From the core of darkness
Emerges light
The depths of a womb
Birth a life
There is room for darkness
There is place for light
All that is there, All that is here
All that was, All that ever will be
Has always been, will always be
It all has to go somewhere
You can come to me
Dear Loneliness
I understand no one wants your company
But everything has to go somewhere
You can come to me
Dear Failure
I understand everyone puts you down
But everything has to go somewhere
You can come to me
Dear Anger
I understand people revolt against you
But everything has to go somewhere
You can come to me
Dear Ugliness
I understand no one adores you
But everything has to go somewhere
You can come to me
Dear Imperfection
I understand no one accepts you
But everything has to go somewhere
You can come to me
Dear Hurt
I understand that hearts reject you
But everything has to go somewhere
You can come to me
Dear Darkness,
I understand you get pushed aside
But everything has to go somewhere
You can come to me
All is the expression of One
All that is outside
Is all that is within
From the core of darkness
Emerges light
The depths of a womb
Birth a life
There is room for darkness
There is place for light
There is place for all
There is room in me
You can come to me
You can come to me.
03 February 2009
20 December 2008
Memoirs of Freedom
Grandma is sick, very sick. The doctors refuse to admit her to the hospital. There is nothing they can do. She herself refuses to eat anything more than a few spoonfuls of milk in a day, if that. She may see the New Years, she might not. Everyone who could be by her side is. Everyone who should be or will like to be by her side is not. She's always defied the odds and she might again, as long as she has the will to do so, which is perhaps what has started to wither away. It must be agonizing to see more than eight decades of life start to slip away with each passing breath. The same breath that so eagerly awaited its next instance all these years now moves very slowly, fearful to cause a stir or a fire by rubbing against the dry leaves of memories in the autumn of one’s life.
A box found its way to the writer a couple days back. It was a box from a not so distant but seemingly long gone past. The box contained pieces of the writer, of the life that he had once lived, of the person that he once was, of the person that he still is and in some ways perhaps will always be. The writer has no clue as to what to do with the contents. Contents which tell stories of things that are no more, of rains that have rained and moved on and also of the waters left behind stagnant in puddles. Dumping them would be an easy way out but a difficult thing to do.
One wonders if there isn’t more to life than mere memories. Memories of things past and memories that one desires to create in the future, a future that would make for an endearing past. Memories, of things that one would like to hold on to. Memories, of things that one would rather forget. What would one be without memories? What is life without memories? And how does one find out given that one has never been without this faculty.
If it is indeed our memories that define who we are then it behooves us to create and strive for memories that shape a definition to one’s life. However, what if memories are mere toys of the mind, which the mind brings together in the form of a jigsaw puzzle, inventing meaning by connecting random parts woven together in a story? A mind that is scared to face the void that life would seem to be otherwise. A mind bent upon ascribing a sense of meaning and purpose to a life that would otherwise feel quite frightening.
Without trying or wanting once again stuff is accumulating around the writer. Like dust which settles down on objects which remain untouched, unmoved. As life becomes routine, becomes mechanical, it starts collecting dust. Dust of things, of people, of events, dust of memories. This dust, on occasion, brightens the colors of one’s perceptions and at others, fades them. At no time, however, does it allow things to be seen just as they are. The storms of dust that propel one forward also keep one tied down.
If this is life then there is no point in running from it and if this is not what life is then it is even more important to stay with it, to look closely at it, to understand the falseness of it in order to realize if there is any truth, anywhere, besides this and may be even beyond this.
Memories cannot be denied. Memories are not to be obliterated. They are an inherent part of one’s mind and one’s life. The cause of suffering and pleasure lies not in the existence of the memory itself but in one's grip into it, in one's attachment or aversion to it.
It is then worth investigating whether it is possible for the mind to cherish these memories not like leaves of the Spring but like those of the Fall, realizing that these can and will eventually wither away, fall away, and when they do be able to let go. And may be in eliminating the impermanent, in peeling off the layers of stories which the mind concocts, it might become possible for the mind to stumble upon that which is eternal, that which is the truth, that which is timeless, and that which is not of the mind.
Recognizing the keeper of the memories might perhaps free the keeper from the memories, clear the dust, and shine everything in its own light. Suffering is real. So is the possibility of freedom from it.
A box found its way to the writer a couple days back. It was a box from a not so distant but seemingly long gone past. The box contained pieces of the writer, of the life that he had once lived, of the person that he once was, of the person that he still is and in some ways perhaps will always be. The writer has no clue as to what to do with the contents. Contents which tell stories of things that are no more, of rains that have rained and moved on and also of the waters left behind stagnant in puddles. Dumping them would be an easy way out but a difficult thing to do.
One wonders if there isn’t more to life than mere memories. Memories of things past and memories that one desires to create in the future, a future that would make for an endearing past. Memories, of things that one would like to hold on to. Memories, of things that one would rather forget. What would one be without memories? What is life without memories? And how does one find out given that one has never been without this faculty.
If it is indeed our memories that define who we are then it behooves us to create and strive for memories that shape a definition to one’s life. However, what if memories are mere toys of the mind, which the mind brings together in the form of a jigsaw puzzle, inventing meaning by connecting random parts woven together in a story? A mind that is scared to face the void that life would seem to be otherwise. A mind bent upon ascribing a sense of meaning and purpose to a life that would otherwise feel quite frightening.
Without trying or wanting once again stuff is accumulating around the writer. Like dust which settles down on objects which remain untouched, unmoved. As life becomes routine, becomes mechanical, it starts collecting dust. Dust of things, of people, of events, dust of memories. This dust, on occasion, brightens the colors of one’s perceptions and at others, fades them. At no time, however, does it allow things to be seen just as they are. The storms of dust that propel one forward also keep one tied down.
If this is life then there is no point in running from it and if this is not what life is then it is even more important to stay with it, to look closely at it, to understand the falseness of it in order to realize if there is any truth, anywhere, besides this and may be even beyond this.
Memories cannot be denied. Memories are not to be obliterated. They are an inherent part of one’s mind and one’s life. The cause of suffering and pleasure lies not in the existence of the memory itself but in one's grip into it, in one's attachment or aversion to it.
It is then worth investigating whether it is possible for the mind to cherish these memories not like leaves of the Spring but like those of the Fall, realizing that these can and will eventually wither away, fall away, and when they do be able to let go. And may be in eliminating the impermanent, in peeling off the layers of stories which the mind concocts, it might become possible for the mind to stumble upon that which is eternal, that which is the truth, that which is timeless, and that which is not of the mind.
Recognizing the keeper of the memories might perhaps free the keeper from the memories, clear the dust, and shine everything in its own light. Suffering is real. So is the possibility of freedom from it.
19 August 2008
An open heart
Love opens many doors. Love is unafraid to knock and does not wither when the knock goes unanswered or even if the door opens to hostilities. Love is always there to offer a warm embrace, a friendly hug. Like a flower that perfumes the very hand that may crush it. The discovery of love is the discovery of life.
May we always be of an open heart. May our love fearlessly embrace all hurt and all praise and continue to exist without reason or cause. May our love spread its light far and wide into dark corners of hearts that bleed with fear, into crevices of lives that agonize in loneliness, and into the warm hands of another that may seek nothing at all.
May we always be of an open heart. May our love fearlessly embrace all hurt and all praise and continue to exist without reason or cause. May our love spread its light far and wide into dark corners of hearts that bleed with fear, into crevices of lives that agonize in loneliness, and into the warm hands of another that may seek nothing at all.
22 July 2007
Acceptance of Intimacy
Intimacy is a function of acceptance. Recently my friend's, who lives in the US, grandfather, who lived in India, passed away. She is very sad since she did not have a chance to be with him in his final moments or to be part of the last services. She is sad because she was very close to her grandfather and now misses him even more knowing that even if she were to go back to India, she will not find him there anymore.
What makes a relationship so special that we long to be with the companion in the absence of their company? To understand the answer to this question we need to understand what sometimes makes it difficult to be together.
Think back of a time when you were in a difficult relationship - be it for a few minutes or for several years. A difficult relationship is such because of disagreement between the related. Not to say that agreement is the sole basis of a relationship, but failing to resolve disagreements or lack of inclination to acknowledge and accept differences and disagreements sure does lead to the death of a relationship's liveliness, even if the partners may choose to continue to be together. Being together is not the same as experiencing togetherness. There often hides great loneliness in a crowd.
The time when we feel most alive in a relationship is when we can be who we are - a 'who we are' that changes from time to time - now happy, now sad, now generous, now demanding, now benevolent, now revengeful. And yet, we are the sum total of all these paradoxical and seemingly opposite states of being. Rarely are we able to find - or be - such a person. Relationships are a struggle in dominance, assertion of freedom, desire for control, and an endless effort to chisel away other's 'undesirable' traits.
A being, compelled to conform to a forced image, is reduced to an object. A being, unlike an object, has the need to be free to express, evolve, and to be howsoever his or her life chooses to flow. That is the state in which the being is most comfortable - when it is free to be. To be whosoever and howsoever without the fear of rejection or the fear of being judged. It is only in the security of such a relationship that a being flowers.
Partners seek predictability as a means to security. However, nature of life is to be neither predictable nor to be secure. Nature of being is to be free and to flow in the direction of that expression.
The need to be free then seeks a relationship that allows that to happen. A relationship that accepts the person not for who they are but for what they could become, not for what can be made out of them, but the choice to be ever present, lovingly, to whatever they may choose to make of themselves. Only in total acceptance can there exist the comfort of togetherness, in which lies the absence of fear - the ripe and the only soil which can give birth to the delicate flower of intimacy.
What makes a relationship so special that we long to be with the companion in the absence of their company? To understand the answer to this question we need to understand what sometimes makes it difficult to be together.
Think back of a time when you were in a difficult relationship - be it for a few minutes or for several years. A difficult relationship is such because of disagreement between the related. Not to say that agreement is the sole basis of a relationship, but failing to resolve disagreements or lack of inclination to acknowledge and accept differences and disagreements sure does lead to the death of a relationship's liveliness, even if the partners may choose to continue to be together. Being together is not the same as experiencing togetherness. There often hides great loneliness in a crowd.
The time when we feel most alive in a relationship is when we can be who we are - a 'who we are' that changes from time to time - now happy, now sad, now generous, now demanding, now benevolent, now revengeful. And yet, we are the sum total of all these paradoxical and seemingly opposite states of being. Rarely are we able to find - or be - such a person. Relationships are a struggle in dominance, assertion of freedom, desire for control, and an endless effort to chisel away other's 'undesirable' traits.
A being, compelled to conform to a forced image, is reduced to an object. A being, unlike an object, has the need to be free to express, evolve, and to be howsoever his or her life chooses to flow. That is the state in which the being is most comfortable - when it is free to be. To be whosoever and howsoever without the fear of rejection or the fear of being judged. It is only in the security of such a relationship that a being flowers.
Partners seek predictability as a means to security. However, nature of life is to be neither predictable nor to be secure. Nature of being is to be free and to flow in the direction of that expression.
The need to be free then seeks a relationship that allows that to happen. A relationship that accepts the person not for who they are but for what they could become, not for what can be made out of them, but the choice to be ever present, lovingly, to whatever they may choose to make of themselves. Only in total acceptance can there exist the comfort of togetherness, in which lies the absence of fear - the ripe and the only soil which can give birth to the delicate flower of intimacy.
06 July 2007
Eternal and timeless
Restlessness. Anxiety? Which word to use to describe this constant inner nagging that goes on like a ceaselessly ticking clock hand.
I will like to slow down time so i can watch the clock hands move - tick - tick - tick - tick away and I ticking away with them.
Time moves too fast. Or so it seems. When there is ample of it, it goes a waste; when there is scarcity of it, it is useless. Then how does one deal with time without letting it get ahead of oneself so that one does not feel left behind?
If I stop time will the clock stop ticking? For that the clock will require the knowledge of time. But clock has no knowledge or connection to time other than what the society has given it. That is why stopping the clock does not freeze time. But here is lies the clue to freedom from time - time is time to me because I think of it as time. If I live in eternity, there is no time ... no matter how fast the clock ticks or how much it slows down.
Eternal - forever - always - ... - that which will always be - timeless - what is that? That which always is is just this - this momnt right here, right now. This moment - fragile, dying, being reborn every moment, every instant, verily insistent of its existence. Ignored but persistent. Transparent but solid. Foundation for all hope that is future, which is not. Bearer of all past that is memories, which is not. This moment. This timeless, precious, little, ignored, tiny fragile piece of endless existence. This moment is eternal. Being in this moment is eternity.
I will like to slow down time so i can watch the clock hands move - tick - tick - tick - tick away and I ticking away with them.
Time moves too fast. Or so it seems. When there is ample of it, it goes a waste; when there is scarcity of it, it is useless. Then how does one deal with time without letting it get ahead of oneself so that one does not feel left behind?
If I stop time will the clock stop ticking? For that the clock will require the knowledge of time. But clock has no knowledge or connection to time other than what the society has given it. That is why stopping the clock does not freeze time. But here is lies the clue to freedom from time - time is time to me because I think of it as time. If I live in eternity, there is no time ... no matter how fast the clock ticks or how much it slows down.
Eternal - forever - always - ... - that which will always be - timeless - what is that? That which always is is just this - this momnt right here, right now. This moment - fragile, dying, being reborn every moment, every instant, verily insistent of its existence. Ignored but persistent. Transparent but solid. Foundation for all hope that is future, which is not. Bearer of all past that is memories, which is not. This moment. This timeless, precious, little, ignored, tiny fragile piece of endless existence. This moment is eternal. Being in this moment is eternity.
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