Even Gods Have To Conform
Even Gods Have To Conform
Street scrabble the bored street plays games with words and its resident objects. And fills up page after page of my visual notebooks.
#tbt to silliness during the first hint of spring after my first winter in Pittsburgh when I moved there five years ago. My husband got a picture taken in the same pose and it’s one of my favourite set of pictures of us. We were walking along the river-side one of the five rivers that flow in and around Pittsburgh on a lovely late April afternoon when you knew it was warm enough to shrug off the jacket around your shoulders! It’s been so long since I felt so cold or felt excitement at the thought of warmth. And certainly eons since I climbed anything with so much fervour. Its good to look back at pictures like this and recall that me though. That me will surface around sometime soon just like it always does. Till then flashbacks will suffice and paying a fond homage to those sunglasses which I lost during one of my many moves since! #tbt
Ribcaged beauty adornment glass crimson jade goddess marriage husband.
No more will they be packaged fruits waiting to be sold. Unwrap and jettison the plastic shroud let the cool air touch skin. The paint will die and the flesh too withering away to reveal the powerful mansion of bone that indomitable spine carrying it all. Into that future let us walk not as goddesses mothers daughters wives objects but as sisters feeling the wind blow through our open hair flowers streaming down our back and pooling below our feet our hands clasped together in strength and solace. ****************************************************** I saw several posts today wishing safety freedom and security for fellow women on the occasion of India’s Independence Day. I too hope for women to avail of and exercise liberties and to be treated like a human being with her dignity and selfhood intact. Enough of turning women into goddesses to worship or objectify and turning a blind eye otherwise...into that country of freedom let my sisters walk to paraphrase the great Indian poet Rabindranath Tagore.
The Boat/Swimmer Sees The of Water
It is the heart that matters at the end of it all. Cherish it love it and take care of it - because who else will?
“You are too sensitive you should be more thick-skinned. Why do you take everything so seriously?” How many times have I heard variations of this sentiment over the years? And I did wonder why I had to be so sensitive why I allowed everything and everyone to so personally affect me why I had to process and feel every damn emotion. Why couldn’t I be one of those robust resilient types who did not fall apart the moment as much someone said something blithely ignoring them and carrying on with my life as I pleased? When I was six years old I recall rushing out on my aunt’s balcony to envelop the potted plants with a cloth because I thought the poor things would get drenched and start a cold 😊needless to say no one was amused by the gesture! And I spent most of my life negotiating this implicit impatience with and lack of understanding of sensitivity barring obviously my family and kindred spirits of close friends until I realised that what I thought was a drawback was the core of what I was influencing and impacting what I did and how I saw the world. I would not be me without this sensitivity I would be someone else. I still wish I could dial down my sensitivity but I am never ever going to wish it away entirely. It is what guides me through the world giving meaning and strength to parts of my journey which I might not understand otherwise. And fills me with gratitude for the gifts of beauty and emotion it affords me telling me of the forests of hope that reside within and beyond. Edit and if you reached all the way here thank you for reading these personal essay/ruminations I am indulging in lately! I guess we all encounter certain shifts and changes occurring within ourselves at different points in our lives and these posts of mine are about understanding them.
The owls have returned they serenade the ghost rain and me too unsleeping undreaming on the sea-bed. These braided snakes emerge from their soil homes. A green leaf sharp and fresh and plucky fell even before it could fly it is a house of many rooms still. I lie thinking about it all night turning it over and over again in my hand. The owls have now flown too hunting for their meal in the hostile night. They shriek when they find something to eat and then only my eyes close closing my night.
Roses Have Souls Too
The fire is still burning it is just us who cannot see it.