July 17, 2012 § 6 Comments
“Think of our life in nature, – daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, – rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! The solid earth! The actual world! The common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? Where are we?”
Henry David Thoreau
Travelling backwards, from one sea to another, we carry so much of ourselves with us. There is nothing distinct, simple or stable about these lands we traverse. The city that raised and sheltered me is as unknown and misunderstood as any new landscape I might discover. And whilst home has less to do with familiarity, it is becoming to separate myself from a familiar in order to redefine meaning.
I know myself better now, but understand me far less. For once and always, the blissful delight and unknowing of the present is all that is worth revelling in.
July 10, 2012 § Leave a comment
The sun remained eclipsed for days, shining brightly at us via a rainbow round a wholesome moon.
Veeraiya, the wisest of storytellers, spoke to us of forests and our role in repeated wanderings through the same. Our paths, he said, create streams. And thus, where we go, water follows, closely by life.
I may have become from a cultivated sea, but the mountains and the waters they birth are now my home. With each setting day, I grow afraid that my return may be distant and new love, challenging to find. It appears as if these mounds are clinging to me and crying out for me to stay, but it is I alone who weeps. These hills and the lives they sustain are my solitude. I may not know them, but their faces I shall never forget.
My descent wasn’t as steady as I foresaw. The dependable moon remained through my last day as the sun rose brilliantly from the ghats. Bamboo Rivers lead me away from my new familiar as my love grew mightier than the deep-seated roots that hold up these mountains despite gravity’s snare. This is now my only remaining hope – that my own travels create space for waters to flow and life to rejoice.
For amidst a sea of cloud, the earth is an adventure.
July 2, 2012 § 5 Comments
A roundness and fullness of days where each moment peers quizzically at you, wondering how it could be of service; I’ve never had time like I did this past year. To watch seasons turn and the sky rise on the faces of trees as light fills every vein on this earth. That morning light that emits a deep glow as it scales down the tallest of mounds, ever fleeting. I watch not the sun rise, but the land it lights up. Every face is anew in its passing glance of yellow that all too soon becomes a glaring heat laden with shadow. Within it lie reminders of wellbeing and wonder, quickly lost to the ensnaring busyness of the daytime. It may be transient, but remains a part of every hope-filled day.
June 4, 2012 § 8 Comments
A few cloudless hours and a week ago, his body was found. Stiff from the weather, there was a meagre moment of doubt, cleared immediately by the visible chip on his left horn; Boltu was dead. He lay unharmed, as if age merely ran him down and swiftly led him away through the night. There wasn’t much to be said, so they charred his massive body, returning it to the earth.
Time has passed; schools have reopened with the first sighting of monsoon clouds, nudging us on with gentle reminders that with the changing of seasons and tides, we become stories with words adrift.
May 17, 2012 § 4 Comments
With sleepless eyes we gazed blearily up at the skies and watched the stars float on the wind. Amidst many, they danced merrily; constantly realigning while always keeping close. Lights bounced off the underbellies of birds as they flew beyond the earth, gathering the heavens with every beat of their wings. They peered through the night remaining on course as we laughed, glad that our journey was hugged firmly by gravity’s tow.
May 10, 2012 § 6 Comments
Five months ago, the night was torn asunder with the moon afresh and eclipsed. Everyone sat waiting for the shadow to pass, for the daunting time the moon was not at its fullest. They seemed to be waiting for it to be more present, in order to be so themselves. Nobody ate, nobody smiled; the world seemed abstruse. I climbed up further, above the stationed street lights, above the mystical clouds, above my home, to search for it. Some watched it on the television; it had made the news that night. I soon ran back down and called out to the children, convincing them to pull away from the screen and see it firsthand. Nervous, they joined me as we ran to greet the night. A girl of nine couldn’t believe her eyes. What surprised her was that it was real, even in this small little town. That the important people that broadcast the news right into her home cared about something she was witness to; that a town that far too often escaped their gaze was, in fact, a part of their world.