All Things Bright and Beautiful

IndiBlogger is currently holding a writing contest, open to all members of the Indian Blogging Community. The topic is - What does real beauty mean to you?

I glanced through a few submitted posts, and was blown away by the immense talent and the wonderful writers. All these bloggers have done a great job at defining what beauty is, and I am humbled by their posts. I really hope all these people believe in their words and hold true to them always :). In this obsessed era of physical perfection, such reflections are indeed necessary from time to time.  I have often thought about what beauty is, and have even rambled on my thoughts now and then, but I have nothing spectacularly different or insightful to add to the burgeoning views on beauty that IndiBlogger has garnered. However, I was still tempted to write about it - more as an exercise in writing and expressing my thoughts on a topic that always feels incomplete and hard to verbalize. But I don’t plan on submitting the post for fear of marring the beauty of my imperfect expression with the pressure of competition :)

Nature has wired our basic instinct to notice and appreciate that which is helpful to our survival and to the proliferation of our genes. We love flowers because flowers help bees, bees help flowers, and the flowers, the delicate, helpless looking wonders help the ecosystem, and in turn, us. This delicate, yet robust and marvelous chain of support that sustains the planet is beautiful. The unfailing rhythm of Nature that masterfully orchestrates so many interconnected cycles of energy transfer is beautiful. Everything about Nature and its wired instincts in us follow symmetry as the benchmark of beauty. The symmetry of seasons, of night and day, of shapes and sizes, of colors and textures, of movements and sounds, even the fury of disasters - is beautiful. The lesson that Nature teaches, that of Karma, of the unforgivably generous effect of every single minuscule activity - is a beautiful lesson to ingrain. Nature - its specimens, its rhythms, its harmony, its symmetry, its evolution, and its endurance - embodies real beauty. Nature is as is - truthful, quiet, elegant, simple, unadorned, and yet gorgeous.

But this definition is an ethereal one, one that cannot be used in every day practical scenarios, when one tries to understand beauty to live life contently and meaningfully. We often grapple with the question - what makes a person beautiful? When I was very young - as a kid of six or seven, I believed that anyone with fair, creamy skin was beautiful. Cliched, yes. But it was a revelation to me, then. It was my first ever comprehension of the term “beautiful”. Going by the remarks of family, friends, and teachers, I narrowed it down to skin color (or lack of one). And realizing the absence of that precious attribute in me, I spent the following few years retreating into shadows of self-doubt and vanity as I became keenly aware of the unspoken attitudes of those around me. I started hearing this phrase far too often - “This color will not suit you”. So I found myself shrinking into subdued colors, slinking behind vibrant girls who could wear bold colors. But surprisingly, I accepted myself more easily and readily back then - the beauty of being a child. Thanks to my parents for nurturing my interests, and teaching me the value of inner-beauty. Good manners, grace, piety, and purity, my mom said. Intelligence, hard work, undying spirit, and altruism, my dad said. And I clung onto these values, which were mere words to me, hoping I will one day come to understand them and their beauty better.

Today, I do wholeheartedly realize the value of those words. A person is most beautiful for the humility, kindness, empathy, compassion, and generosity they exude - both within themselves, and outside themselves, showering others in their brilliant radiance. They are even more beautiful human beings if their minds are sharp, intelligent, curious, and most importantly, open. The human body can never be perfect in terms of the shallow definition of physical symmetry and flawless skin. But one might still keep aspiring for these in little ways, for somewhere buried in our subconscious, Nature’s instinct lingers, and it flares up now and then. Such mild feelings are harmless, I say, even inevitable really. The need to present oneself as a clean, sheen, and fit individual will always reside. But it is not a quest for beauty, it is an expression of the self to indulge in fleeting “feel-good” moments, when the task of beautifying the soul gets too difficult and abstract at times. Those who have conquered the difficult task of beautifying their inner-self are magnificently beautiful people for sure. Such beautiful individuals learn to accept and love themselves and those around them, for who they are.

Finally, when it comes to my perception of beauty in inanimate objects, I have two metrics - one is color, and the other is emotion. I love colors, and cannot live without them. I’m mesmerized by everything that reflects a bright or pastel glow. I’m glad I’m born a female, for I can lavish myself in so many colors without being scorned or judged. Why color is associated with gender, I don't know. But I live and breathe in colors. They are my reprieve in the daily routine of stress and work. They define beauty in a very materialistic, at the same time, ethereal sense.

Finally, anything that evokes a pleasant feeling, emotion, thought or memory, is beautiful to me. I love Art for the beauty of its varied expressions. And some objects, no matter how ragged and decrepit they turn with age, are souvenirs of memories and feelings we want to hold on forever. Their beauty increases with the number of experiences they share with us in life. These objects become keepers of the treasures of our life experiences. But sentimentalizing on material aspects should be kept on check. It’s beautiful if the mind develops sufficient detachment to merely outwardly recognize the beauty of these objects without getting sentimentally attached to them.

It’s beautiful to see how we coexist with Nature and with each other; that despite the squabbles, the violence, the intolerance, the competition, the greed for power, control, and the immense amounts of ignorance, we connect over the need for love and survival.

The Me in Me

Like a graceful bird cutting through the sky, the thought gently glided by and perched firmly onto my mind, fluffing and wrapping its gossamer wings around me. Now, I constantly feel the feathers hugging me; a shivery flutter of reminder at times, and at times a warm shawl tugging at my neck. Having sensed this presence growing heavier on me in the last several months, that I can no longer ignore or shrug it away.

Feeling the contours of this thought, I recognize its familiarity and ingrained truth. It doesn’t feel like an epiphany, for there was no bolt of realization that pierced me. The thought steadily took form and alighted on the right part of my mind at the right time, goading me to face the truth that I have stopped being “me” to someone very dear.

Having pondered for inordinate amounts of time on what constitutes the self, the core of an individual independent of the body, I have come up with numerous theories. I have always looked at myself and have been able to connect with that “inner me”, to justify these theories. But I have never tried to verbalize, in precise words, in terms of traits and characteristics, who this “inner me” is. However now, when you, the very person who felt and knew “me” even before I became a complex mass of cells and developed any semblance of awareness of myself, accuses me of changing, bemoans the loss of the “true me”, and no longer wants to get close to this “different” me, I am forced to try and find words to make sense of this conundrum when “I” no longer am "me"  to someone.

I have been told (in not so many words) that I have changed in many ways - the way I look, the way I dress, the way I talk, the way I behave, the way I act, and the way I think. And they are all true - I have indeed changed in all of these areas. I have to concede that you're making a genuine and valid point about “me” not being “me” anymore. Besides, it is true that the above attributes are the main identifiers of a person, or a personality, and it’s dubious for one to assert that they are still innately the same despite all these changes to their external and internal self. But how can I grasp at that fuzzy feeling of identity choking my guts, how should I yank it out and show it to myself and you, and say - “Look I am the same!”

Change is an unavoidable consequence of life. I tell myself that although I have indeed changed, it is more of an evolution, even an improvisation. True, I haven’t “improved” in so many aspects, and have surely fallen back on many, but I realize that my changes were with the aim of bettering myself and my survival. Isn’t such a betterment of myself a good thing? I remind myself that I worked hard to discard some stubborn old ways and pushed myself to the edge to develop vital characteristics - such as a thick skin, and the ability to talk well, talk right, and talk smart to the right people at the right place, at the right time. And yes, my thinking process has changed in leaps and bounds, thanks to my books, my education, and the cherished people around me who have prodded, kindled, probed, hammered, and stretched the limits of my thinking. It follows that my behavior, actions, and speech have accordingly reformed.

In essence, I have been growing, experiencing, realizing, evolving, and maturing. I tell myself this is part of life. I am glad that I could shed off the persona of the painfully shy, wide-eyed, all-trusting, guileless eighteen year old. Yet, you, whose love and approval I value and crave so much, remain stuck in the memories of the eighteen year old and the three year old, who saw the world in black and white, and regarded the virtue of unquestioning obedience as the mantra of life. I don’t know how to make you see me, as I am now, and as I have always been - connected to you.

Whimpering on this side, I want to argue that the core of my interactions, my love, affection, and concern for you have never changed. But the arguments are endless. Like the old philosophical riddle of the sock with a growing hole - I don’t know if the several new pleats of yarn that are stitched in to patch my old holes will make me a brand “new” sock. Can I hang onto the last frayed thread and still claim - I am the same old me? Or can I argue that no matter what type of different yarns I am weaved in, no matter the colors, the patterns, my blueprint is always the same - I am still a sock. The sock you knit. Of a certain structure, and of a certain purpose, and that will never change.

Reflections: Siddhartha

Siddhartha is a classic book that needs little introduction. This book has been recommended to me countless times, but I got around to reading it only now. Siddhartha is a young precocious Brahmin, astute in his knowledge of the vedic scriptures. He is deeply driven by the spiritual quest to comprehend the Atman - the soul and the definition of Life that exists in every species and unites them all in the causal sphere of the Cosmos. He hence leaves home to be trained by the Samanas, the ascetics who wander in the forests trying to conquer their minds and their Self through rigorous meditative techniques. But his sharp intellect still doesn’t derive any answers. He encounters Buddha, but he argues against the idea of following a set of teachings to reach the path of enlightenment, and so he sets out on his own journey led by his inner voice. He sinks himself in the material world (Samsara), allows his senses to take control over his body, experiences a rich array of emotions, and finally realizes for himself the design of all living species, and the answers to his questions.

I’m sure each person who reads this book will have something different to take away from it. To me, the book was a beautiful synthesis of the Eastern and Western philosophical ideals. The eastern philosophy preaches that one should suppress their sensory indulgences (for they are transitory experiences, often leading to discontentment) and focus on refining their intellect and gaining mastery over their minds. It prescribes detachment from materialistic pleasures to realize the Self - the Atman. To me, this has always sounded a bit extreme. I could never understand how the intellect could develop holistically, completely devoid of our senses. I understand that over-indulgence in our sensory experiences is shallow, but our senses do contribute to the growth of our intellect. I think this aspect is brought out well by Hesse. If someone who has never tasted or experienced the feeling of sweetness is stipulated against eating anything sweet because too much sweetness results in cloying nausea and bad teeth, the person’s limited experience and knowledge of sweetness bars his mind from understanding the complete meaning behind satiation or feeling repulsed. And it’s unrealistic for a teacher to translate the experience of sweetness or feeling cloyed through words and preachings. This is especially  true for something as abstract as spiritual awareness and realization, which are exceptionally hard to convey through words. It is for us to experience. The western ideology lets us wander, choose our experiences, and then judge for ourselves through our mistakes and lessons. The lessons learned, the “awakening” of wisdom then is much higher, profound and complete. Buddha himself was born in materialistic luxury and having indulged in them and realizing the shallowness and illusion of it all, he relinquished his ties to the material world with a deeper consciousness and awareness.

Our journey and different experiences help us grow. Most of the time, our focus is too narrowed in on the goal itself, that we miss experiencing the journey. The more value we derive out of the journey, the more we benefit. As an ascetic, Siddhartha was looking at the world and his questions through a narrow peep-hole, heavily constrained and tightened by his austere teachings. When he learned to see the world as is, without any filter, he appreciated it more and grew.

Another concept that Hesse brings out is the totality and constancy of everything around us. Just as how the concept of temperature cannot exist without the two extremes - hot and cold, good and bad, sorrow and pleasure, joy and pain exist with one another. Our universe is tightly coupled because of opposite polarities. It makes everything complete and unified.

Finally, I liked how he brings in the theory that we are all bundles of energy that neither get created nor destroyed but only get constantly transformed from one form to another. The whole universe exists due to this delicate chain of energy transfer. We are all then part of the whole. Self-realization should lead to this all encompassing feeling of unison with the world.

As with most books on spirituality, this has to be reread over the course of our life’s varied phases and experiences to extract our own nuggets of wisdom. I should add that the writing is simple and precise, making it conducive to ingest and mull on the heavy themes.

Reflections: Notes to Myself

Writing is a process of mental-cleansing for me. It helps me periodically visit all the dungeons and fields of my mind, to dust off the grime, polish a few thoughts, reevaluate a few opinions, rearrange some of them and purge out the rusted clutter. The cleaning process is how I learn to connect with myself. As thoughts are continuously flushed, the old and outdated stand a chance to be tossed out, or to be remedied. Just as how a clean and orderly home is calming and comfortable to snuggle in, so becomes my consciousness and the me inside. Words are those tangible attributes that guide many to assimilate their inner tumble of chaos. A personal journal is indispensable to people like us. We can even survive without a medical kit in an emergency but not without a medium to pour ourselves out.

Hugh Prather is part of my brethren of journal-keepers. This book is a collection of his journal entries; crisp, insightful, analytical and thoughtful. It surprises me that a man (yes, I'm stereotyping) is capable of such lucid articulation about his feelings and gains clarity from them to understand himself better and attempts to interact with people around him by truly connecting with them. This is a little book of self-realization that takes us through Prather's struggle to comprehend and verbalize the tumult of emotions going through him and to express them so as to glean insight, and apply its wisdom in everyday life. To me, the one aspect that seemed to stand out from the pages is Prather's struggle to both acknowledge and accept all feelings - negative and positive. It is more of a realistic approach to acknowledge our negative thoughts, but assume responsibility for the way we choose to act on them. It is futile to attempt to control many aspects of our lives. Perhaps the only reasonable and realistic approach is to live the moment, the present, and try to accept the things thrown at us and make the best of what we can with our actions. One has to know how to realize oneself, for in an eerie way we are all alone, trapped in our little islands into which no one can navigate to and look at the world from our view and make things better. We are the only ones to know what it is like to live the life we are living, and deal with it. The process of this realization is hard, but the first step seems to be to repeatedly get to know the inner-self better by discerning every single feeling, thought and emotion that pulses through us and tracing their journey to figure out their means, if not their ends.

The book is Prather's notes to himself, some of which strike a chord, some of which provoke further thought, and many are left to us to realize about ourselves. One man's notes about himself are tightly tied to his contexts, his life, his emotions, his thoughts and his self, and can't be expected to extend to another individual. But the notes jog the mind, give it a little nudge and the rest is up to us.

With a brand new year having dawned on us, I realize that I need to make some notes to myself to become a better person. Self-realization is a sustained goal, an everyday effort that is sure to last for several more years. Yesterday, my friend shared some of poet Ranier Maria Rilke's letters and quotes. To call them inspirational seems quite trivializing to those words. His words "... that you may find in yourself enough patience to endure and enough simplicity to have faith..." resonate quite well with my Mantra for this year. To tame the demon of denial and reach the state of acceptance has been my struggle for so long a time. What cannot be cured, has to be endured, and accepted. I need to learn to accept my nightmare and live in it as best as I can, to the point where it turns into mundane normalcy.

For more tangible goals, over which I can exercise more control,

* I hope to rid myself of my bouts of extreme inertia, due to which I procrastinate most things. I'm glad that I started the new year having finally conquered my inertia and accomplishing a certain milestone that has made all my friends and family shed red-hot tears of relief (thanks to those kindred souls for championing me throughout :)). Now they await with their hearts in their mouths, as I set out to execute my skills.

* My second inertial barrier waits to be shattered. Having been blessed with a close circle of people who diligently and rigorously work-out and attempt to sculpt their bodies, I have incurred many silent curses and "evil-eyes" as I, the non-gym escapist, flit atop the fancy-weight-machine and make it spit out 8% of body fat for me. Enough to make the person slogging out on a 200lb dead-lift, suffer a severe blow of disappointment at his readings that he begs me to chomp on French Fries.The "evil-eye" works itself out, as I yelp in pain and exasperation struggling to open and close the measly lid of my car's gas-tank, with the wind chill gnawing a hole in my fingers. A pretty picture as I bend myself into a ball, breathing and puffing vapors of smoke, my fingers trembling with the effort to open the blasted lid, my feet half-clinging to the ground as the wind tries to uproot me. Therefore, enough is enough. My resolution is to build those muscle thingies...lean muscles as I am told. I have plenty of able and eager instructors who can't wait to start training me, and I shall be malleable to all attempts. Oh, as part of my working towards the resolution, I bought a nice pack of chocolate-flavored protein powder, ready to be gobbled up in liberal amounts. And I have been gifted with a couple of 4lb dumbbells :)

* As an extension of the previous goal, I should be able to successfully shovel all the heaping mountains of snow without (well, with some) help. Right now, with the huge and heavy iron shovel standing tall and imposing, measuring almost my height (but weighing much heavier than I), my attempt at helping to shovel the driveway is to jump up and down on the snow to loosen it up, so that it can be picked up easily. Can it be anymore pathetic? No.

* With heaps of several feet of snow lying around, building a gigantic snowman is of utmost priority. Last year, I (we) got around to lumping just the snowman's tummy, within which time I thought my nose would drop off with the biting cold. This year, I (we) may lose toes, fingers and part of my nose, but a snowman shall be erected.

* I hope to read ever more, with a quest for better books.

* I wish to paint even more, especially a fiery, roaring dragon and a serene golden Koi, being my imminent projects. And, I shouldn't cut my fingers while working on glass. At least this year.

* I should continue to sing, should find a raagam that A hasn't heard of before (which will take me a good 6 months to figure out), should sing it to him and watch his face contort with disbelief, his eyes rolling with confusion, his mind racing to identify the raagam, and finally whimpering away with defeat. Haha,I already rub my hands with wicked glee, imagining him scuttling around the house, driving himself insane. My evil side seeps out.

* I should hopefully start learning to play my dream instrument, and use it as my ultimate solace.

* I hope to grow twice as many flowers as I grew last Spring. And we should redeem our debilitating failure of growing (killing) vegetables (frost-bitten tomatoes and bunny-devoured cauliflowers), by trying to flourish at least two vegetables this year.

* Bake gingerbread-man cookies...with icing for his eyes, his tie and his buttons. And try at least five recipes from the cook-book I have been so graciously gifted with.

* When it gets slightly warm, get a cutie-pie Oranda baby, who has already been christened as "Flipper", to add to my fishie-clan at home.

That makes a long list by itself, apart from mundane professional goals to accomplish. Those are enough notes to give me an action-item to work on for the whole year. Let's see how well I live up to them.

Reflections: Veronika Decides to Die

Another Paulo Coelho's work. This book really stirred me. Veronika is a young, pretty woman who has a life with nothing to complain, and yet she decides to end it, only because it was too plain, simple, and without much meaning. Rather than go through the same mundane experiences every single day, she decided to die. Having plunged into the deep trenches of death's hug, she shoots all the way up from the depths and then ironically struggles to escape from death's touch. The book is about her journey. And an interesting element is that her journey takes place inside a mental asylum, into which she gets admitted because of her seemingly lunatic attempt to end her life.

As with his other books, Coelho tries to get across the message that one needs to stop suffocating from the rules, norms and impositions of society. Through stories of some of the asylum's inmates, he questions what normality is, and the price people pay to contort their lives to fit the accepted template prescribed by humanity and religion. This line of thought, resonates with mine - I've often pondered on how the line between sanity and insanity is far more blurry than we assume. Sometimes the territory beyond the boundary of "normality" is nothing but a realm of genius and level of consciousness that escapes the limitations of average human understanding. Many great minds have been ridiculed as insane, eccentric and crazy, only because people restrained their power of thoughts, possibilities and imaginations.

It always makes me uneasy when I have to acknowledge the disastrous effects of a deranged mind. It makes me twice as much uncomfortable when I have to acknowledge that the mind is indeed very flimsy and can snap if pushed beyond it's capacity. The book deals with the issue of people becoming recluse and living in their own worlds, if they are forced to alter their true self to fit expectations from parents, society and religion. I found it very interesting that the asylum was deemed as a safe and tolerant paradise by most of the inmates. Contrary to the real world, the security of total anarchy and lack of judgement that the asylum promised was comforting to people as they could express their true innermost self, without being ashamed or fearful. After all, nurses and doctors expected "craziness" and didn't complain if there were "abnormal" behaviors. This helped some people realize their true self, through unabashed expression. To some, it was a haven of escapism, away from the cruel realities outside the glass walls. In some ways, it was hard to define which was more real - life inside the walls, or the world outside.

Having resigned to death and failed, Veronika had faced the "near-death-experience." Having failed once, was she prepared to plunge into death's arms again? This was a question she was trying to answer - she started realizing that it was nobody's fault that she hadn't found meaning in life. In fact, she started discovering quite a few things about herself, which were safely locked and buried deep inside. When she started releasing that trapped spirit from inside of her, her longing to live life deepened. And such a close encounter with death, is shown as a cure to those who complain about lack of meaning in their lives - it helps them look at their lives in a different light and identify those aspects that were pushed into the dark. The turn of events in Veronika's life proved not just a valuable lesson to her, but to many people in the asylum, lost in their own worlds.

Although the book starts off with a lot of pessimism, towards the end it slaps people out of their pessimism and mundane existence and urges us to create our own meaning in life, and live it to the fullest.

On a Little Garden

Cascade of black streams

Brushing twin buds of a flower.

They open and close with dew aplenty,

Perched on a long stalk.

Petals on a pink rose,

Merry leaves dancing to the breeze.

All on a little garden.

The bark of a tree,

Bearing nests for young ones to rest,

Spreading two wide branches,

Fruits to feed the hungry.

The roots hold strong,

To give shade and comfort,

All on a little garden.

The scent of the flowers,

The sound of the rustling leaves,

The taste of the fruits,

The music of the flowing streams,

The touch of the carpeted grass,

The shade of the willowy tree,

Are all that is truly me – all on a little garden.