Posts Tagged Etc
Currently, I am at a phase where I feel extremely content with my life. The intensity of that positive sentiment seems to be stronger now than ever before.
I can’t really ascertain the reason(s) why this is so. Perhaps it’s just that I am growing up, and with that has come the wisdom and maturity which leads to such peaceful state of being. Or that I’m finally reaping some benefits of the on-again-off-again practice of meditation. Maybe, it has to do with being back in Boston – the only city to which I’ve experienced a real connection, the only city that I can relate to as being Home, the only city where I get the sense of belonging. Of course it is possible that it’s a combination of all that and more.
Be what it may, I am immensely grateful for where I am – physically, emotionally and spiritually.
Page after page you turn the stained corners to delve deeper and deeper into the world that the book is gradually unfolding for you. It’s delightful, to say the least. It’s all that you’d hoped it would be, and some more. The people, the places, the situations – everything so colorful, so intense. The more you read, the more you want to read. The words, each and every one of them, woven so ingeniously into a story genuinely resonate with you. It puts you in an intense meditative state every time you immerse yourself into it.
But suddenly, something changes…
You stop abruptly, forgetting the story, the characters, as if somebody, out of the blue, questioned you about the dwindling appearance of the book in your hand. And you wonder why it doesn’t look minty fresh as it probably should.
Memories of the past dance in your mind’s eye as you take upon yourself the endeavor to pursue the story behind the story.
You remember – not a day or a specific date – but a vague picture of yourself walking out of a bookstore in your beloved city with this treasure in hand. There were other ones too, you recall, but this one… this one was somehow special. Because while the others calmly gathered around in your bag patiently waiting their turn to be dotingly picked up to be read (days, months or even years from now, who knows when), this one was an instant winner.
You remember opening the book so you could get started with reading this new found piece of word art during your commute home. As the train chugged along, you daringly dove into a sea of newness. You were blissfully unaware at that moment in time though about other plans that the universe was putting in place for you. After only a few pages in the train stopped and you closed the book.
You remember walking home that evening with this book in hand. The sky was pouring down, yet somehow, you seemed to have lacked the sense to put the book in a safer place. Perhaps under your jacket; perhaps in your bag. In hindsight, you are able to come up with ample ideas as to what you could’ve done, but back then idiocy had prevailed. Hence, every page, every corner got drenched in the rain.
You remember reaching home and religiously trying to dry the pages back to life. After spending a lot of time near the heater and after soaking in the afternoon sun sitting by the window for days in row, the book was somewhat fine. Alas, by then, though, you’d moved on to the next one only to put this on some seemingly invisible shelf of the over flowing bookshelf.
And it had been forgotten for years to come, until one day you finally set your eye on it.
Now, along with the story behind the written words, every page, every corner of this book has a story of its own to tell. Of the handful of minutes that it triumphed over the others by being chosen first. Of the once in lifetime experience of lashing clouds. Of being drenched. Of being stained. Of, finally, being rediscovered and relished, after years. Of being remembered as the pregnant book.
If I were honest with myself, I would happily declare that running isn’t one of my favorite activities. It’s tedious even at its best. So, it came as a huge shock last week when it seemed like it was drizzling out and I still got ready to go for a run. K repeatedly requested that I not go if it was raining. He was sick, and he was concerned I would be more prone to catching the bug if I got dripping wet in the cold conditions that prevailed outside. I assured him that I would come back up in case it was pouring down hard. What better pretext to skipping the jog than nature being the roadblock? Even as I was putting my shoes on, you see, I was playing out an excuse to return within five minutes of heading out with a solid justification.
My plan, however, went off track.
When the first drops of rain hit me as I stepped out, I knew I was going to embark on a journey that was so unusual for me. For years, I have seen people out for a jog in the rain or cold and I’ve wondered what kind of perseverance they must possess to make them do such a thing. And that evening, even if it were just for those few meager minutes, I was one of them. It wasn’t going to be an everyday thing, I knew that. It was a solitary event, I could feel that. But, for then, that was enough to keep me going.
I ran in the cold. I ran in the rain. I ran as the chilly air of my beloved city caressed my already red cheeks. I ran as the spongy shoes let in the water from the puddles that I futilely jumped over. I ran enough to make my body feel hot even in that frigid weather. I ran enough to feel invigorated for days to come. I ran even when the songs stopped playing on my iPod. I ran even when I ran out of things to carry on monologues in my mind.
I ran and I ran and I ran.
Upon the beginning of yet another week the snow falls, soft yet heavy. The weather seems resolute to beat my Monday blues. Everywhere, everything is sheathed in white, leaving me to experience a deep sense of calm in this morning hour of hustle and bustle. I can sit still on this windowsill all day long with some hot cocoa to sip on every once in a while and a book to distract me when the dazzle of the flurries becomes too bright to watch devotedly. Nevertheless it’s Monday, and duty calls.
As I head out, I am instantaneously made aware of the fact that I am not going to be spared of the fervor of the stormy sky. The glittering of the light flakes caught on my dark ensemble creates a new style that I’m happy to flaunt as I tread the familiar streets. I take the first few steps vigilantly, looking down and avoiding the patches of black ice so artfully hidden here and there or the puddles of slush stagnant in disarray.
Suddenly a huge block of snow falls a few feet in front of me as the wind forces it down from its resting place (was it one of the tree branches or was it from the top of one of the edifices nearby?) and addles me for a brief moment. And that flash in time is enough to erase my conscious restraint on my strides. I move, now, more freely.
I can’t see, but I can feel a thin layer of white covering my hair. The little flurries melt, and the tiny droplets trickle down my hair reaching my scalp or the back of my neck or, tingling me as they go. I wonder if my grey hair is visible anymore or if the snow has masked all of it successfully. Who needs hair dye to hide the grey when you can parade a head full of sparkles this way?
The walk, however long, doesn’t seem so. As I enter the office building, I vow to go to the nearest window every hour or so to marvel at the falling snow and sigh in pure contentment. But the day passes and my next glimpse of the splendor is only when I step out in the evening. The biting cold air hits my face as I open the door and dash into the road.
And off I go to live and write another chapter of love with my beloved snow.
Words gallop through, wanting to be penned. A memory that I may have noted down, a phrase that I may have picked up and am eager to use, a story that I may have reflected upon and decided should take form, a poem I may have mindlessly scrawled as I was sitting on the beach, an epiphany I may have had hiking through the hills. Words, words and words. Free flowing, like the ocean water, like the mountain breeze. When I sit down to weave them together, though, the mind goes on an endless loop trying to find logic behind the seemingly haphazard thoughts. Whatever be the form the words take, in the end everything gets tangled and twisted, and the gibberish that then emerges the mind deems bizarre, not worth jotting down.
And hence silence triumphs overall.
It starts with days; days turn into months; and months tally up to years. What was once familiar and effortless with time becomes alien and arduous. Sometimes, the mind goes wild with all the words ambling through it that it wants some sort of direction, something that can pull it away from the circle that it keeps traveling trying to find the beginning or the end. That’s where the heart steps in. The heart, try as it may, fails, time and again, and helplessly watches the mind’s pursuit of sense. It squabbles with the mind about desires and wants; pushes the mind to just go for it without any qualms. It struggles and strives, and, once in a blue moon, emerges victorious.
And that’s when the words get to see the light of the day. At this moment of gratification, the mind hopes to be swayed more often than not, and the heart wishes to prevail over and over again.
And the clash continues…
There’s that moment between silence and murmur when the mind is pregnant with thoughts. At that moment, the mind is busy with words that are ready be poured out, marking the end of the silence; the mind is gushing with feelings that are ready to be shared, marking the beginning of the murmur. Sometimes that moment is fleeting, while at other times that moment can stretch and stretch to what may seem like an incessant eon.
Ephemeral pain. Eternal satisfaction. Colossal damage. Mounds of joy. Abysmal boredom. Perhaps, all of the aforementioned. What really goes on between those two distinct notes – first, when everything goes eerily silent and the second, when there’s the birth of a gentle murmur – one may never know. No matter what, though, the fact still remains that the silence eventually ends and that the thoughts most definitely take shape in form of little murmurs.
In that twinkling tick of time, as the first few words scurry out to give way to the rest, there is immeasurable gratification. And, of course, there’s also that tinge of naïve hope that the next period of silence isn’t approaching anytime soon in the foreseeable future. Let’s wait and watch how that goes, shall we?
We, K and I, are waiting at the oral surgeon’s office for a consultation. I am not too anxious, but in the hopes of calming my slightly tense nerves K has this to say –
Look at the bright side – imagine all that weight you’ll lose after the few hours of surgery. Getting rid of 4 wisdom teeth at one go definitely will help towards your weight loss goal.
Yupe, that sure perked me up right away.