous and torturous route to finally come back home, to myself.

Yes, I passed many exams. In the year 2000, I traveled to Dublin for the day, for my first post-graduate exam at the Royal College. As soon as I returned home, Saagar, who was six at that time asked me, “Mamma, did you win?” A huge smile descended on my face and my entire being. I forgot about the stress of that day and the preceding months and got lost in our cuddles and giggles.

I did grow in my work and was ‘successful’ but the most important lesson I am learning is to understand, experience and be love.

The only lesson that is worth learning.

Meeting old friends for the first time.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

Meeting old friends for the first time. In at least three dimensions. Sharing a physical space together, not just a bland rectangular screen. Actually holding hands.

“Gosh! You’re for real!”

The sparkling smiles of recognition mixed with disbelief. The hugs offering heart to heart resuscitation and healing. Sitting down side by side on the sofa, sharing stories, tea and cake.

A year ago, this could have been fiction but last weekend it was fact. While volunteering at a retreat for Bereaved parents hosted by The Compassionate Friends, we finally met people we’ve only ever seen on Zoom. It was held at the simple and serene Woodbrooke Centre, a Georgian manor house in Selly Oak, Birmingham with tall trees, beautiful flower beds and a family of geese perambulating the grounds, intermittently honking. It is a Quaker centre and has a poster in the main foyer which reads “Nameless helping the Nameless”.

The garden in front of the main house has a labyrinth mowed into it. Early on Saturday morning, birds were singing and the light was inviting me into the open. I decided to walk bare feet into the center of the labyrinth. I took my shoes and socks off at the edge of the circle. As soon as I started walking, it turned into an extremely mindful experience as the ground was littered with geese droppings.

The silence in that place was sweet and the views a treat. We talked about the importance of finding meaning. We shared the joys and challenges of taking the inward road. We watched a film and sang together. We wrote from our hearts and created pretty little candle holders for our kids from jam jars at the crafts table. We cried and laughed, reassured that in this company, it was completely acceptable to do both, sometimes simultaneously.

A pleasant exchange. Giving and receiving with compassion. Understanding. Belonging. Learning. Holding the utter magnificence of life in one hand and the absolute devastation in another. That’s what this game is all about, I guess.

The Golden Buddha

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Once upon a time, far in the east, there was a country called Sayam. In the capital of this country there was an ancient temple of the Golden Buddha. People made long pilgrimages to visit this temple. Everyone knew of it and wanted to see the massive golden statue of the beautiful Buddha within.

One day the news came that a fierce foreign army was approaching the capital. The monks and devotees got together and quickly covered the statue from head to toe in mud and dirt. They made it look ordinary, with every bit of gold out of sight. It now looked dull and drab with no sparkle at all. It even gave out a peculiar odour that had to be camouflaged with incense.

Yes. The army made a huge clang as it arrived in the city with tonnes of ammunition and aggression, looking to plunder anything of value. A platoon of soldiers with armour and swords rode into the temple and looked around like hungry dogs. They found nothing of interest. Just an old dirty statue. They rode out and away.

Over time, new monks and devotees arrived. The old ones forgot to take the mud and dirt off. They forgot to tell the new ones about it. For years and years the Golden Buddha remained in hiding until one day, a young monk was deep in meditation a few feet away from it when he heard a crashing noise. His eyes opened and he saw that a bit of the mud had cracked and fallen off. Smashhhhh…onto the floor. He saw the left hand of the statue glinting in the dim evening light. He walked up to the statue and took a closer look. With eyes as wide as coins he ran out to get the others to see what he had seen. All of them got to work and took the mud shell down to reveal the awesome, pristine Golden Buddha.

This parable reminds us that we are all born pure and all-knowing, one with the divine. Over time we get conditioned to wear the shells or labels of ‘man’ or ‘rich’ or ‘silly’ or ‘mother’ or ‘short’ or ‘engineer’ and so on. Until one day something comes along and cracks the casing, making the gold within visible. Then we can’t help but keep picking at the dirt as nothing else satisfies us. We keep peeling the layers of muck away bit by bit by bit, till it’s all done and we are free.