The martial arts to the uninitiated convey only fights, winning and violence. However, the truth could not be farther!
The driving thought behind karate is to make fight unnecessary.
The art and the execution of t he skill in karate is not in the hands or even the belt that the 'fighter' wears. It is in the mind. In the heart.
When you see smooth, undisturbed, deep waters- you see everything faithfully reflected from the surface. A calm mind likewise sees and reflects all that is within its range. See the lake? See the sky and the trees? And the high mountains? All are contained within the lake as if an integral part of it!
The calm mind accurately forms an image of the opponent. The opponent's movements, force and even psychology are equally faithfully reflected from the waters of a stilled and deepened mind. Time seems to slow down. Analysis of each component of attack is easy and complete even before the attack actually starts.
The response to the well reflected opponent, then is correct, adequate and appropriate.
Neither too little nor too much. Just enough.
Is this not what life requires us to master?
Reflect calmly. Respond adequately.
A mind that is not calm is manifested by a body that is not under control. The body is tightly wound like a spring. It not only leaves open an opportunity to be attacked, it also responds inappropriately to an attack.
Too little or too late.
Just as the water can be calm in a deep ocean as well as catastrophic in its destructive power when in motion, so the mind must simultaneously maintain the opposites. Be capable of reflection and force.
Seen the artistically stupendous movie "Hero"? It illustrates this concept of clarity and slowing down of time repeatedly. And breathtakingly.
Try.
Train to make your mind like the water.
Karate or not.
MIZO NO KOKURU....
Mind like water
Time really flies...
I sat in the car waving to my son's back... He was going in the school gate. I thought back to just a few years ago.
It was the first day of preschool. He was ready and excited. I remember the striped blue T-shirt that he wore. The deep blue back pack was on his shoulders. He really looked on with his naughty eyes, almost daring anyone who cared to accept the challenge! " Catch me if you can!"
I was a little apprehensive. Is my baby ready for the first flight? Can this fledgling really try his wings? Was I ready? Could I leave him alone with some stranger for the few hours required for each school day? Will he be ok? Will he eat? Will he be able to tell the teacher his basic needs? Water? Loo? Who would help him there?
Now I am an experienced mom! So This should not have bothered me! I have gone through this before. My daughter turned out alright. She made it- despite me... or in spite of me. So will Moksh.
But a mother's instincts are never wrong. He was excited only so long as it meant Mom was not going to work. He was to be with Mom all the time. He went with me in the car. As soon as it was time for letting him go- he held on tight.
At first his eyes simply widened. His tiny mind could not make the leap. His mother was always there for him. She could not just take him some strange place and then leave him there. SHE COULD NOT.
Then I saw some liquid begin to fill those big eyes. He was still not saying anything. It was heart-breaking. Then the tears brimmed over. A tiny cry and then he transformed. The fierceness and the tenacity with which he held tight to my hands while screaming his heart out was tearing my insides out. How could I be so cruel?
The teacher simply took his hand away. I found my hand empty. And my heart full. This teacher could not be trusted! She had not even bothered to turn a glance at me. Hell! she was not even looking at Moksh. She was only dragging him to the class. This play school was a very bad idea. My heart and my mind were doing flip flops.
Thank God for those CC cameras they had installed in the class-room. He settled in soon enough. He was good with his hands. By the time they took him to the Blocks room, he had no memory of a certain female creature perhaps scanning each monitor for evidence of her progeny's being comfortable or uncomfortable.
Once in the school, he was fine. But he never really liked being put in the bus. He never really liked the morning- it brought separation.
Now my baby has grown into a young boy who still does not feel over-enthused about school but has been programmed by the system to accept each morning's separation as just one of those evils that have to be borne. We try and fit so much into the mornings that school becomes a place to brag what he knows each day!
And my young man does know!
He knows that you have to be gentle with those younger or weaker.
He knows that you have to say thank you and sorry.
He even knows that sometimes it is ok to feel angry.
He knows that school is the place where he gets to make friends and invent games.
He knows that school is also the place that will teach him when to say no. And how.
For a five year old, is that not a bit much to already know?
As if this is not enough- he also knows he loves his mother THIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSS much.
And then he knows that no matter what- his mother, too loves him THIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSS much.
We can hug over the phone. And we can also touch over the phone... because ... you see... God gave this special thing to us- it is called the mother child bond...
As I wave at my son's back, I try to reconcile the past with the imagined future... He will soon be grown up enough not to need me to dress him up. He will be independent enough to not even bother with a backward glance and go his own way. He will soar. And maybe... just maybe... he will see the wind beneath his wings is being stirred up by the same mother who held him in her lap as a baby and then held him when he took his first tottering steps and then again each time he needed consoling because he had scraped his knees.
But in all of this past present and future, one thing that stands out clearly is the fact that I really do love him. And he loves me. And he will never have to say it... I will see it in his eyes- hear it in his breath. Just as I know he will feel it in mine. Yet... being that silly thing people call mom, i tell him tirelessly," Mokshaaaa? You know something? " He answers- gleaming eyes-" Yes! You love me verrrrry verrrrry verrrry much!" And I repeat just to satisfy myself, gleaming eyes, " Yes baby! I love you verrrrrry verrrrry much!"
I never thought I could love another human being aS much as I loved my father and my mother... and then came along my man to redefine the limits of what a human heart is capable of feeling. I knew for sure that it is not possible to love anyone any more than this when I was blessed with the little angel I call my daughter. For nearly a decade ( she is seven years older than my son) I thought it is not possible to feel any more love than I now felt! Each little gesture and each little tick was endearing. Just as I was convinced that more love was not possible, along came my son...
Human heart grows with each new experience of love and at each step you seem to be brimming over... overflowing as if more cannot be accomodated. And somehow, more and more can be taken in...
Thank you God for all the love in our lives...
Remember to tell all those you love that you do love them. Everyday. Just like I tell my children.
One day they will grow up and find this silly. The daily reaffimation of our love. Many times each day.
And then, they will have their own families and ... THEN... They will feel it and hopefully remember the good feelings it brought and hopefully... they will reaffirm in their own unique ways- how much they love all those they do love in their lives.
It was the first day of preschool. He was ready and excited. I remember the striped blue T-shirt that he wore. The deep blue back pack was on his shoulders. He really looked on with his naughty eyes, almost daring anyone who cared to accept the challenge! " Catch me if you can!"
I was a little apprehensive. Is my baby ready for the first flight? Can this fledgling really try his wings? Was I ready? Could I leave him alone with some stranger for the few hours required for each school day? Will he be ok? Will he eat? Will he be able to tell the teacher his basic needs? Water? Loo? Who would help him there?
Now I am an experienced mom! So This should not have bothered me! I have gone through this before. My daughter turned out alright. She made it- despite me... or in spite of me. So will Moksh.
But a mother's instincts are never wrong. He was excited only so long as it meant Mom was not going to work. He was to be with Mom all the time. He went with me in the car. As soon as it was time for letting him go- he held on tight.
At first his eyes simply widened. His tiny mind could not make the leap. His mother was always there for him. She could not just take him some strange place and then leave him there. SHE COULD NOT.
Then I saw some liquid begin to fill those big eyes. He was still not saying anything. It was heart-breaking. Then the tears brimmed over. A tiny cry and then he transformed. The fierceness and the tenacity with which he held tight to my hands while screaming his heart out was tearing my insides out. How could I be so cruel?
The teacher simply took his hand away. I found my hand empty. And my heart full. This teacher could not be trusted! She had not even bothered to turn a glance at me. Hell! she was not even looking at Moksh. She was only dragging him to the class. This play school was a very bad idea. My heart and my mind were doing flip flops.
Thank God for those CC cameras they had installed in the class-room. He settled in soon enough. He was good with his hands. By the time they took him to the Blocks room, he had no memory of a certain female creature perhaps scanning each monitor for evidence of her progeny's being comfortable or uncomfortable.
Once in the school, he was fine. But he never really liked being put in the bus. He never really liked the morning- it brought separation.
Now my baby has grown into a young boy who still does not feel over-enthused about school but has been programmed by the system to accept each morning's separation as just one of those evils that have to be borne. We try and fit so much into the mornings that school becomes a place to brag what he knows each day!
And my young man does know!
He knows that you have to be gentle with those younger or weaker.
He knows that you have to say thank you and sorry.
He even knows that sometimes it is ok to feel angry.
He knows that school is the place where he gets to make friends and invent games.
He knows that school is also the place that will teach him when to say no. And how.
For a five year old, is that not a bit much to already know?
As if this is not enough- he also knows he loves his mother THIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSSSS much.
And then he knows that no matter what- his mother, too loves him THIIIIIIIIIIIIIISSSSSSS much.
We can hug over the phone. And we can also touch over the phone... because ... you see... God gave this special thing to us- it is called the mother child bond...
As I wave at my son's back, I try to reconcile the past with the imagined future... He will soon be grown up enough not to need me to dress him up. He will be independent enough to not even bother with a backward glance and go his own way. He will soar. And maybe... just maybe... he will see the wind beneath his wings is being stirred up by the same mother who held him in her lap as a baby and then held him when he took his first tottering steps and then again each time he needed consoling because he had scraped his knees.
But in all of this past present and future, one thing that stands out clearly is the fact that I really do love him. And he loves me. And he will never have to say it... I will see it in his eyes- hear it in his breath. Just as I know he will feel it in mine. Yet... being that silly thing people call mom, i tell him tirelessly," Mokshaaaa? You know something? " He answers- gleaming eyes-" Yes! You love me verrrrry verrrrry verrrry much!" And I repeat just to satisfy myself, gleaming eyes, " Yes baby! I love you verrrrrry verrrrry much!"
I never thought I could love another human being aS much as I loved my father and my mother... and then came along my man to redefine the limits of what a human heart is capable of feeling. I knew for sure that it is not possible to love anyone any more than this when I was blessed with the little angel I call my daughter. For nearly a decade ( she is seven years older than my son) I thought it is not possible to feel any more love than I now felt! Each little gesture and each little tick was endearing. Just as I was convinced that more love was not possible, along came my son...
Human heart grows with each new experience of love and at each step you seem to be brimming over... overflowing as if more cannot be accomodated. And somehow, more and more can be taken in...
Thank you God for all the love in our lives...
Remember to tell all those you love that you do love them. Everyday. Just like I tell my children.
One day they will grow up and find this silly. The daily reaffimation of our love. Many times each day.
And then, they will have their own families and ... THEN... They will feel it and hopefully remember the good feelings it brought and hopefully... they will reaffirm in their own unique ways- how much they love all those they do love in their lives.
It has been a wonderful week!
It all started Monday morning. It seems like it was ages ago but I do realise as I sit tapping the keys here it was only two days ago!
My alma mater, my high school is having their Annual Blood Donation day on Friday, 7 Nov, 2008 at Bharatiya Vidya Bhawan at Curzon Road, New Delhi. I got a call from a number in the area on my cell phone. It was my biology teacher... and currently the vice-principal of the school wanting me to be the Chief Guest for the event!
Me? Have I really grown up enough to be now chairing sessions and chiefing events?
I still remember the days of climbing trees and jumping on fences in the school play ground. The dirt and the grime did not matter. Niether did the scraped knees. What mattered was the trees to be climbed. And ofcourse, the ripe and the unripe mangoes that we plucked. I can still feel myself swelling up with the prize of my bountiful booty... all my loot. And the lemon trees... yes... they were trees. These were much smaller than the mango trees. I could stretch a little and touch the leaves. Each time I touched the leaves the aroma of lemon lingered on in the lines on my fingers and palms. I fell in love with the floral scent. I still am in love with it. I have planted atleast three lemon plants in pots of various sizes in my own home and almost obsessively gently touch the leaves to feel the aroma again in my hand. I have passed this love on to my children, too. I see them doing the same. I see this love for the flora enveloping generations and feel somewhat dwarfed as well as an instrument to immortality of emotions in the lives of mortals.
Small things. Insignificant things. Lingering things. Memories. Are these not what we are really made of?
Who was it that set all those records in the Olympics this year? And there was this guy frpom uptown Chandigarh who won India her first Gold medal in the Games. What was his name?
I honestly will have to jog my memory to recall their names.
But I remember the first teacher to have taught me and signed my first report card. Mrs L Bruce. She was a tall woman. She mostly wore daark colous and skirts. She tought the preschool of Holy Child. Her hand writing is still seared on my mind's canvas. Straight. Well rounded. Lovely loops to the L and the B in her name. And wonderfully rounded Capital E in the excellent she awarded me in each of the catetgories listed. My first report card! I sometimes take it out and reaffirm my own self. I am OK!
And I remember the geography teacher Mr Karan Singh in BVB who managed to make the subject so interesting that I often found myself dreaming of teh formation of the continental plates and the mighty oceans in the scheme of things. Mr Karan Singh was an exceedingly good looking teacher to our young brains and everything he said was ... well... divine word! But he managed to pass his love of the subject to atleast one student who despite having streaned out into the Sciences has continued to read avidly about the earth and her history. I hope I can pass on the same kind of love for something- anything to any one child I teach.
And I remember Mrs Khattar, my history teacher who taught for fun. She loved the subject she taught. She loved herself. She often would be seen in three pairs of sandals in the course of a day. She was aggressive. She was opinionated. And she was controversial. She was quite popular with the boys of our class for the kind of blouses she wore. She would have beaten Sush at her game long long ago!
And I remember Mr Mohan Kumar... our gentle Mathematics teacher. When he wrote a math equation on the board, the world seemed to shrink. It seemed as if even we, the students had disappeared. He had a problem to solve. It required a certain method to do it. And he was not bothered by anything anyone chose to do or chose not to do in the class. His job was done only when it was done. His voice could often not penetrate the din some of us managed to create in his class but he NEVER EVER raised his voice.
And I remember Mr Chourashiya, my Electrical gadgets teacher. He tried to tell me how difficult it would be for me , a girl, to take up the subject which was a boy's domain. And then he openly appreciated my grasp of teh subject.
And I remember Mrs Kavoori who gave me 25 out of 20... five marks extra for neatness and organisation of my answer book in the exam.
And I remember... most of all... the little girl... who caught the hem of my skirt in the central courtyard... and told me... " You are the best" She handed me a tender rose with her small hands. I had to bend over doubled up at my waist to take it from her. I was in class twelve and she would have probably been in the first grade or second grade. I remebered very clearly the emotions of this powerful moment from being the giver of a similar rose some six years ago to the then head girl Anjali... and being made the laughing stock of her entire class! I gently took the rose and thanked her. I was overwhelmed and grateful that God had prepared me for this moment. I may not be able to recognise the girl now. I do, however, remeber the emotions that coursed through me. I have to say thank you... again... I did then. It was the most touching moment of my school career.
I have lots of memories that make me proud to a part of the family called Bhavan. Most of all I am grateful to god for the way He made me...
And to the many people who have shaped the way I have turned out...
More later. I am getting more emotional than I can handle!!!!!!
Thank you... all of you.
My alma mater, my high school is having their Annual Blood Donation day on Friday, 7 Nov, 2008 at Bharatiya Vidya Bhawan at Curzon Road, New Delhi. I got a call from a number in the area on my cell phone. It was my biology teacher... and currently the vice-principal of the school wanting me to be the Chief Guest for the event!
Me? Have I really grown up enough to be now chairing sessions and chiefing events?
I still remember the days of climbing trees and jumping on fences in the school play ground. The dirt and the grime did not matter. Niether did the scraped knees. What mattered was the trees to be climbed. And ofcourse, the ripe and the unripe mangoes that we plucked. I can still feel myself swelling up with the prize of my bountiful booty... all my loot. And the lemon trees... yes... they were trees. These were much smaller than the mango trees. I could stretch a little and touch the leaves. Each time I touched the leaves the aroma of lemon lingered on in the lines on my fingers and palms. I fell in love with the floral scent. I still am in love with it. I have planted atleast three lemon plants in pots of various sizes in my own home and almost obsessively gently touch the leaves to feel the aroma again in my hand. I have passed this love on to my children, too. I see them doing the same. I see this love for the flora enveloping generations and feel somewhat dwarfed as well as an instrument to immortality of emotions in the lives of mortals.
Small things. Insignificant things. Lingering things. Memories. Are these not what we are really made of?
Who was it that set all those records in the Olympics this year? And there was this guy frpom uptown Chandigarh who won India her first Gold medal in the Games. What was his name?
I honestly will have to jog my memory to recall their names.
But I remember the first teacher to have taught me and signed my first report card. Mrs L Bruce. She was a tall woman. She mostly wore daark colous and skirts. She tought the preschool of Holy Child. Her hand writing is still seared on my mind's canvas. Straight. Well rounded. Lovely loops to the L and the B in her name. And wonderfully rounded Capital E in the excellent she awarded me in each of the catetgories listed. My first report card! I sometimes take it out and reaffirm my own self. I am OK!
And I remember the geography teacher Mr Karan Singh in BVB who managed to make the subject so interesting that I often found myself dreaming of teh formation of the continental plates and the mighty oceans in the scheme of things. Mr Karan Singh was an exceedingly good looking teacher to our young brains and everything he said was ... well... divine word! But he managed to pass his love of the subject to atleast one student who despite having streaned out into the Sciences has continued to read avidly about the earth and her history. I hope I can pass on the same kind of love for something- anything to any one child I teach.
And I remember Mrs Khattar, my history teacher who taught for fun. She loved the subject she taught. She loved herself. She often would be seen in three pairs of sandals in the course of a day. She was aggressive. She was opinionated. And she was controversial. She was quite popular with the boys of our class for the kind of blouses she wore. She would have beaten Sush at her game long long ago!
And I remember Mr Mohan Kumar... our gentle Mathematics teacher. When he wrote a math equation on the board, the world seemed to shrink. It seemed as if even we, the students had disappeared. He had a problem to solve. It required a certain method to do it. And he was not bothered by anything anyone chose to do or chose not to do in the class. His job was done only when it was done. His voice could often not penetrate the din some of us managed to create in his class but he NEVER EVER raised his voice.
And I remember Mr Chourashiya, my Electrical gadgets teacher. He tried to tell me how difficult it would be for me , a girl, to take up the subject which was a boy's domain. And then he openly appreciated my grasp of teh subject.
And I remember Mrs Kavoori who gave me 25 out of 20... five marks extra for neatness and organisation of my answer book in the exam.
And I remember... most of all... the little girl... who caught the hem of my skirt in the central courtyard... and told me... " You are the best" She handed me a tender rose with her small hands. I had to bend over doubled up at my waist to take it from her. I was in class twelve and she would have probably been in the first grade or second grade. I remebered very clearly the emotions of this powerful moment from being the giver of a similar rose some six years ago to the then head girl Anjali... and being made the laughing stock of her entire class! I gently took the rose and thanked her. I was overwhelmed and grateful that God had prepared me for this moment. I may not be able to recognise the girl now. I do, however, remeber the emotions that coursed through me. I have to say thank you... again... I did then. It was the most touching moment of my school career.
I have lots of memories that make me proud to a part of the family called Bhavan. Most of all I am grateful to god for the way He made me...
And to the many people who have shaped the way I have turned out...
More later. I am getting more emotional than I can handle!!!!!!
Thank you... all of you.
Ah! Those days!
Reading a blog from a very old friend I was reminded of those lovely days in the seemingly remote past ( God! are we THAT Grey?!) when we read poetry for its humor and enjoyed it DESPITE the curriculum that forced these down our gullet... and sometimes inspite of the teachers who made it a point to drown all the humor out of the written word! ( Teachers Please pardon!)
One of the most lasting impressions on me was of an enchanting man called Ogden Nash. I loved his humor in The Born Spectator ( I think that was the title!) and in a few others. I loved him so much that I decided to set upon a mission- collect all that I could lay my hands on. Each piece that I read made me crave for more. That is the highest compliment one can give an author of any style or genre or even any form of literature.
Among my personal collections of his works were:
And that put me on his trail.
I bought a collection of his verses- Candy is Dandy.
Those were the days before the Internet was a part of our daily lives. You had to sit in a library or a book-store for hours looking for that elusive title or work that you wanted. You could not simply type the word on a computer screen and hope to look up a thousand or more pages that could satisfy our curiosity.
Incidently, typing Ogden Nash on Google.com throws up 5,16,000 pages/ sites in 0.19 sec!!!!! Oggle all you want! I could never have dreamed it would be so easy to know so much about this great poet somewhere in the future.
There is even a Wikepedia entry that is called- quite simply- Ogden Nash.
Now I know he was a Leo ( Aw! Shucks! I always thought he was a Gemini- with such a flair for the language he had to be an artistic zodiac. But he was a Lion!)
Now I also know that he lived to the ripe old age of nearly seventy ( 1902- 1971) and had a great life writing but died of an unfortunate illness Crohn's Disease in John's Hopkin's, Baltimore in May 1971.
One of his oneliners are irrepressible!
People who work sitting down are paid more that people who work standing up.
And then the playful rhyme that was inimitably his unique style...
I would love to finish with one of his poems... and hope I find others who love him as much and want to have a collection of his available to savour
Song to be sung by the father of infant Female children
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise my, my blood runs cold
when little boys run by,
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then, they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry,
No matter how they tarry, Eventually they do marry.
And swine among pearls,
They marry little girls!
Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
with parents who feed him and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes! I loathe him with a loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless
This bachelor child in his carriage,
gives never a thought to marrige,
But a person can hardly say knife,
before he will want himself a wife!
I never see an infant (male)
A-sleeping in the sun,
without I turn a trifle pale,
And think," Is he the one?"
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls
And Holy Matrimony.
He'll put away his pony
And sigh for matrimony
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.
Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk
And quietly sucks his thumbs,
His cheeks are roses painted on silk
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But Alas! the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for a kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
is diapered still
will want to marry
my daughter Jill!!
Ah1 sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohen grins!
I'll open all of his safety pins!
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring
And tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps, he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry someone else's daughter!
I have to specially thank Swati for refreshing my jaded memory cells and reminding me about Nash. Please do see her blog for several interesting sites she has researched and reviewed.
www://hellonetbaby.blogspot.com/
One of the most lasting impressions on me was of an enchanting man called Ogden Nash. I loved his humor in The Born Spectator ( I think that was the title!) and in a few others. I loved him so much that I decided to set upon a mission- collect all that I could lay my hands on. Each piece that I read made me crave for more. That is the highest compliment one can give an author of any style or genre or even any form of literature.
Among my personal collections of his works were:
- Song to be sung by the father of infant female children
- Complaint to four angels
- Thunder over the nursery
And that put me on his trail.
I bought a collection of his verses- Candy is Dandy.
Those were the days before the Internet was a part of our daily lives. You had to sit in a library or a book-store for hours looking for that elusive title or work that you wanted. You could not simply type the word on a computer screen and hope to look up a thousand or more pages that could satisfy our curiosity.
Incidently, typing Ogden Nash on Google.com throws up 5,16,000 pages/ sites in 0.19 sec!!!!! Oggle all you want! I could never have dreamed it would be so easy to know so much about this great poet somewhere in the future.
There is even a Wikepedia entry that is called- quite simply- Ogden Nash.
Now I know he was a Leo ( Aw! Shucks! I always thought he was a Gemini- with such a flair for the language he had to be an artistic zodiac. But he was a Lion!)
Now I also know that he lived to the ripe old age of nearly seventy ( 1902- 1971) and had a great life writing but died of an unfortunate illness Crohn's Disease in John's Hopkin's, Baltimore in May 1971.
One of his oneliners are irrepressible!
People who work sitting down are paid more that people who work standing up.
And then the playful rhyme that was inimitably his unique style...
- I think that I shall never see
- A billboard lovely as a tree.
- Perhaps, unless the billboards fall,
- I'll never see a tree at all.
I would love to finish with one of his poems... and hope I find others who love him as much and want to have a collection of his available to savour
Song to be sung by the father of infant Female children
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky;
Contrariwise my, my blood runs cold
when little boys run by,
For little boys as little boys,
No special hate I carry,
But now and then, they grow to men,
And when they do, they marry,
No matter how they tarry, Eventually they do marry.
And swine among pearls,
They marry little girls!
Oh, somewhere, somewhere, an infant plays,
with parents who feed him and clothe him.
Their lips are sticky with pride and praise,
But I have begun to loathe him.
Yes! I loathe him with a loathing shameless
This child who to me is nameless
This bachelor child in his carriage,
gives never a thought to marrige,
But a person can hardly say knife,
before he will want himself a wife!
I never see an infant (male)
A-sleeping in the sun,
without I turn a trifle pale,
And think," Is he the one?"
Oh, first he'll want to crop his curls
And then he'll want a pony,
And then he'll think of pretty girls
And Holy Matrimony.
He'll put away his pony
And sigh for matrimony
A cat without a mouse
Is he without a spouse.
Oh, somewhere he bubbles bubbles of milk
And quietly sucks his thumbs,
His cheeks are roses painted on silk
And his teeth are tucked in his gums.
But Alas! the teeth will begin to grow,
And the bubbles will cease to bubble;
Given a score of years or so,
The roses will turn to stubble.
He'll sell a bond or he'll write a book,
And his eyes will get that acquisitive look,
And raging and ravenous for a kill,
He'll boldly ask for the hand of Jill.
This infant whose middle
is diapered still
will want to marry
my daughter Jill!!
Ah1 sweet be his slumber and moist his middle!
My dreams, I fear, are infanticiddle.
A fig for embryo Lohen grins!
I'll open all of his safety pins!
I'll pepper his powder, and salt his bottle,
And give him readings from Aristotle.
Sand for his spinach I'll gladly bring
And tabasco sauce for his teething ring.
Then perhaps, he'll struggle through fire and water
To marry someone else's daughter!
I have to specially thank Swati for refreshing my jaded memory cells and reminding me about Nash. Please do see her blog for several interesting sites she has researched and reviewed.
www://hellonetbaby.blogspot.com/
Lost in Wilderness !
This is not a picture postcard painted out of imagination. This is not some far out place simply taken out of some picture album either.
This is an ordinary path that we walk everyday rendered breathless by the surreal light of early morning sun.
It has the same leaves that fall each autumn from the same trees and adorn the same earth. It has the same sun lighting it up even!
What makes this unique is the stillness... the solitude... the silence.
Can we find our moment of beauty and acceptance? Each day? Can we find our peace and solitude? Each day?
Can we look for our centre or do we even have to look?
These and many other questions arise in our minds as we behold a thing of beauty. We forget that the majestic lies with in. It is the internal reflected on the external that lends appeal and enchants.
Are you ready to be enchanted?
Set off...
A moment of silence...
It was an overcast morning.
A light drizzle and a small breeze were just enough to remind an onlooker about that wonderful feeling! People were rushing to work or blowing their horns at having been delayed ( much to their chagrin) at a traffic signal just turned red for them!
Running. Everyone is running. Everyone is running to catch they know not what.
I noticed a warning light come up on my dashboard... Fuel up NOW. It insisted. In the middle of the road. I found myself hoping either for a continuous unbroken driving pleasure with all the signals green or if red, to be so long enough for me to stop my car. Dead stop. No idling. No fuel wastage even on red signals.
One such traffic signal- inside a stopped car, I sat. Stillness enveloped me like a soft coccoon. The car windows rolled up had blocked out all he noise of the people in so much hurry that they could not notice their own breathing. I sat comfortably and closed my eyes for a moment of respite. It was in that moment of solitude and silence that I heard it.
A gentle tapping sound came from somewhere outside the car. It was inviting... very enticing. And very very very gentle. I wondered where it came from and what could it be. Then I saw it... The rain gently falling on the windscreen.
The Lord talks to us in many ways and myriad languages. He shows us plenty and we fail to see. He whispers in our ears and into our hearts and we fail to hear. He touches us in a lot of gentle ways but we are far too busy in our mundane existence to fathom the profound.
Take a moment.
Slow dow.
Hear.
See.
Live life... don't just survive it!
A light drizzle and a small breeze were just enough to remind an onlooker about that wonderful feeling! People were rushing to work or blowing their horns at having been delayed ( much to their chagrin) at a traffic signal just turned red for them!
Running. Everyone is running. Everyone is running to catch they know not what.
I noticed a warning light come up on my dashboard... Fuel up NOW. It insisted. In the middle of the road. I found myself hoping either for a continuous unbroken driving pleasure with all the signals green or if red, to be so long enough for me to stop my car. Dead stop. No idling. No fuel wastage even on red signals.
One such traffic signal- inside a stopped car, I sat. Stillness enveloped me like a soft coccoon. The car windows rolled up had blocked out all he noise of the people in so much hurry that they could not notice their own breathing. I sat comfortably and closed my eyes for a moment of respite. It was in that moment of solitude and silence that I heard it.
A gentle tapping sound came from somewhere outside the car. It was inviting... very enticing. And very very very gentle. I wondered where it came from and what could it be. Then I saw it... The rain gently falling on the windscreen.
The Lord talks to us in many ways and myriad languages. He shows us plenty and we fail to see. He whispers in our ears and into our hearts and we fail to hear. He touches us in a lot of gentle ways but we are far too busy in our mundane existence to fathom the profound.
Take a moment.
Slow dow.
Hear.
See.
Live life... don't just survive it!
Web-cast !
We are all stuck. Some of us are like the spider- spinning the web, finding the prey and surviving. Some are like the insect caught inexorably in the web- the prey- struggling to break free. The more the prey tries to break free, the more entangled it gets in the web.
The web is cast.
The predator and the prey are both an undeniable reality- both needed to sustain each other in the circle and the cycle of life.
The spider's web, comparatively speaking is stronger than steel ( (Yes! remember the Young's modulus you read in Class X? )
Can we escape that trap?
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