What is your Superpower?

When I lived a cramped, hectic life in London, I often romanticed the texture of life in a scenic little seaside cottage with no neighbours in Cornwall or a tiny remote island a few miles off the coast of the Pacific Northwest or a lonely dwelling on the side of a vast mountain in the Himalayas. Deep down lay an incipient desire to experience it.

A few years on, I make the choice to live in a one bed-room house in remote South India. Malnad, the region of rain, notorious for a long heavy monsoon. The nearest airport, five hours by road on a good day and the closest half-decent hospital an hour’s drive away. After a few months the newness of this rural setting starts to diminish. Mornings begin with chirps and trills emerging out of a serene silence. I draw the curtains to find the morning fog gently floating across layers of overlapping lush green slopes, reaching right up to the horizon. I am filled with gratitude. I say to myself, ‘Don’t ever take this for granted.’

If I start listing all the things that are not here, an exhaustive inventory might appear – a library, a café, a restaurant, a museum, an art gallery, a community centre, a swimming pool, a book shop and so on. But I do have a superpower. On whatever I put my attention, that seems to grow, fill my awareness. Music, chanting, yoga, reading, writing, meditation, nature – all the things that I used to struggle to make time for, are now in abundance.

I can choose where I want to place my attention because this is my one precious life, my one chance to live and learn and enjoy. I am exactly where I want to be and need to be. This is the perfect opportunity to match my inner silence with the one I sit within. To observe and let go. Examine and let go. Feel and let it go. Think and let it go. Breathe in and let go.

Contentment does not need objects to justify itself. In every moment, it is present as a choice. At the tiniest hint of my attention, it shows up, smiling. The more I sit with it, the more it makes itself available. When I touch, its texture is silky.

Caves are well-known conduits to enlightenment. May be this is mine. I wonder if contentment is another name for happiness.

What’s wrong with Maybe?

Posted by kidsaregifts20

Maybe it’s two words, not one.

Maybe nothing is at it seems.

Maybe my eyes are utterly open but green.

May be there is no such thing as the absolute truth.

Maybe I hold on to mine for dear life ‘cause I wouldn’t know who I was without it.

Maybe all you need is love. Your own.

Maybe it’s okay to be green-eyed. Everyone is.

Maybe there is no hell or heaven or earth.

Maybe my name is so easily erasable, it’s hardly worth speaking.

Maybe I am exactly where I need to be.

Maybe everything is exactly the way it needs to be.

Maybe angels have appeared to me once or twice.

Maybe the only way forward is to stand still.

Maybe everyone was born to love for a bit and die.

Maybe there is no big meaning to anything.

Maybe each day that breaks into light is a miracle.

Maybe everyone is a little bit thirsty a lot of the time.

Maybe there’s enough water on the planet, maybe not.

Maybe God has his/Her hand on my head right now.

Maybe the light from the sun is on its way.

Maybe everyone has wings they cannot see.

Maybe that thirst is the one to be free.

Maybe no one knows what that really means.

Maybe it’s okay to be in love with the notion of Me.

May be a baby sparrow is opening its eyes right now, for the very first time.

Little things.

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“Where you from?”

I wonder why so many people in my own country make this query. They ask often enough to annoy me enough to make me stop and think. Why?

Is it because my grey hair seems odd in a country where almost everyone adorns black hair, irrespective of age? Is my accent too strange for my own people? Do I dress funny? My mother believes it’s because I say ‘Thank-you’ much too often. At the end of a meal in a restaurant, accepting the bill, Thank you. Waiter handing me the card machine, Thank you. Making the payment and handing him back the machine. Thank you. Receiving a copy of the receipt. Thank you. Leaving the restaurant through a door held by a doorman. Thank you.

Do other people do it to the same extent or is my thanking over the top?

Do I really mean it each time I say it or is it a mindless habit? An automatic impulse? Spontaneous blurting?

Well, do I need to convert my gratitude into a problem? It has to be a good thing. Right? They say more gratitude makes for less stress, better relationships, good mood, optimism and connection. It helps us celebrate goodness in the world and newness of the present moment. It blocks negative emotions like envy, resentment and regret. It improves my social ties and self-worth as I feel that someone is looking out for me. Research has proven it to be essential to happiness. It is the ‘queen of all virtues.’ They say it’s not merely a sentiment but a practice. It can be cultivated by noticing little things, sights and smells, sounds and sensations, tastes and shapes and movements. Writing them down.

Do I actually feel grateful for the little things others do for me? Do I smile and make eye contact with them? Do I meaningfully connect with the person in front of me? Do I hold the attitude of gratitude in my body? Yes.

So, I am comfortable with not taking small things for granted, even if it translates to saying thank-you too often. The next time someone asks “Where you from?” I will say, “Thank you for asking.” 😉

Resources:

Gratitude Quiz: https://greatergood.berkeley.edu/quizzes/take_quiz/gratitude

Mum’s village

Posted by kidsaregifts20

The southernmost beach on the coast of Goa is also its most pristine. Galgibaga. The other name for it is Turtle beach, home to a vulnerable species of turtle, the olive ridley. I get that the first part of their name comes from the colour of their shell, which is olive. No idea where the ‘ridley’ comes from. Well…

Approaching the date of delivery of eggs, usually in November, the female of the species returns to the spot where she herself hatched. Mum’s home, I guess. Mass-nestings are common. Mum’s village, I guess. Sisters and cousins, all coming home to have their babies. They bury their eggs one and a half feet under the sand. After about two months, the hatchlings have to risk crossing a hazardous beach before they reach the safety of the sea. As they scoot across, predators such as crabs, eagles, dogs and the like nab them. To enhance their dwindling numbers, local conservationists and NGOs now place safety nets around the area where the eggs are buried, discourage dogs from getting close and facilitate the safe transit of baby turtles from land to sea.

No bars, restaurants, casinos, or beach huts are allowed on this white sandy stretch. No loud music. No big car parks, hence humans have to make an effort to get here. So, despite its immense beauty, there is no noise.

Two kilometres along a little road curving inland from this beach is our temporary abode, surrounded by birds and a green canopy of tall trees. Everyone seems to know everyone here. There are no beggars or homeless people. I need never worry about my unlocked bicycle parked outside. It’s safe. Coconuts, big banana trees, pepper vines and baby-mangoes are within an arm’s length of our windows and balconies. A small bus, a car or a scooter may pass by noticeably at long gaps. The distinct calls of the fisher-woman and the bread-man, I can now recognise.

My return to the land where I hatched and gave birth decades ago. Overlapping cycles of life. Circles, like bubbles being blown to the sky at dusk, capturing all the colours. Merging. Dancing. Bursting.

Simple joys.

Walking home.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

Every time we visited him in the Intensive Care Unit, he mouthed the line “Just take me home.”

We wanted the same. It was our prayer in every moment that we would be able to take him home. But how would we transport the things that were attached to him? The things on which his life depended – monitors, strong medications being infused through syringe pumps and the beeping robot that was supporting his lungs? Even if we transported those, who would man these gadgets and modulate them as required? The first step was to get him to breathe by himself. It was happening in bursts. Some days he looked so bright that it was easy to believe that it wouldn’t be too long before we could. Other times he seemed tired, simply from the effort of breathing. Of course, they were trying to help him come off the ventilator but sometimes it was too much for him. Despite their good intentions and gentle demeanour, it was too much for him.

One of the young residents encouragingly said, “Sir, we want to send you home soon. That’s why we’re making you work hard.” He pointed skywards with a wry smile, “That way?”

In the end, it was a long, slow goodbye.

“We’re all walking each other home.”

– Ram Dass.