On crying

It takes a good cry, or several, to get your hand to touch your face. To explore its contours and to see what lies beneath the thin skin that stretches over your eyes.

Crying has shown me the shape of my face. The curves where tears stall, the nooks that let them escape, making a beeline straight for my mouth. I trace a finger down the salty dry, residue from where a tear once trailed. And I see the shape of longing, I touch the slopes of happiness, I feel in my hands, the fullness of overwhelming emotions.

When I’m done crying, there is a strange new glow. My eyes sparkle invitingly. Suddenly, I find I am looking at myself straight in my eyes, more.

This is new and liberating. Crying has that power. Of discovery. Of freshness. Of endings. Of new energy.

I’ve tasted my tears now. Searing saltiness, reminiscent of cured memories. Memories I’d tucked away in the hope I’d never have to look. But they’re ready now, pickled, and pure in a whole new way. Waiting to be unwrapped. Waiting to hurt and liberate in equal measure.

The tears envigorate. Prepare me for what is to come.

Crying has made my heart fluid again. Turned it into a shapeshifting mass of water, held together by its own inward magnetic pull. That same heart I’d wrapped in layer upon layer of wisdom. The heart I’d helped grow strong (and perhaps cold, too) is salt water and sea breeze now.

The heart that has grown up, wise and clear, wants to grow young and naiive again. And so the tears come from that place of young-ness. Of the baby I once was.

Eyes full, always ready to spill over. A tiny nudge and the overflow is on. At the slightest hint of sorrow showing up. Of a kindred spirit. Of stories so alike they frighten.

I’ve found sharp loathing and a piercing ache in the spot where tears flow from. I try to stop them. But it is not to be. Not now, anyway.

And so they flow and they flow. Long after the urge to cry has left my body, they continue to flow. In that moment I know I’m not crying for my grief, or from the big sorrows alone. This is grief for every small, little, everyday pain.

From everyday dejection, defeat, disinterest. From that unanswered message. From that plan that didn’t include me. From that dress that didn’t fit. From having to make a choice that was no choice at all.

From the unknown hands that jabbed inside my teeshirt on that crowded bus. From that perv in the shape of a doctor. From the relative I can never speak of.

From not having made it. From holding myself in. From not being good enough. From balancing it all.

From moving from Bangalore to Goa. From moving from Goa to Bangalore. From wanting to be the hostess-with-the-mostess. From wanting it all. From that copy that refused to be written. From the pitch that never took.

From the love that turned sour. From friendship that I’ve let go of. From being too much. From not being enough. From people who didn’t pick me. From people I picked who wouldn’t have me. From people who had me, but fell so short of what I wanted of them. From people who had me, and who I had, but only just for a short while.

From distance. From too much closeness. From boundaries that were never made. From boundaries that were transgressed. From boundaries that were in places they never should have been. From being too hard on myself. From letting myself go easy.

Crying has shown me the shape of my face. In the abyss of loneliness that lies still, within, just beneath my eyes, and in the turn of my chin, I’ve felt a softness I didn’t know I had. A softness to hold in my tender hands, old sadness. I’ve found there, the power to choose myself. I’ve found strength to be myself.

Salt water and sea breeze, sunshine and sand — crying has shown me the source. A single drop from where I emerged, and the shapeless all-encompassing vast beyond that I must eventually go to.

One year ago: Tell me what you really like

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Little pieces of magic

In the early years when VC and I had just begun seeing each other, we weren’t too big on using the phone. We’d spend all day together at the same workplace, and inevitably a gang of us would head out after work for a bite or a drink (or both) and it was only the hours between sleep and the new work day that kept us apart. So we didn’t really need to talk too much in the after-hours.

In general, in life, VC isn’t big on communication. If something is pressingly urgent or needs to be immediately shared — these are the only two counts on which I usually expect a call. A barrage of messages, an entire conversation on SMS — this is an impossibility with him. The thing is, I am a big communicator. Not so much telephone calls (though I sense something changing here too), but I can have entire conversations on chat/messaging services. And I can make calls to VC for no reason at all.

Anyhow, with this long backstory out of the way, this is just to note that VC has suddenly taken to calling me for no reason. We’re suddenly the people who begin and end most days with a telephone call. Sometimes just to say hi, and bye. The thing I thought would never be possible: video calls. We make them now. Several times a week. And I have to say, I’m not the only one initiating them.

I am enjoying this shift in our lives. Where suddenly there seems to be a place for long, detailed, emotionally-charged chatting, baring our souls and sharing our biggest excitements and dejections of the day, conversations that go late into the night. This is the stuff we bypassed entirely in our relationship.

***

Sunday morning walk has become a marker of a good week. A thing to look forward to. I’ll admit the idli-vada is still the draw, but it does feel really good to be out in the crisp morning air when the sun has only just come out.

I nearly didn’t make it two weeks in a row and the joy of actually having made it, and having finished a walk amidst many, many giggles and all kinds of conversation with D, and that breakfast with a double dose of coffee at the end — it’s near perfection.

However, the thing that just laces it all beautifully for me, like a cherry on the top, is coming home and getting right back into bed. Under the quilt and all, to either read, watch some Netflix or just nap — it is just divine.

Last Sunday, I realised this is a small, seemingly insignificant pleasure, the joy of which I almost didn’t fully register. But it has become something of an important ritual for me, and it does lift my day, my week up in more ways than I realise. To acknowledge that this past Sunday shifted something.

***

I have also resumed yoga again. AND I FEEL SO GOOD. There is that sweet, stretchy pain of having used my body for something more than just sitting around, which has been my predominant state for the last 12 months. It’s been a little over a week and it’s hard to fight the constant thought of how woefully out of shape I am, of how the proportion of time it takes to gain strength, stamina and muscle versus the time it takes to lose it all is so goddamned skewed. But, I feel really, really good. I like the deep stretching, the twisty, bendy moves that turn my mind and body into knots, I love the peace in the pranayam, and I go through the entire class in anticipation of the deep relaxation and full-body scan of the last 7 minutes of shavasana.

I’ve had sore abs and hams and glutes pretty much after every class. And then I went and started getting out for a walk on the alternate days when I’m not at yoga. Plus there’s the Sunday walk. So yeah, I’m moving again.

Last year was obviously a year of sitting still, conserving energy. And while it has had its place in the whole process, I hadn’t realised just how much I love to be active, and how happy it actually makes me. On Thursday last week after a walk, I actually came home and burst into a hysterical fit of laughter and cried happy tears from the sheer surge of endorphins like I haven’t felt in forever.

As my next Goa trip approaches, I’m wondering about my options to keep the exercise going. And almost like on cue, my kickboxing trainer messaged me out fo the blue. We hadn’t interacted in upwards of 6 months, and he just checked in on me suddenly, just like that.

I feel like it was a sign.

***

L was down in Bangalore after what feels like forever. Actually, the last time she was down was when we met and hung out at M’s wedding six years ago. Six years isn’t very long, but it feels like an age simply because of how much has happened in the years between. We haven’t been inactive touch through this time. We pretty much fell out of touch entirely, and I only surfaced to get in touch with her last year when I visited Pondicherry and this year when I was in Auroville — to see if we could catch up. Both times she was travelling, and we went back to our regular lives.

So we met, and I realised only after we met that she had made the entire trip down to catch up with me, and another friend. I am so used to assuming nobody would ever do that for me, that I had just taken it for granted that she had some other business to deal with in Bangalore and was catching up with me on the side.

We had a lovely hang. It was meant to be a quick coffee at Koshy’s, but it ended up being a long, long, chatty time. And when we weren’t done even after our coffee was done, we walked up and down Church Street chatting some more. Then ducked into Blossoms and bought a bunch of books. Still no sign of calling it a night, we went back to Koshy’s for dinner.

It was just so affirming. Here’s someone I have just not been in touch with, we have lives that are wildly polar opposites of each other, and yet when we met we picked up effortlessly. The conversation wasn’t stilted, the connection was warm, genuine and lingering, refusing to end.

In all my years struggling to get a grip on the loop of friendship and loneliness in my life, I’ve focused on the lack so much. It only takes a day like this to turn it all around.

***

I also caught up with S and D — we hadn’t done this since the course ended. I came home just so grateful. Here are two people I only got to know about six months ago, we don’t have history. I don’t know too much about the intricacies of their lives, and vice versa. But we’ve connected on a foundation of authenticity and vulnerability, just by virtue of doing this course together and experiencing each other’s worst selves in a closed room. There’s something special about that kind of bond. There’s warmth in the hugs we give, there’s a glint in our eyes when we talk about what we’re dealing with, and there’s the incredibly rare and wonderful bit where we meet like this, over coffee, after 3 months and waste no time in pleasantries, jumping straight to OMG I’m struggling so much this month!

***

I’ve been practicing reading the Tarot for myself for months now. Ever since D got me started last year it’s been a regular feature/habit and gradually growing interest in my life. At the start of the year, I told myself I want to do this more — for myself and for others. This week, I did four readings for four different people. And each of then were an utterly enjoyable experience for me.

What I love most about reading the cards is how there’s almost always a message for me in every reading, how much it makes me tap into my intuition and how much freshness it brings to my life as a newfound interest.

***

This is gratitude for all that has shifted this week. Something about a cycle closing — I’ve been feeling this since the turn of the year and the last full moon that gave me a burst of energy seems to have also completed some kind of shedding that has been in process. I’ve been so wrapped up in thought and working on processing it through my head, that I’ve lost contact with my feelings and my body. I realised today in an instant that I have loosened up physically, as much as I have relaxed about certain tight corners in my life.

Maybe it’s new. Or maybe it’s been there and I hadn’t noticed it because I’ve been so busy looking for cognitive answers.

***

This is gratitude for the winter. For the walks. For the parks. For the morning air.

For the strawberries that I could make jam with.

For this blog and the fresh connections it has brought to my life.

For friends who’ve been there in ways I have been unable to see. For new friends. For new people who are there, just as people, and that’s okay.

For friends who have come, are in the process of leaving, and also those who have left. For teaching me not to hold on so tight. For finally showing me what I’ve been fighting and how futile it is.

For therapy and N and how hard she pushes me.

For the crayons I bought, for the pictures of myself that I dug out and the drawing and writing that came from it.

For the numerous times that I found myself at Airlines this past week. For the coffee.

For home. For amma and for how much time we got to spend together since I’ve been back.

For R, S and H and how they’ve taken me under their wing. Counting me in whenever they go out as a family. It’s incredibly heartening.

One year ago: Pretty lights
Two years ago: Because I want to remember
Three years ago: Saaru-anna

 

An inalienable joy of meeting grief

That post from last week — about old selves — received an alarming number of responses. On the blog and off. And they were all mostly of concern for my well-being and state of mind. But I have to say — that wasn’t a post that came from a place of sadness or dejection.

The responses got me to thinking about what it is we deem as “sad” and what makes us so uncomfortable. Conversely, what is it about difficult, unsavoury emotions invoking the default response of avoidance, that makes us meet vulnerability with the default response of sympathy?

I’ve been writing about my state of mind and this journey of personal work I’ve been on for a few years now, and yet I have never received an outpouring of concern like I did for this post. I’m also not grudging the sympathy, the good wishes and concern I received. I’m touched and deeply appreciative. I’m just intrigued by the sequence of events.

Here’s the truth: I’ve had a contemplative few weeks since resuming therapy, with way too many thoughts than necessary, frankly. This is a natural outcome of any sort of reflective work, if done with a basic degree of honesty, willingness and allowance. And it is not an easy journey to be on because it throws up a lot of discomfiting, unpleasant, unexpected truths that reside within us. But that is precisely the purpose of therapy — to push oneself to face exactly that which we are unwilling to see in our daily lives. To go to the most uncomfortable places in our minds and see what it feels like.

So, it’s been mighty difficult, in that sense. It has been overwhelming, emotional and I’ve cried more this past month than I have all year.

And yet, that wasn’t a sad post. It came from a place of deep, internal (not merely cognitive) recognition and resonance with an underlying grief within me. Grief of not having fully processed emotions and reactions to events in my life. Grief from years of accumulated holding back. Grief of situations that have occurred as much as of grief of impending loss as a crucial and integral part of the process of evolution. Grief of having to let go of so much — so much that is comforting, comfortable, familiar to me — in order to move into a life of new possibilities. Grief of simultaneously knowing what I want to leave behind, and also being shit scared to find a new version of myself.

I’ve been welcoming the overwhelming feelings with joy and celebration, because I know without a shadow of doubt now, that to live in constant avoidance of difficult emotions and in the pursuit of happiness alone is to tread on thin ice.

So I consider that post a major milestone. If my heart is my home, this is me opening the door and letting the light in.

Despite Because of the overwhelming feelings, I had a really good week. And tomorrow I’ll write about all that made it memorable.

Two years ago: 2017 book beginnings
Three years ago: Bengloor-life banter

Learning to let go

I held myself back because I thought that’s the only way to meet heartbreak.

I held myself back because it helped me cope and (feel like I can) move on from the pain.

I held myself back because it made me (feel) big, strong, capable. And grown up.

I held myself back because was honestly just easier to close my heart up and withdraw.

I held myself back because I thought it would help digest and dissolve all the difficult feelings within myself.

I held myself back because I thought I’d be too much for people around me.

And now I’m trying to learn to let this, too, go.

What makes you hold yourself back?

***

Had a severe oh-ffffff moment hearing that Mary Oliver has passed on. And immediately remembered her through one of my favourites. Which, ironically, sums up what all of last week was like for me.

I did think, let’s go about this slowly.

This is important. This should take
some really deep thought. We should take
small thoughtful steps.

But, bless us, we didn’t.

— Mary Oliver

One year ago: Sorry seems to be the hardest word
Two years ago: Work. But also life.
Three years ago: Hope

Old selves

I’ve been experiencing a whole lot of grief in accepting the part of change where I have to physically let go of so much that I used to be in order to become the person I am growing into. It’s not the cloud it was a few weeks ago, but more like a tap that tends to be left open sometimes. Running dry before it stops.

I’ve been thinking about changing, shedding layers, growing. New selves. And what must happen to old selves when we move into new places, embracing various aspects of ourselves.

In therapy, whenever we get to talking about heartbreak and times in my life when difficult emotions made themselves shown, I somehow land at my teens. It’s like I don’t have conscious memories of unpleasant emotions from a time before that. Either they’re largely absent and/or so deep in my subconscious, or I have pushed them away. But we’ve been pressing on, to go deeper down in time and deeper into my body and heart. To go beyond the obvious, logical point my head keeps taking me to.

And so, I went on a hunt for old pictures of myself today to help aid the remembering. Again, I found it so hard to find pictures of a very young me. There are pictures, they’re just not showing up when I look. Instead I have a ton of pictures from my teens — capturing a whole host of moods and events.

I have the same eyes, I realised. And even in my smile, I feel like I can see through to the hurt I carried within. I can see it in those eyes.

But I also stumbled on this picture. And I got fixated on it for a bit.

This was a picture taken during the peak of heartbreak and sadness during that time in my life. But there was also this distinct memory — a girl who can kickback, literally throw her head back overcome by giddy spells of happiness, holding her belly because of the overwhelming joy that bursts through. A girl who loves the sea and takes off to go there every chance she gets.

There is also this girl.

What a girl she used to be. What a girl she can be. What a girl she is.

One year ago: Afterglow
Three years ago: End of day

New light

It is possible, I have realised over just the last 24 hours, that VC was there all along, and it is I who have learned to let myself go and be held and helped instead. This dropping of my own weight from holding it all in and holding myself up, has been somewhat pivotal.

I accidentally encountered a term last week, in casual conversation, that perfectly describes this phenomenon: allowance.

To be in allowance — or the degree to which I am willing to permit myself, in this context — to receive this support. The allowance to feel fully, to allow my emotions to show, even if it means showing myself in a light different from the one I have been used to has been an unexpected plot twist.

One of the frightening realisations I have come to recently is how often I go through difficult times all by myself for no fault of anyone else’s but my own. All because I almost never allow what I am feeling to brim over and be seen. I rarely allow for help — whether it’s a listening ear or physical assistance or just an act of kindness, not random but in response to something I am feeling.

This is a script that has dictated much of my life. I’m seeing more and more how even though the circumstances and specific details of our lives may be different, this script has dictated much of my mothers life too. And similarly, my grandmothers too. A chat with amma the other day made me realise it probably goes beyond that too — my great grandmother was an outlier and a beacon of achievement and women’s liberation for her time. Her mother in law too, did some immensely formidable things. I realise I carry within me the spirit of what was once the definition of strength — to get through difficult times with a smiling face, to be put together and move on. It’s almost hardcoded in my DNA, much like the colour of my eyes, the tilt of my smile and the way in which my skin reacts to the air around me.

These are inherited stories, a collective culture of achievement, a legacy that I am compelled to step into and further. But the more grounded and secure I feel in getting to know myself, the more I feel ready to encounter and face the difficult emotions.

The more I listen to the voice within me wrapped beneath layers of this consciously learned and unconsciously inherited behaviour, the more I want to redefine what strength, achievement and happiness means to me. The more I want to open up to the authenticity of my emotions and consequently, the desire for help, the desire to no longer face life alone.

There are two threads to this. One, the capacity for admission and allowance for experiencing pain, grief, difficulty, sadness, rejection — the whole gamut of difficult feelings that I was almost afraid to allow myself to feel. Two, the consequent, chronic absence of people when I most need them. They’re separate, and yet connected. The truth, as I’ve come to painfully realise, is that all those difficult emotions are the flip-side of every experience of joy, love, happiness, togetherness and connection. They’re two sides of the same coin, following each other in a an infinite loop. It is impossible to separate the two, and so to live a life in constant negation or denial of the difficult is to make absolutely no space for emotions that are intrinsically 50% of me.

This script is another facet of the strong narrative. The deeply compelling belief that to feel difficult feelings is to be weak, that expressing them would amount to making a fuss, that making space for them would mean a life soaked in sadness, that asking for help would mean that I am somewhat incapable and an small. One thing leads to another and pretty soon it begins to feel like my entire life is a big fat lie. Because there’s no running away rom how often I do need help. How much I do need space to express myself. How much I do need to feel everything.

And so, the work then is to unpack the script. And very, very slowly rewrite it in a way that erases the notion that uncomfortable emotions will consume me if I face them. Because everything passes. Just like the sun needs to set and darkness must prevail, before a new dawn rises. Trees must get unabashedly naked for new life to sprout. The earth must be painfully parched to fully enjoy the gush of that first rain.

The work is in trashing the “suck it up” impulse that’s so quick to swoop in and call the shots. It is in, believe it or not, building a capacity not just for joy but also to invite deep sadness and the whole host of difficult feelings. To really see myself and my capacity to feel in a radically new light.

This requires strength. Just not the kind that comes from building an armour around myself, but from letting myself show. These past few weeks I’ve tasted that strength that comes from knowing that virtually no difficult emotion is so big it can overpower me. I’ve found security in my body and intuition that is beginning to tell when it is time to let my guard down, drop my weight and be seen. I’ve found safety in meeting grief and sadness and staring it right in the face, making absolutely no attempts to hide it.

I’ve held the words Vulnerability is strength really, really close to my heart for over two years now. But it is only now that I am slowly beginning to experience what it means. Vulnerability is in allowance. In seeing and being seen. And something tells me I’ve only just, barely, barely scratched the surface.

***

Title inspiration:

One year ago: Block rockin’ beats (Wayanad, 2017)
Three years ago: Come undone

Deep dive

I took this picture on a day when I was finding it hard to look myself in the eyes. It was a day when I had to remind myself that going through change also sometimes means seeing sides of myself that I may not want to, aspects I have forgotten because I’ve buried them away so deep such a long time ago, things about me that I didn’t see coming or haven’t prepared myself for.

But see it, I must anyway.

I take pleasure in my transformations, I look quiet and consistent, but few know how many women there are in me.

— Anais Nin

Few. Sometimes not even I myself understand how many, it seems.

So, this gentle reminder to go easy. To take my time. To take pleasure in this transformation. To actively participate with gentleness, in creating a channel. And to observe, witness and be present to all the women that may emerge.

One year ago: I have my books and my poetry to protect me
Two years ago: Inconsequential posts you really don’t need to read
Three years ago: This and that

This being human is a guest house

Breaking down two words in my head for a couple of weeks. Two simple words — I’m okay. Dismantling them, mangling them, turning and twisting them around in my head. Observing how often I use them, when the reality is so far from that truth. How many times I feign strength in saying them, just so I don’t have to show what I am truly feeling. How many different variants of these two simple words I have in my vocabulary, that help me sidestep the full strength of my emotions, settling for a comfortable white lie. How often telling myself that I’m Okay, is only so I can feel a temporary regaining of strength to get on. and, my God, I’m flabbergasted at the many, many, many ways in which they’re inadequate. Inaccurate. Insufficient.

I’m not okay. I haven’t been so many, many times that I have effortlessly let these two words roll off my tongue.

Realising slowly, with soul-crushing clarity that I’ve spent so long aspiring to be a strong woman. Strong like the women I was surrounded by all through my growing up. Strong like the women who choose the partners they will spend their lives (or not) with. Strong like the women who earn their own living, live on their own terms. Strong like the women who don’t take bullshit when they’re groped on buses. Strong like the women who lift weights and scream strong is the new skinny. Strong like the women who look down on Zumba and turn to kickboxing. Strong like the women who don’t cry as much as they might feel like. Strong like the women who suck it up and deal with their emotions themselves. Strong like the women whose mantra is Bring It On. Strong like the women who respond with I’m okay, no matter what happens and what adversity they’ve faced and overcome.

These are women in my life. Women in my world. Faceless women in my mind. Pretty made-up faces of women on TV, in the movies, online. These are women all around. Women I know. Women you probably know too.

And I’ve spent my whole entire life trying to be one of them. Fighting some labels, clinging to others. Redefining some. Creating new meanings of my own for some others. And the bargain, I’ve become pretty damn hard. Frozen. Cold.

So can you imagine my horror when the very definition, the foundation, of what I have been trying to be for only like just my entire life came slowly crashing down? Falling apart brick by brick, with a slow and painful realisation that this chase for power and strength, when pitted against The Other — men, bosses, mother in laws, mothers, friends — is but a clever and unmistakeable glorification of strength as an aspiration. This hungering for power, no matter how small or subtle, that every woman knows only too intimately is in itself the biggest tenet of patriarchy.

Every single day, for the last maybe 10-12 days, I’ve felt like another layer of this patriarchal hangup has been stripped away form my brain. And I am nowhere near done. As I peel back the layers, the my jelly-like throbbing heart beats faster and faster, awaiting its inevitable expose. This is a frightening as hell process. And everyday I have thoughts of backtracking and abandoning this unravelling that I have begun. Because to be exposed, raw, open, soft — a beating heart that’s alive for all to see as it is — is the most frightening thing I have ever known or done.

And I wonder if it is frightening because it calls for a strength I don’t know if I have? It’s the sort of power that no gym has ever prepared me for. I have absolutely no capacity for this kind of softness, handling my own heart with tenderness and love that this calls for. The job description is already intimidating.

It’s taken me only 34 years, and we’re only nine days into the new year, but I already know that this will always be the year I will spend rediscovering strength.

Finding vulnerability. Being soft. Faltering, fumbling, falling apart. Learning.

Making space to feel with my heart (and not my head) again. Giving space for the warm, fuzzy heart that’s buried under layers of strong to feel pink and fragile again.

To love. To cry. To be real. To unpack my backlog of unprocessed emotions. Discovering the gallons of grief that flow out when I drop the I’m Okay. Touching the tears that flow when I stop saying I Can Do This Too. Gently picking up the flowers of guilt and pain that fall when I say Enough.

Now I know that all of this requires strength. And it is going to bring more pain, fear, loneliness and grief to begin again. To start learning to be soft now.

But I also know that guilt, pain, fear, loneliness is as good a point to start, as any.

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
meet them at the door laughing and invite them in.

Be grateful for whatever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

— Rumi

One year ago: Day 9: The hardest part

Changing seasons, changing reasons

Feeling the feels and thinking lots of thoughts about death of a phase, moving on to new horizons, finding new ground and growing into new skin since yesterday.

Maybe it was the massage I had yesterday that set of this feeling of having shed something. Or maybe it’s the energy of the first week of the new year that still feels like the dregs of the old, leaving on its last legs. I have actually been feeling this energy of something finishing since the last big full moon of December. Or maybe it’s the near end of this trip — that has in so many, many ways been life-altering — that makes me feel like something new has been set in motion.

Nothing confirmed it — this inner knowing of what was one young and tender, having grown, and what has grown and fulfilled its purpose eventually meeting a logical end, this feeling of the continuous cycles that keep finding their peaceful completion — like this splash of pink and white that’s taken over a curry-leaf tree whose time is in sun is clearly done.

This overgrown burst of colour that’s brimming with the kind of audacity that only be found in youth. The loud, look-at-me-flourish vibe that overshadows and drowns out what once was a wee little pot-sapling no higher than my knees, forced me to see what is.

Today, I went back to visit an old neighbour and dear friend, and quite by surprise found a parking spot right next to where it has grown into flourishing tree in it’s own right.

I’d planted that little sapling in the ground in the home I last lived in, in Goa. And something about witnessing this transformation, to see the blossoming tree full of life in all its glory, hit home today.

One year ago: Day 8: I’m just too good at goodbyes
Three years ago: Day 8: On waiting

I am the universe

Sometimes I am the sea. After a full moon night. Swelling and ebbing, in control and contained. Holding space within. Exuding gentle power and grace.

Sometimes I am a river in a rush. Reckless and raring to go. Slipping over hills, sliding under crevices. Solitary and single-minded. Making my way even where none exists.

Sometimes I belong to the moon itself. Blissful. Distant. Maddeningly bright on a starless, indigo night.

Sometimes those stars descend within me. Shimmering, pulsating with a self love that shines through. Privately, for me.

Sometimes I am reduced to a minute spot of magic dust. Small and insignificant. But present. Sometimes I grow into a dark cloud of grief. So gargantuan it could end me.

Sometimes my heart beats in consistent rhythmic bursts of happiness, that can light up a room. And sometimes that same heart breathes a sadness that stifles.

Sometimes I wake up to that old fire raging within. Angry, white, hot. Blind. Consuming everything in its way. Only to turn to the rain for relief.

Sometimes there’s friendship in the freshest dew on a lonely morning. Sometimes a heavy, hollow mist. Like a hug on a cold night.

Sometimes joy bursts forth like a volcano of laughter won’t be contained. And sorrow showers soon after like the unending tears of ash. They both come from the same place. The volcano that rages must also eventually meet a brutal wind.

Sometimes I ride an irrationally beautiful rainbow to great heights. And it takes a sobering storm to level it out again.

Sometimes the universe breathes down on me. Powerful and achingly beautiful. I cower under its overwhelming immensity. But more and more I find the bountiful gifts of that same universe within me. Flowing continuously, coexisting in a complex, confusing, beautiful mess.

It’s in those fleeting moments that the leaves whisper secrets in my ears. The wind caresses me gently in a new direction. I see reflections of magical new truths in the sparkling stillness of pools. I find a quiet rhythm in the breath of a bird. All I can do is bear witness. And it’s in those fleeting moments that I know what it really is, to be me.

One year ago: Day 5: Here I go again (on my own)
Three years ago: Day 7: Shiny new guiding lights

Day 365: December

Eyes wide open

On the first day of this year, I wrote a post that was meant to be a low-key, low-expectations, chill sort of post with things I wanted from the year. I look at it now and think wow, that’s really not low key. But I also look at it and think damn, a lot of that happened and got done.

I wished for more honesty. Of myself and of with people around that matter to me. I think this happened in some measure. More with myself than with people around me — that’s still learning process for me.

I wished for more vulnerability. This happened, in waves and troughs. It had it’s peaks and dips. Thanks to the course and now therapy, I’ve become aware of how much more I want of this and am keen to go deeper.

I wished for the ability to deliver my promises, on time. I think this was specifically related to work, which I didn’t know then was going to be the least of my priorities this year. But the little I did, I was fairly good about. Deadlines were met more often than not — this was kind of a big deal for the eternal procrastinator that I am. But best of all, slowing down on work and trying new things gave me some clarity about the kind of work I am now willing to put my mind to, and the kind I absolutely don’t want to do for some time to come.

So I didn’t swing back smoothly from yet another hiatus like I’d wished. The hiatus saw an unexpected extension. And then a detour. I didn’t pitch a single story after February. I changed course and did different kinds of writing, but yes, I did deliver better first drafts, quicker. Unexpectedly, I’ve become a little more aware of how to work smarter instead of harder.

I wished that VC and I move ahead in our business plans with alacrity and focus. And this happened too. Just not in the manner I imagined at the time I wrote the post. Life happened, and business followed in entirely different ways.

I wished for courage to break out of patterns I have with friends, to break old patterns that keep me from digging deeper and giving (and receiving) a higher level of kinship. Oh jeez, this one was a toughie. 2018 saw more people in my life than I have ever had in many, many years now — I reconnected with old friends, I made many, many new ones. And the best part — not all my friendships were alike like they once used to be. I have entirely different friends for a range of different activities. I know this happened because I’ve opened up. In some ways. But I’ve also realised in what ways I haven’t. I’ve realised why I still feel a deep loneliness that cannot be filled by numbers, despite how much the people landscape has changed in my life. I hope to sit with this and understand it better in the coming year.

I wished for simplicity. In the smallness of my day to day life as much as in the bigness of the things I chase. This wasn’t entirely true for me this year. If anything, I let go and lived big, thrilling in extravagance and all things an older me would deem unnecessary. And maybe a lot of it was, but from where I am now, I see it as a necessary step in the curve in getting to the point of realising and being honest about the fact that my life is anything but simple. I am privileged as fuck, and simplicity is a construct I crave for. A construct that makes my life look like something it truly isn’t. I hope to crack this one some, in the coming year. Finding some balance and a middle-path to a life that is simple, mindful and eco-conscious, while also being realistic and real about the inherent privilege that allows me to even have this train of thought and make this an aspect of focus.

Ending the year in Goa has set the wheels in motion towards this.

I wished for a little more travel. Not just holidays, but chances and ways to experience life outside of the set patterns that we know and exist in. And this happened. Oh how this happened. 11 out of 12 months featured travel this year, going west as far as Europe, east to Thailand yet again and closer home as near as Goa many, many times over, each trip so different from the one before. It opened our hearts up, it tore me up some, it made me desperate and it settled something in me too. And it contributed a fair bit to VC’s and my decision to live apart.

I wished for just a little bit more discipline in terms of daily habits. This was a big fat no. Very early on I gave up trying to be rigid with myself about this because I realised it wasn’t going to be a time of any sort of curtailing, but of flowing with the flow. I hope to regain some balance around this, and it’s interesting to see that the habits I want to inculcate in the coming year are things I didn’t even know I’d want to do 12 months ago.

***

If this is a post measuring all the ways in which I’ve grown this year, I have to say bullshit to everything above this line. Most of all, this year I realised that my need to measure and make goals and projections, no matter how well-intentioned, is also a manifestation of a much more deep-seated tendency to over-achieve. This plays out in everything I do, from making myself write a post every day (and I did it without missing a single day this time around – ho hum) to finishing a reading challenge, to wanting control over my home and routine and sometimes that of VCs too, to hyper curation of everything. This year, quite unconsciously and unknowingly, slowly parts of this began to fall away until in December I was left wondering what there was that I could hold on to and how I could measure this year. I was looking at nothing tangible. Absolutely nothing.

Only experiences. A whole treasure chest of them.

And suddenly, I no longer wanted to open and revisit them in a look-back post. I just want to let them be. I want to slow down and just be. With no finish line in sight. This year, I did a lot of things under the broad umbrella of working on myself. What I didn’t know I was also doing in the bargain was laying the foundations for this already.

I dropped the need to hustle. I rewired the part of my brain that believed the hustle added value to my life. I allowed myself to change my mind over and over and over. I allowed myself to choose the easier path without feeling like I had somehow failed. This was wildly new.

I chose to do the quiet work of building on myself. The work that brings in no bucks and has no visible results to show.

I became comfortable with the idea of giving myself to the business of I. So it was a lot of me, me, me 100% of the time.

I finally realised this was entirely okay.

I learned that not everything has to — or will — turn out matching the projections I may have imagined. Some journeys don’t have fixed destinations. Only milestones that keep changing as I go along. I learned to observe how the journey has contributed to me. This doesn’t render the effort or time spent useless. These are not small steps. These are all big, important parts of the journey.

And this, while difficult to learn and digest, has been precious.

I became willing to open my eyes wide and keep my heart open more often than not.

I found myself a little bit. Outside of being a wife, sister, daughter, friend. I got addicted to learning and growing into me. And I realised this journey will only keep teaching me how much more I have yet to learn and grow.

One month ago: Day 338: November
Two months ago: Day 305: October
Three months ago: Day 284: September
Four months ago: Day 246: August
Five months ago: Day 219: July
Six months ago: Day 184: June

Seven months ago: Day 152: May
Eight months ago: Day 134: April
Nine months ago: Day 92: March
Ten months ago: Day 60: February
Eleven months ago: Day 32: January

One years ago: Crossing over
Two years ago: Day 366: December

Day 362: Be kind to the growing mind

What a ride it’s been this year, all the wheels and various moving parts of my being moving to nurture a mind that works for me and with me. A mind that has the ability to stay when everything about my body (and brain) wants to flee. A mind that has a capacity for joy. A mind that has tasted strength in vulnerability and wants so desperately to let that creep under my skin. A mind that has come so very far, and is longing to go the journey ahead. A kind mind to call my own.

I’m just so very grateful. For everything.

Two years ago: Day 362: Time

Day 359: Lay down all thoughts

I’m taking the downtime to really put it all down. Rest my mind a little. I’m not succeeding all the time. But I’m still trying.

This year was filled with more new experiences than any other in a while. And yet, this year I came face to face with loneliness. I don’t mean that as a lack of people. I mean loneliness like this cloud that chases me around, always looming like a darkness waiting to descend. I mean really facing and acknowledging the truth about this pattern of loneliness that’s like a theme that threads through all the stories in my life.

This year, I gained weight again. And despite all the positivity I’ve felt about my body, there have been days when it has bothered me. When I felt fat and ugly.

This year, despite everything I’ve realised about boundaries and saying no, I said maybe instead of a clean no, more times than I care to admit.

This year, I worked on myself more than I ever have. In fact I’ve worked so hard at it, I cringe at the word work, despite all the good that came from it. I need a new word.

Despite all that work, right at the end of the year I’ve woken up to some pretty groundbreaking realisations about myself. The kind of realisations that have left me on very shaky ground the last few days.

I’m more self-sacrificing than I’d like to believe.

I’m not as comfortable with vulnerability as I thought I could be. In fact I’m so quick to build an armour of defence, when I’m feeling vulnerable.

I’m not as good at forgiving myself as I am at forgiving others.

I suppose the good thing is despite realising all of this I’m mostly left feeling and thinking, so effing what? 

The one thing I know for certain is I’m more open to change and growth than I have ever been before. I have that. And so, tomorrow is a new day, next week is a new year. I’ll live, I’ll try again. I’ll keep trying and I’ll grow.

One year ago: Morning song

Day 354: Find my direction magnetically

It’s fitting to be in Goa as I head to the end of the year, because everything always slows down for me when I’m here. Even in the midst of ongoing house work, despite the hectic journey here and now entertaining visiting friends and the like, there is a slowness about being in Goa that I have come to appreciate and crave.

I spent a fair bit of time just writing last week. Not working. Not blogging. Just writing. Pondering, imagining, living words about what I feel is to come in 2019 and broadly which way I’d like to move. Very organically, subtly, I’m being led towards a path I didn’t know was just around the corner, even just one month ago.

Some weeks ago, I heard someone say:

Where focus goes, energy flows.

and I see now, what it means to “put my energy” into that which I want. I always imagined that state to be one of toil and hardwork. But it looks nothing like it from where I’m at today.

I always ask for my new year to be “well done” but this year, I feel I’d like 2019 to be only medium-sized rare. Tender, juicy, soft at the heart. With room to build all kinds of flavour.

Two years ago: Day 354: Old and mighty

Day 350: Wait, can you turn around?

Things I want to tell 18 year old me, about loneliness.

There is power in giving words to uncomfortable, hitherto unnamed feelings. It’s liberating as hell. When you find the word, the moment when you will stumble on it and that very first utterance of the unthinkable word, in relation to yourself, will feel all kinds of freeing. But before all of that, there will be denial, avoidance, inevitable tears and an internal shitfest of a degree directly proportionate to the level of honesty you currently have with yourself. So work on that instead. The uncomfortable feelings and the appropriate words will always be there, make yourself ready to accept them.

One year ago: Clarity
Two years ago: Day 350: Ohhaii again, Bangalore