Coral, peach, rose, bubblegum, flamingo, ballet-slipper, salmon, rouge, punch – all shades of pink.
Does every possible colour in the sky have a name? What is the lingering sunlight called? Are these names absolute or are they mere approximations? Do they do justice? Do we need to name every colour or can we leave some alone? Is there a colour of love? Wonder what its name is.
Mandalas draw me into their whorls. A casual glance is never enough. My gaze gets fixated on each one and I lose myself in the movement and the stillness in that form. The patterns seem to be spontaneous and well thought through, calm and dynamic, chaotic and yet, organised. The literal meaning of the word is, a sacred circle and it feels like one.
A random advert on YouTube and I was at the local stationery shop buying a geometry box. I needed a compass and a protractor for the Mandala Workshop I had signed up for. I was excited at the prospect of making one but also worried about making a mess of it. My artistic abilities are fairly limited but I am a good doodler. Many a lengthy-phone-call have produced intricate henna-esque patterns on the handiest bit of paper loitering on my table.
The first thing the facilitator said was, today you will draw your Universe. Don’t erase anything. There are no mistakes. You will see, everything has a place, even the so called ‘mistakes’. So, erase nothing. It’s not about producing a beautiful piece of art. It’s about the process. After making the grid, she had us light a candle and guided us through a grounding exercise. Then she played a mellow piano tune and asked us to start from the centre of the circle and work outwards with a black uniball pen. No rules. No meaning. No right. No wrong. No special colours or materials. Just allow whatever wants to appear on the page to appear.
She said this practice can heal us as it opens the heart, takes place in the moment and is non-judgemental. Watch your inner critic coming at you pointing its index finger. Ignore it and carry on. Smile 🙂
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.
“The longer I live, the more deeply I learn that love — whether we call it friendship or family or romance — is the work of mirroring and magnifying each other’s light. Gentle work. Steadfast work. Life-saving work in those moments when life and shame and sorrow occlude our own light from our view, but there is still a clear-eyed loving person to beam it back. In our best moments, we are that person for another.” – Maria Popova.
We have been those mirrors for each other for the last hundred fortnights. A few days ago, the Saturday group of the Circle of Remembrance met for the 100th time. It was a celebration of the love, the love we have for our children and for each other. Love that shows up as mutual support, respect and friendship. While many people have come and gone, some have stayed right from the start. We’ve walked together for four years. What a privilege that’s been. Such unique and intimate conversations, exploring the human condition through words like ‘home’, ‘freedom’ and ‘Grace’.
I wish I had reliable and wise friends like these in the Before. I wish I could listen with understanding that could penetrate any mask. I wish I had the ability for this kind of sterling emotional engagement. It does save lives. It has saved mine.
Earlier I believed that lives were saved mainly by highly trained professionals in well-equipped resuscitation rooms in big Emergency Departments and in Operating Theatres. Now I know that each day ordinary people save lives simply by being a 100% present, with everything they have.
The longer I live, the more deeply I know that love is gentle work.
Resource: Circle of Remembrance (online peer-support for bereaved parents): http://www.core-community.com
A hundred and twenty months. Ten years. An outrageous survival.
Each night angry, uncharitable. Sleep. No sleep. Dreams. No dreams.The death of so many. Dreams.
In my dreams, I plead with you. Please stay, Be’ta.
We’ll find a way. Don’t give up yet. Don’t go away.
Come here. Sit with me.
Tell me what I need to know. Tell me what hurts you so. Tell me how I can make it go.
I could guess when you were hungry, thirsty.
To your amused annoyance, even when you wanted to pee. I just knew. I don’t know how.
But this one I did not see coming. I couldn’t. I don’t know how.
I am sorry. I had no map. I was lost in the fast lane.
In my dreams, our dark sides are friends.
Together they figure it out, Have a laugh, make it all okay.
In my dreams, we breathe together nice and slow,
As if singing a joyful melody. We hold hands and dance in our kitchen
Crying on each other’s shoulders, secretly.
From the fridge, I pull out a white china bowl
Filled with pomegranate seeds,
Rubies, I harvested earlier in the day. Please stay, my Jaan. I would say.
In my dreams,
through my furious longing
I can momentarily understand.
Your pain, your silence.
I can understand why you had to go.
Like a boat sailing into a new morn,
I must release you.
I must stay.
I must let you be on your way.
In my dreams.
(An ancestor of this poem is Walt Whitman, who said, “We were together. I forget the rest.” )
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