The Holy Moment

Sometimes

Sometimes I'm a thread woven into this world,
Sometimes I am yarn that's unravelling.
Sometimes I'm a river that knows it's own way,
Sometimes I'm a stream that is babbling.
Sometimes I'm a wanderer lost on the path,
Sometimes I'm a pilgrim who's traveling.

Tickling Truth

Ever notice how there is always a bend in the road not taken? Like a book with the ending ripped out. Like a song sung just close enough to hear the tune but too far to catch the words...

Everywhere we look our world is riddled with mystery. With things we will never know. Some of us will spend our whole lives trying to come to terms with the unfair finality of that. With our sharp knives and strong lights, our microscopes that magnify reality and surrender the small to our sight, we demand explanations. There is something valiant about our efforts- and also something a little- absurd.

Sometimes I think of the Truth as a little creature with wings, a pixie-pointed chin and eyes brimming with supressed merriment. It is a game- our dedicated, furrowed-brow, solemn pursuit of her. Our gravity tickles Truth and when she laughs we think we have found an answer- not realizing how partial it is. How all our answers lie on a bed of questions, you can tuck yourself in snug as a bug in a rug but the pillow you rest your busy head on is wonder-full- and does not know.

Deep Me Diving

Storm-tossed boats. Human hearts. Sometimes ship-wrecked.
Then Divers come fearless and searching for pearls

Without Warning

The rhythm enters the soul and the feet tap with no knowledge or care of the next step. The wind smooths out the wrinkles and the sun promises to only warm and not burn.

Sometimes Perspective

is just about remembering that past everything you see outside of your window- is everything you don't.

When Sadness Comes

The wings of sadness will lift you off the ground without warning
What of it? Don't pay for your ticket and you will be returned to the ground safely.

When sadness comes…

Dragging its dark cloak about its feet
And whispering its unhappiness through
The long corridors of your heart-

What will you do?

Invite it to tell its story
But don't encourage it to repeat it
More than once.

And when you have listened
All the way through with perfect
Attention-

Then let your awareness move
To other things.

It will not do to ignore all the other guests
Crowed at your doorstep.

Green buds pointing hopefully to heaven
On the slender branches of trees that have
Waited out the winter without complaint.

A purple flower twined around a wooden post
On somebody's front lawn a royal announcement
That you ought to acknowledge.

The round perfection of an orange
The moment before it is cut and the
Fragrant stinging mist finds your fingers.

The laugh lines that crease the corners
Of the eyes of someone you love dearly
Who is wondering why you are so suddenly quiet

All these things visit you simultaneously
They depend on your hospitality.

It does not suit you to play favorites.

Invite them all in and do not worry
Inordinately about your
Sadness.

If you let it-

It will find its natural place.

And when the dark cloak falls away
And the whispering in the corridors
Ceases – perhaps-

Wisdom will walk in its wake.

Less Than A Snowball's Chance In-

Was changing trains in Chicago four years ago- the December of 2001. I had a monstrous black suitcase, a bulky brown duffle bag, a borrowed green winter coat (several sizes too large) a big black backpack and a soft pillow with a Christmassy cover. Mary with her usual thoughtfulness had insisted on giving it to me for the trainride (initially she’d wanted to give me a blow-up pillow. And five-year old Dan had instantly thrilled to the idea- A pillow that explodes? He’d asked incredulously). I hadn’t realized that you could check your bags straight through. So there I was in Chicago rushing to catch a connecting train with the mother-of-all-suitcases and more of her children than was sensible. But I’d devised a pretty neat way of handling my baggage which worked really well. Until I came to the staircase (no elevator). At the top of which I could see the train I needed to catch. There was no way I was going to be able to get my monstrous black suitcase, bulky brown duffle bag, borrowed green- etc up that staircase in time. And there wasn’t anyone else in sight. I considered sitting down on the steps and waiting for a miracle. But wasn’t too sure how effective that would be. So instead I started up those steps. Lifting, heaving, clutching, slipping. Must have been a very comical sight. I remember in the middle of it all lecturing myself- You’re So silly Pavi. When are you ever going to learn to Think about these obvious things? Things like- I should check my baggage in so that I won’t have to worry about missing my connection trying to climb a small staircase with a monstrous black suitcase, bulky br- and it was then that I sensed someone’s hand next to mine on the handle of the suitcase and in my surprise I let go and the hand which was attached to a burly old man in blue jeans and a plaid shirt continued on up the stairs with the bag. He was whistling. And I remembered registering how well he whistled even in that under-your-breath kind of way.

Less than a snowball's chance in Madurai
The heart that encounters Unexpected Kindness in this world.

And yes it's Kindness that comes you undone like a shoelace. Tips you over with awkward grace back into that perfect place- that only you can fill for this world.

Penpa Tanging with Neha

Neha is the recently-turned-eight year old across the street. Every encounter with her is an Edifying Experience. A few mornings ago she skipped over with her grandmother and our share of homemade Divali sweets. I was en route with basket in hand to our back yard to gather the morning flowers- “Pavithrakka can I also come? I am loving flow-ers very much,” says Neha in her fun, formal, not always grammatically correct but unfailing confident English. Of course I say and we head towards the Coral Jasmine tree out back- a tall slender trunked tree that rains white fragrant blossoms with bright orange stalks on the grass during the nights all year round- but in the monsoon season when it rains it pours and the grass and the ground beneath the tree is literally carpeted in white and orange – blossoms that can be picked up by the careful-not-to-crush fistful. There’s a kind of extra ordinary magic in those morning moments spent quietly gathering these flowers. A magic born of a mixture of gratitude, wonder, and unreasonable beauty in the still silence of early morning- I wish I could say that such a steady start to the morning renders one invincible to all the daily demons of impatience, irritation, of I-ness and My-ness and O-My-Soul-Is-A-Squashed-Tomato-ness (and yes that was the Unfortunate title of an Unfortunate poem penned during my (short lived) career as an Aspiring Existentialist. Don’t Ask :-)) But apparently you can’t buy that kind of invincibility with a basketful of flowers- it takes more diligence and vigilance in the moment than that…but what the basketful of flowers does provide is- a sort of sacred space to “set the tone of the day” – there’s a Tibetan phrase for this that I learnt recently – penpa tang. And it can in subtle and sometimes not-so-subtle ways make a difference to how I live my day- or at least to my awareness of how I live my day (incidentally The Mother’s name for these flowers is- Aspiration). Or maybe I’m just trying to find a halfway respectable excuse for being born to-

"(...) catch dragons in their dens
And pick flowers
To tell tales and laugh away the morning
To drift and dream like a lazy stream
And walk barefoot across sunshine days"

…either way there I am with Neha under the Coral Jasmine tree, I reach over and shake the trunk gently and she tilts her head up and watches the white sudden swirl of blossoms falling like stars, like snowflakes with an expression of perfectly mingled awe and delight (my day is Made in that moment :-)). And then we both bend to the sweetly-scented task at hand. I find myself wondering with a faint twinge of apprehension and amusement- what Neha is going to say- I don’t want the conversation to wander from this magical to the mundane just yet- and in some admittedly silly way I want to “protect” the sacredness of this space from small-talk. “Do you like Mother Teresa?” Neha’s question asked between blossom-picking is matter-of-fact and sans preamble. “Yes” I answer- somewhat startled – and intrigued by her choice of conversation threads. “ I also am liking her very much. She is helping all the people who are suffering from This and That. Nobody else to help them otherwise. All the people in the world say she is very kind. And then she died.” The small heap of flowers in the basket is growing. Fresh, soft white flowers today. Dried brown brittle ones tomorrow. “What?” I have to know whether I heard the last part of this little impromptu speech correctly. “She died,” said Neha all of eight, “End of story.” “End of story,” I echoed. “ Pavitrakka look at this-,” She is pointing to a fern under the tree now strewn with small white flowers- “It looks like the flowers grew there no?” A thought I’ve so often had. “Yes they do. Neha- what do you want to be when you grow up?” And in my head I have already framed her answer- she will want to help people suffering from This and That like Mother Teresa. Neha looks over at me for a brief moment- then-

“ I think I will also be a Flower Collecter,” she says.