The NEED to be strong!

What is your earliest memory?

All her life she thought being strong would be enough. She had decided this when she was barely two years old. She had decided that she would be strong even before she knew she could decide or that she had decided!

This was one of the earliest memories she had. 

The little girl sitting alone atop a roof without any grills or railings as a safety feature could see the entire world under her. She was perched like a little bird- only she was sure she was not a bird and that she could not fly, even to save herself, were she to fall from that height. As if this was not enough there was a little baby in her lap. And she was to look after this little baby, too.

Had anyone picked her up and pulled her close in a warm, safe hug, that someone would have felt the little heart pounding hard- as if just ready to burst out of the little chest. Her eyes were big, and alert. Her body and mind wound up tight like a tight spring, tension in each fibre was what gave her the ability to keep sitting there, holding her brother tightly in her tiny arms. So tiny was she that her arms barely went across the baby’s body. 

She needed to be sure she was away from the edge. 

Living on the edge could come later. And it would.

All these thoughts could not have been verbalized or even recognized by her pre-lingual mind, pre-verbal brain. She was just about learning the words that would shape the thoughts that even now filled her mind. 

Strangely, however, the thoughts came before the words. In fact, the thoughts became the words! And words could do no more than simply label the thoughts. When words become the driving force- they can even change the thoughts and mould them. The Force field is generated by us- the thoughts we think become the words we use. The words we use, equally, become the thoughts we identify.

She would, in due course need to put the words before the thoughts. She would have to decide the content rather than the name as she grew older. For now,  all that she could sense was that she was somehow different from others, and that this would always shape her life and the way people interacted with her. This could be a problem, but she would get over this, too. 

Just like she would get over the other hurdles in life. 

She was deciding to be strong. And being strong came at a price. 

The price could be the weakness she knew but others may not feel when they interacted with her. 

They would hate her for this strength and not even know why they did. 

The price could be people making it more difficult for her- each step of the way. Simply because she appeared strong. 

It could even be the isolation she would live in- after all, being strong meant she needed no one to help her, or to stand with her, or to be with her. She could do anything on her own. In fact people could, and would, pull her deliberately and actively down. Simply to prove to her that she was not strong enough, and to prove to themselves that they could be stronger. Strange world- stranger the people that inhabit it. 

Even as she grew up, she would always remember those evenings of waiting for her father to bring her mother up on the roof top. Her mother was mortally afraid of heights so she could not be left alone on the roof top. But her father had had complete and total faith in his daughter even from those early days. 

He knew she would be fine. She was strong and great and just needed to find that out. His confidence did not allow any other possibility. 

He also knew that she was different. He knew that she would change the way the world looked at being a human being. 

He had great expectations from her. He was clairvoyant and thought he had heard the gods when she was born. 

She remembered being there- and being alone. She remembered being in charge of her infant brother. She also felt her father’s strength and his confidence in her. It made it difficult to ask for help.

She would remember the feeling of being alone.

And she would remember the need to be strong.

The need. 

The need also meant that she had something that made her feel weak, and scared. The need also implied that there was a deficiency that must be either filled or hidden. It implied that she was less than she should be or could be. But she apparently became so strong that such a feeling could not matter.In fact she became so strong, or pretended to be so strong that even she did not realize just how weak or afraid she felt. Some of the time.

And it would not matter- not until another three decades passed. 

And then, at 32, she would realize just how much that pre-lingual, nonverbal, feeling that she had felt deep inside her gut had shaped the way she lived and the way she pretended to be strong.

Fighting her own inner fears and demons, she had never let on just how weak and fearful  she really felt. Especially when she came across as being overbearingly strong. She was, in fact the weakest, when she appeared to be her strongest. And the most overbearing. 

Inside her head and her heart, she was hiding it even from herself. 

And outside she was struggling to be accepted and to stand on her own. The paradoxes and the contradictions would always be apparent to her and would be the reconciliation her soul sought. This would be a life long quest for her. 

Such was the paradox she lived in. 

Being strong and feeling weak, simultaneously. Being alone and waiting for acceptance. The feeling that she had defined before she even had the words to define it.

And when she knew the words to define her feeling, she could not quite grasp it.

This feeling, this thought- “I have to be strong” was all that was left. That, too, was buried somewhere deep in her subconscious mind. 

So... she went about her life being strong. 

She was not afraid of the dark- but she walked with her back sliding against the wall lest someone come between her and the light switch she needed to flick on. There was no one in the room- her brain knew this for a fact. Her heart, however, knew anything could happen.

She knew, and she knew not she knew, that alternate Universes existed; and that it was possible to travel between them. She knew, and she knew not she knew, that she- of the 6 billion people on Earth- was uniquely gifted to make this journey. All that would come later- much later. 

For now- she must be strong.

For now- she must not be weak.

And if she is strong, she does not need anyone else, does she?

So she goes through life- breathing, blinking, eating, sleeping- alone. Looking for company. Seeking. 

Sometimes, even in her childhood she wondered whether there were others like her. This thought often crossed her mind. 

She wondered whether she was alone- or was she lonely. Another contradiction, and paradox she lived. One that would make her look for a person who would not only love her but accept her and tell her over and over again, “You are not alone. I love you.”

If she was alone, she had to make herself safe- she could not let the world know just how weak she was. So she had to erect walls- very strong, fortress-like walls that could keep everyone else out, unable to hurt her fragile sense of self.

And if she was lonely- she needed to make sure there were no walls, that she stood in the open fields of life. Open. Exposed. Defenseless. And that she could see everyone, and be seen by everyone. 

In the process she might find someone who was a close match. Someone who would understand the paradoxes and contradictions that seemed to steep her life. 

This someone would talk the same language- the language that was primal, and pre-lingual. That someone would know- instinctively the difference between alone, and lonely. That someone would know, instinctively the need to protect and the need to be free. Free of fear, of weakness and of loneliness. Free of the need to be strong. And that someone would know when to be with her and when to set her free. 

These two were very deeply contradictory needs. 

Even her grandmother had gently reminded her one day- “You are not like others. Others will be fascinated by you. They will be intrigued by you. But they will never be able to fathom you. They might love you or hate you, but they will never be able to ignore you or be indifferent to your presence in the room. This will make it very difficult. So be prepared for it. Because you are different. So do not cry, my child. This is your destiny.”

How would she reconcile the contradictions in her soul? Who would help her be loved and be free?

Uhambo had to set out on her own journey- without a roadmap, without a guide; she had to walk, run, breathe and live a life without any known blueprint or plan. Like so many others, she would define a persona and an existence that would, hopefully, make it worthwhile. 

This journey and beyond. 

More to life than speed

, a photo by naturewalker on Flickr.

There has to be more to life than adding speed to it. Running to catch our own tail leads us only to be dizzy and move in circles or spirals- no beginning and no end.
The colours are lost and the people blur out of focus. All that is left in the end is a haze and perhaps our attempt to hold the sands of time in our fist. The harder we try, the tighter we grip, the less we are able to hold.
Sometimes, hearts get shattered, and sometimes they endure with a strength they knew not they had.
So what do you do with the pieces of a broken heart?
You gather them, and decide to keep walking on. Gather more speed so you cannot see the broken pieces and feel the sharp pain. It may not become whole again, but it has the chance to give more, and take more. It only requires us to make the choice to do so.
The choice has to be made with complete surrender and total commitment. It may be frightening. And then... we must question ourselves. What is our ability to act in spite of the deep fear, in spite of the discomfort it may bring?
We may confront the Gordian's Knot, and know not how to open it. And then, like Alexander, realise the only way out of the knot is to slice it.
Slow down.
Breathe.
And live the life we are meant to.
No less.

May be another day...

May be another day..., a photo by naturewalker on Flickr.

I love and live in my love. ALone.
He loves and lives in his love, too. Alone.
That does not make any sense. But it is supposed to.
It is supposed to be left alone. And he is supposed to be left alone.
So he can find out for himself what I or anyone else means to him, and for him.
And I must wait for that realization to dawn.
Because… I love him.
And I can wait till eternity for that love and that togetherness-
so long as he is the one at the end of that long lonely road. I will walk alone.

And I will learn several languages along the way- just so I narrow the distance we must both travel.
Language that speaks of the heart, of the soul. From the heart, from the soul.
Language that bridges the distance and makes it irrelevant.
Language that makes Time itself irrelevant.
I must learn to speak a language he can understand.
I must also learn to understand the language he speaks.
In our loneliness and our search- it is only words that may string us together.

Those words that speak of feelings. And of forevers.
The head must rule where the heart treads carefully.
And the heart must learn never, ever, to give up.
At the end of days- what else is it that will matter?
That we lived, and lived well.
That we understood and were understood.
That we loved, and we were loved.

And for that day of togetherness
For that moment of truth
Wait I shall
Patiently, and impatiently…
Always, and forever…
Now, and till Eternity.
From Infinity and beyond did we arrive,
To Infinity and beyond shall we go.

Love me now…
Love me forever...

Pain ends.

Pain will not last... And life must go on. It has taken nearly a year for me to come to the point where pain is no longer always controlling my life. There are days when pain and agony take over, and I feel out of control. But there are many more days when, finally, the control is back where it belongs- my head. 

These 10 months have taught me that people care just as much as they do not. 

That pain engages us with ourselves. It tells us to slow down, even stop so we can focus once more on ourselves rather than outside ourselves.

That it is possible to beat it, overcome it- and even live with it. If it does not kill you, it does make you stronger. 

That life is about moving. Moving to live well. And moving on to live better. Staying still is not possible. Being still is. Even the breath mandates movement. 

That most people confuse motion with movement. Motion creates movement, but motion alone is not enough. 

That sometimes- we must simply give in, and breathe or even shed a tear if that is what we want to do. Or need to. 

That giving up is never an option. 

That Something will work- even if there is nothing that has till now- there is always something else. Not a Plan B, but another Plan A. An alternative that has not been tried, and needs to be tested. Like acupuncture! 

That we often confuse moments with life. And then we feel alone, lonely and unloved. Life catches up- the sun come out again and the clouds drift away. 

And that all that matters in the end is how we lived it- not survived but lived.  

What a mother wants...

What a mother wants is to be a mother. What she wants is to make a difference. What she wants is for her children to do well in life. What she feels is their pain in her heart. What she does is take on the whole world for them, and will stand like a tigress at the first sign that anyone is troubling them, or misusing their effort or obstructing them. She does not hesitate to wear her heart on her sleeve because her heart is no longer with her anyway!

And she feels the pain and the tears and the laughter and the pride as raw emotions. These cannot be felt by anyone else. No one else can ever feel the same way- because she carries it inside her gut and inside her soul. This goes much deeper than just the heart, or the head. It goes deep into her soul and stays there for eternity.

Infinity is nothing as compared to the weight of all that she carries. She cries lonely tears, and feels an anger so deep that it cannot be measured. She will stop at nothing nor will she be stopped by anything. Her children have to win. Even at the expense of being hated for her effort. The weight of being a mother is not simply in grazed knees and fevers soothed. It is not even only in the medals won and the applause received.

It is in the occasional, "I hate you, mom!" It is also in the more frequent "I love you, mom!" It is in the fibre of her life. It is in the tapestry of her breath.

So what does a mother really want? She wants for her children to be the best they can be. And she will accept nothing less. She begins to expect The Universe, and The Gods and Destiny herself and even her own children must deliver. Nothing less is possible. The expectation sets the standard to which she compares everything. She compares her own effort and that of everybody else only to that expectation. She measures everybody and everything only on the standard of her expectation... and when that is not met- it is simply not good enough.

She does more, and more. She wishes and asks more and more from everyone because she will not accept anything less, and will not tire from the effort.

She looks on- the tea at the table. Perfect, like her children. She looks on- a perfect brew- deep orange and golden yellow, thick and full bodied tea. The aroma itself is enough to refresh anyone. It gives her immense pleasure- almost a sense of pride. She had a role in this. It looked great and smelled wonderful. But, she needs to add some sugar.

The necessity to add sugar implied a deficiency. All of a sudden, that great tea was reduced to great tea that needed sugar. All the other great qualities became insignificant. Putting in a spoonful of sweetness would make the tea perfect. But we're human! And because we are human, we MUST make sure. So- we stir. We stir up a veritable storm in the tea cup. The whirlpool in the cup goes deeper and deeper and the edges rise higher and higher. Soon, the tea spills over and the family appears to be losing its coherence and togetherness.

And in our wisdom we try harder still. We get hurt. We bleed. We do not give up.

But... in that pain, and in that agony, the best thing to do would be to stop stirring. To stop. And to wait.

To wait for another, "I love you mom" before you give up.

And a mother never really gives up. No matter what.

NaNoWriMo

I have been wanting to write for so long now that it is no longer funny. I read like a house on fire- one book on the bedside table, one in the bathroom, one in the car for those inevitable red signals that I must stop on, and one even for the office. And not to forget one in the Purse! (What if I have to go somewhere I do not usually leave a book- I must have one on my person!)

Then a few years ago, the man who loves me, my husband and my greatest strength (That paradoxically also makes him my weakness!) threw a challenge at me. DONOT BUY ANOTHER BOOK BEFORE YOU WRITE ONE OF YOUR OWN. And I did!

But I did not know how to query it. I did not know how to publish it. I could not find an agent who though about my book and not his pocket. I tried half-heartedly for a while, and then gave up. I told myself that it was enough that I had written a book.

On one of the writing support groups online, I came across a wonderful person who became a great friend. It turned out that she is also a publisher and she had helped shape my manuscript from a raw draft to a readable final copy. She knew my characters even better than me! (Well... may be not!! ;-) )

She asked for my ms. She said she would love to publish it. We tried for nearly two ( may be even three years) but we could not figure out the financials across the oceans and on two different continents separated by timezones that I am still to count.

Finally, we decided to part gracefully. Hopefully, we are still friends.

Long and short- I have written one novel that has been difficult to publish. Faced an extreme case of Writer's block the past few years and then, on November 1 decided- It has to be now.

So.. helloo!!! NaNoWriMo!!!

I started writing without any idea what I was going to write about. But I am writing. EVERYDAY. And loving the recaptured Muse.

Thanks! Your story is INSPIRING!!!

So I write for myself. And for the man who thinks I can. I also write DESPITE not being able to find a publisher. I write for the love of writing.

He was all of four years old!

This little boy came in with his parents. He was small - very small.

He was four but looked barely more than two and a half. He was thin and wiry and hesitant. He hid behind his father as he came in- that should have warned me. But it did not!

We always must learn- learn to be in THE moment. To observe. To simply breathe and let the air and the light wash over us. But... we start to make our own stories and create our own interpretations. We must make some decisions, some judgements- before we even consciously identify any facts of the matter. Then we spend the rest of the interaction justifying our baseless judgement. 

How can we do that? We- who are supposed to be intelligent and observant creatures- and the creatures whose power of observation really must determine the quality of life of any soul who walks in through the doors to our chambers. We- the doctors!

But... we learn. We stop. We take stock once more when confronted by new or different information... I did, too.

The father began to speak. And the boy sat quietly- much too quit for the terrible twos or the frustrating fours!

"His speech is not clear." Simple enough complaint. There are not many things that can go wrong here. So I carried out my preliminary examination- tongue fine, teeth good, muscle tone fine, even the ears great. No reason the child should not speak clearly.

Another alert! By now, I was better placed. I was PRESENT IN THE MOMENT... to the child. My eyes were on the little fellow. My ears were eager to hear what he would have to say. I needed a speech sample to move further.

He started moving and placing his tongue unnaturally over the lower teeth and into the back of lower lip. No matter what I tried, the tongue would not really make the excursion through the various parts of the mouth for speech clarity. All the sounds were jumbled and warbled. One phonetic group was completely substituted by the other. Then, there were sounds that defied definition. He could not even enunciate his own name- poor baby!

By now, alarm bells were ringing in my head. I turned to the parents. And told them that the child seemed to be terrified of something or someone. And that the would need not only to work on the physical world of the tongue gaining more flexibility and movement but also his mind being more playful and able to be the child he could be.

I turned back to the child, "Dhruv*!, Are you afraid of anyone?"

I have noticed that direct questions work better than indirect ones in these situations. That the children are no different than adults except that they have fears that overwhelm their little minds much more readily than adults can imagine. And that they MUST speak what is in their head- and they often do- to be free. They can BE free- easily. 

We must learn the art of acknowledging our fears from the little ones, just identifying the fears loosens their grip on our life.

He looked at me- with eyes wide and unblinking. A tear formed at one corner. And then a torrent started. All I could do at that time was to reach out- and hug the baby. I did. I gently asked him again. "Are you afraid of someone?"

He looked at his mother- sitting across the room- and blurted out. "I am afraid of my mother. She hits me. Very badly. And I do not know why." He started sobbing. Tears were now freely rolling down the cheeks. I did the only natural thing for me to do here. I completely ignored the father. And asked the mother to leave us alone for a while. She walked. In dignity. In stoic silence- her head held high in the wake of a storm that her little son had managed to start.

I asked Dhruv* again. "Do you not think your mother loves you?"
He sobbed, "Not very much. She has more anger than love. She really hits me. "

"But you must be doing something for her to feel the need to hit you," I persisted. "I am sure she loves you and you do not understand." To give this little tyke his due, he stood firm on that shaky ground; the tremors were only for his mother.

No.
My mother does not love me.

Now- being a mother myself, I cannot believe that it is possible for a mother to not love her own child. So I wanted this love deprived child to understand that love can have many faces- some of them may not even look like love. But I could not do that. Instead, I asked HIM- "What would make you think your mother loves you?"

He cried even more bitterly.

I had to press on. This child needed to know how he could identify love. And his mother needed to know how she could love him so he could feel the love. Often we do not even know that the way we express our love is not the way the other sees love. We talk French, hoping to understand and be understood by a person speaking German. It is not going to happen! Not only is one language soft and the other guttural, both are totally different in their soul and expression.

I asked him whether he would feel loved if his mother hugged him like I was hugging him. He backed off. And told me- he would not let her come that near because he was sure she would hit him. Now that is really not natural! I asked him what then would make him feel loved by his mother. He brought up a tiny hand, and lovingly gripped his own jaw between his thumb and his fingers on the other side and said- when she kisses me like this!

How clear can a love language be? Gary Chapman would be proud of that child.

Now it was time to talk to the mother. I called her in. And sent the child and the father out. And I asked her. "Why is your son so afraid? What scares him so much?" Now it was her turn for catharsis. She could not speak at first. Then words came tumbling out. "The atmosphere at home! My husband had threatened to divorce me. My mother-in-law was torturing me. Now we are separated from my in-laws and live separately, but I used to take out my frustration of not being able to find love by hitting Dhruv*. I have hit him very badly in the past. And I realize I have really damaged him. I am sorry. I am so sorry. I am so so sorry!"

When Dhruv walked in a few minutes later- he did not have to be told that his mother loves him.

He looked at her and she was crying. He was crying, too.

They both reached out for each other and hugged each other.

And she held his face between her thumb on one side and the fingers on the other... and...

...she kissed him.
Gently.
On his tears.
The salt of his emotion mixing and mingling with the salt of her emotions. The tides rising and falling synchronously. They had found each other. 

And i found myself!

How many times do we try to RULE the lives of our children?

Do this, do not do that!

Speak properly. Now shut up!

Sit down. Stand up. Eat. Wash. Sleep. Wake up. Walk. Run.

There appear to be only commands. Where do those words that the children need to hear as much as us go?

Go back home and say to the ones who matter to you- I love you. You matter to me. I am sorry. I am grateful for being with you. And say thank you. 

Thank the people who make the life you live worth living. 
Thank the Lord for putting them in your life to make it meaningful.

And understand that each day- we must choose. We must choose to live a life worth living, or not.

Understand that the things that matter most cannot be measured. 

That we must find our own love space. And fill it with light. So we are not afraid of the dark.