Healing

Poetry and writing have been the earliest forms of healing for me. They have helped me put into word-pictures what I was feeling, because I couldn't really fathom what is it that I wanted to say.

I am better at it now, there is more clarity and directness: so there are more written observations now than poetry. Poetry is relegated more to beauty of what and where I am at, instead of a translation service for my feelings that want to become words (not ruling it out completely though)

I have realised there are so many ways to heal: poems, writing down observations, grieving (blameless grieving as a dear one puts it at), feeling all your feelings, and finally just laughing it all out. 

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Needs and wants

When there is even one person in the system whose needs take priority (because they simply fall apart, or threaten to harm themselves): then the other people in the system become the automatic adjusters, the ones who let their needs take a backseat, or even realise that neediness causes resentment in others: so they do everything to avoid appearing needy.

*Persisting in writing here, irrespective of who reads this, because this feels like it. 

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The story that has been: A look at the formative years.

I think I have desisted from writing about this, partly because society thinks you have to revere your parents, and that they can do no wrong, and in part because I do genuinely love and adore my parents. 

What you will read here is one flawed human being's account of other two flawed human beings. We all are flawed in so many ways and this exercise is not to point fingers, but finally put on paper the early years as they happened.

I grew up in chaos. That's all I remember. It was a household that was raucous and noisy. And you didn't really get seen or heard. It was a household ruled by what my dad wanted. 

My dad has four daughters. Four, in the hope, the next one, perhaps the next one will be a boy. Mom wasn't keen on having four children, she was happy with one. When she learnt she was pregnant with me, she cried (she didn't want a second child so soon). 

A note on mom: my mom doesn't have a very strong maternal orientation, mainly because her mom didn't have one. I don't remember my maternal grand mom ever smiling, or ever happy or ever overjoyed to see us. She didn't ever pull us close, hug us, kiss us: none of it. She always seem pissed/angry/walled off and her main concern was us grandkids not overusing the resources that we were using when we went visiting her. 

Back to the chaotic household we grew up in. Dad had to provide for four daughters and also his mother and father (my grandparents stayed with us). Dad was the sole breadwinner. He ran a very successful business part-time, while he worked in a bank. I, or my sisters never felt the lack of anything we needed or wanted, materially. We always had enough and more than enough.

The only thing with dad is: he doesn't like mistakes, I think 'like' maybe a slight aberration. He doesn't tolerate mistakes. He doesn't tolerate his own and neither the ones made by anyone else. I think my dad has a model in his head, about how everything should be, and everything, I mean everything falls short of it. (I guess also because absolute perfection doesn't exist, hmm, maybe apart from mom's rotis, because I don't think he ever complained about those)

I grew up, taking weird accountability and taking responsibility for things I wasn't even sure of. For example if you are near dad, and something falls on him or he drops something, he will say you made him do it. It happened because of you. Like, see I dropped this because of you, he will say. 

And as a child this is a very puzzling concept, because you know you were merely present next to him, merely standing and breathing and unless you had magical powers, you didn't know of: you sure as hell didn't make that glass topple, especially since you saw him drop it. 

So it went with almost everything, you had to take the blame for his mistakes, for his inadequacies, for his inability to do something. Also when you actually did make a mistake of your own, it was highlighted and mocked, ridiculed and also frowned upon. It was almost like he was just waiting and watching for you to make a mistake. You drop something (it was frowned upon), you fumble with something (it was frowned upon). It was like having someone constantly waiting for you to make a mistake so that you can take that shame off their shoulders. 

This same orientation towards perfection, makes sure he lives a life where everything is controlled and measured. And if something is out of line, or not as per his liking, there is a huge overflow of emotion. Either a tantrum or a huge outburst of rage. He wants Indian food and Indian tea wherever we go on vacations. He wants a bucket and mug (no tubs for him). He wants things done a certain way (e.g rotis) else he will throw a tantrum or be angry (and it is mostly your job to make the world perfect for him)

As children this was very problematic, because as children you really don't have access to resources to make an adult's life wrinkle-free. But we had to learn (all his four children). We had to learn to stay out of his way during his morning ablutions, we had to learn to suddenly source a bucket and a mug in Belgium (we were visiting my third sister and she had gone off to office, not knowing that dad will not use the shower in the tub). Me and my younger sis, on our second day in Belgium had to find a store and source a bucket and a mug. (It has made me extremely resourceful as a side-effect)

A note of dynamics at home between mom and dad: 

I remember mom as an angry and frustrated version of herself, always busy with dad and my grandparents and always unavailable. You couldn't really approach her for anything: I couldn't tell her about anything that was going on with me, for a long long time. Only in the last ten years or so, I have built a steady adult-adult relationship with her. Mom still holds a lot of resentment against dad and they have a very tom and jerry relationship. 

The thing is, with dad given to his outbursts and threats and crying: it's tough to expect any accountability from him. It's tough to have adult-to-adult relating. He doesn't take any dissent, criticism, feedback, suggestions kindly. He likes having things done his way, period. And mom puts up with it; with resentment and as someone who is helpless against it. She has had to find her own space, her own place of peace.

* Dad is also someone who is far more sensitive to us and our moods and emotions. He realises when I am upset, mom can't see it. When I was in an accident, he would call me daily and check up on me and make sure I see a doc. I can feel an undercurrent of love from him always, always. When I had to come back home now, he welcomed me with open arms, he said I needn't worry about money at all. Under all that criticism, perfectionism, is someone who loves me unconditionally and I know that and I sense that too. So this isn't an exercise in blaming or putting him down, but putting down all of him, as he is on paper. 

****

On the suggestion of a friend, adding this part of how I see it as now (as an adult)

- Upon someone seeing this, on me airing this story, it somehow self-destructs (and will keep self-destructing I sense)

- I realise this story is just something I need to write so that it gets seen, that's about it.

- I now see my father as a teacher and the others too: without them being who they are, I
  wouldn't be who I am: someone who is on a journey towards love

- I had to resort to looking for extreme external validation, extreme external approval, I had to resort to looking for love from someone unavailable (all of it to keep the original wound in place, I realise); till these measures started falling apart.

- Sometimes I get pulled back into these dynamics; where I resort to perfectionism, shame and blame myself, and then I wake up and realise that I have fallen off the wagon, and I give myself the grace and compassion I need, and get back into my heart (to the best of my ability)

- A note here on the person who acted as a mirror and woke me up to love, when I turned 40: the love I experienced as a result of this waking up, forever changed who I am, and how I see and this love is inexplicable and something I hold in the highest regard and with a lot of gratitude. 

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Marination, sunsets and silence

As I am back at my parents' house, (albeit for a while), I realise that the four years away, on my own, soothed and calmed my nervous system. 

I love the folks, but I do know that they don't have regulated nervous systems, or even regulated emotions. 

Dad is prone to extreme emotional highs and lows and outbursts of yelling (not targeted at someone); in general, his emotions are not regulated or moderate. Mom can come across as someone cool, calm and collected; but I do know her system is in shutdown. Frozen.

So, I am guessing, we all have nervous systems that are in need of regulation, soothing and calming (all is probably a generalisation, most of us is I am guessing)

Coming back to my four years away, that I spent sharing with two other female flatmates: it had me spending time by myself (insert 2 years of COVID here). It however remains the most beautiful period of my life, as I marinated myself in silence. 

The silence of the skies: of sunsets and sunrises. The silence of my balcony in the moonlight and the way jasmine perfumed that silence. Watching the roses bloom and colouring my balcony red, matching the red of the sunrise. Toasting my feet in the winter sun. The silence of the house, as the afternoon-tea-coloured-sunlight spilled itself all over the walls and the floor. The silence of roasting rava in ghee, and wishing I could bottle that aroma. The silence of long hot baths. The silence of watching tea brew, while letting the fingers of cool breeze from the kitchen window, run all over you. The silence of reading books. The silence of watching clouds move-ever-so-slowly, revealing the deep blue of the sky. Watching birds, shot like arrows out a bow, unseen. Watching the full moon, over a city twinkling with lights. 

Thankful, is all that I am. 

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Kajal of appreciation, and a spritz of gratitude

When wearing kajal,
to apply one stroke 
full, black and bold,
of appreciation, too,
o that everything 
the eye sees that day
is softer, and beautiful

When spraying perfume
one spritz of gratitude too
That then is the
fragrance you wear
A note of thank-you
on everything you touch

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Exercising my no, among other things: Back at the gym

So I am back at the gym; back at the same gym, where I started working out, some 15 years ago. I had a personal trainer for a good 4-5 years during that time, and as I went back to the gym, I bumped into him.

After working out on my own for a day, (in which he stepped in to help quite a lot), it felt comfortable going back to taking training from him again. 

He seemed as meticulous as usual; making sure he sent me reminders to come for my cardio. He also made sure he called me in the morning, so that I woke up on time for the session with him.

The only thing that I hadn't accounted for is: change. How much he hadn't changed, and how much I had.

As we started our second session this morning, he was his usual sarcastic, mocking self; but this time around I noticed it for what it was. What was okay around 5 years ago, no longer felt okay. 

It didn't feel good working out with someone who was overall dismissive and not considerate. Just 30 mins into the session, it just felt like we weren't the right fit (pun, yes intended), and what then ensued was a 'no' from me. A no that felt just right, and the realisation that as an adult, saying 'no' to what doesn't work for you is perfectly fine, and that there are no hard feelings, just a knowing that this isn't how you want it to be.

I asked him if was open to me, looking for another trainer. He looked taken aback, but I really am looking forward to working with someone who partners with me by being supportive and encouraging and not disparaging and dismissive.

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Feels like home

What did your home feel like growing up? 

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Light during the rains and it is also raining birds

The light during rains is usually indescribable. It has that soft quality of a muted yellow that somehow just gladdens the heart. I think I had previously called it butter-popcorn-yellow and yes it is, it somehow becomes a background against which everything stands out, beautifully. The yellows look yellower and the reds look redder. I think I also had a poem on it. 

rain-grey skies
the red of the gulmohar 
even redder

Now let's come to the part about birds. Where I live right now, (having moved in back with the parents for a while), there is a small water body behind the house, and yes dense greenery as you can see, right in front of the building. So which means I get treated to different kinds of birds (water birds essentially).

So far I have been treated to a brown-breasted kingfisher, several milky-white-rin-washed egrets, and also a plethora of parrots! 

I didn't realise there were so many sub-species in parrots. There are the ones with a blue tinge to their wings and tails: they are the Malabar Parakeets. Then there are the ones with large red-bindi spots on their wings as they take flight: those are the red-winged ones and there are ones with a tinge of yellow too (need to find out what those are called)! :)

There is also the fan-tail with her sweet song, prancing around; there is the magpie robin, with its repertoire of sharp, clear whistles that echo across the skies. 

Then there are the barbets, masters of disguise, with their bright green plumage and red beaks, who camouflage themselves amongst the red and green of the banyan usually (banyan has red figs, fruits that match the red of the barbet's break). You can usually hear their puk-puk before you can spot them. They are not called coppersmith barbets without a reason, they run quite the smithy :)

Then there are the hawks, a crow pheasant, (also called a bharadwaj or called as the great coucal), they have a beautiful auburn-chestnut plumage and so pretty to spy.

A symphony it is: visual and aural... :)

And that's it from me for now :)

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Zindagi mere ghar aana....zindagi: A realisation on a rainy Thursday afternoon

Today, the bai didn't come. It was my task to sweep and mop the whole house. Mom was listening to the radio as she was washing the bartan (vessels somehow jamta hi nahin hain) in the kitchen. 

I was making sure I capture all the kachra in the adjoining room, pushing ahead all the sofas and chairs and I heard a song wafting out of the kitchen...

"....zindagi, zindagi, mere ghar aana, aana re....zindagi, zindagi..."

And that made me realise (I realise, thinking is different than realising...realisation is just like the song, something that wafts along and you catch it, it comes to you unexpectedly)

Anyhow, the realisation is....that zindagi cannot come to your house, much less love, or success. The idea that love, success, zindagi, (here to me zindagi simply means aliveness and vitality)

are all out there and we need to chase them or invoke them or yearn for them or work for them....now feels like nah, it probably is us: let's just be love, be success, be aliveness and be vitality and then when we are it, well we are it. 

On that note, you should listen to the song though, it is beautiful :-)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KtYND8LoVYo

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Of Whirling Dervishes

The dance of the dervishes, is a surrender of arms in a way. Of all arms of all armour.

******

whirling dervishes
the circle of coming back
to yourself

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Haiku#1

rains
suddenly in the breeze now
the strings of a sitar

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Today’s thought

What you don’t believe is true in yourself, you will die trying to prove it to others. 

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today's thoughts

1. Blame is not action. Only action is action.

2. You cannot move ahead without rejection. There is no getting around it. 

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