2. Vespers: evening prayers.
Dear reader,
As I went for a saunter around the neighborhood today, a flurry of Gulmohar leaves rained down on me. They were quite like butterflies, lightly flitting in the wind. Everything was bathed in shades of ochre - the gold of the sun, soft as his hand was, the fallen copper pod flowers that I gently trod upon; the scalloped petals of the Amaltas.
I felt the familiar pang of longing rear its head in my heart.
…
The rain grows urgent every passing moment. This is its coda, a passionate crescendo before it bids adieu this time around. Everything is a blur, no sound falls on the ears but the thresh of pelting rain.
The fact that it will be a few months, perhaps an entire year, before it visits again lends poignance to the moment. I must stop all I’m doing at once, lend all my senses to the performance. What one must eventually relinquish one grows to appreciate - a home, a person.. this very life.
…
As I see the flowers settle over me, I feel a measure of peace. No matter if only a few hours ago agony had been my mate. The canvas of my heart is large; it experiences despair and beauty all at once.
Lately I’ve been learning to accept and sit graciously with all of my feelings. I feel pangs of guilt at the opportunities squandered away, melancholy whips me in earnest. But there are moments of pleasure too, like sunshine touching me with its warm hands. Everything that comes to me is welcome - joy and elation; despondency and despair.
Only when one acknowledges can one begin to heal and change things. To run away would be to capitulate; to accept is to wield power over them.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
- Rainer Maria Rilke
This yellow all around reminds me of the artist Vincent von Gogh. He painted with the color feverishly, trying to clutch at little moments of happiness.
The language of flowers
The concept of Floriography dates back several centuries. In the Victorian era, when overt expression of one’s feelings wasn’t always possible, hopefuls would convey their heart’s desire through the arrangement of specific flowers. Flowers thus, came to be laden with certain meanings.
I was introduced to the concept in Vanessa Diffenbaugh’s tender book. Lately I’ve been thinking about flowers and the meaning they carry for me. On a whim, I decided to come up with a vocabulary entirely my own! I’d love to know what emotions or feelings you associate with different flowers, dear reader.
Lavender blooms : every Saturday, my mother picks for me a bunch of purple wildflowers. They remind me of promises that are kept..
Lilies : comfort on fidgety nights.
The honeysuckle : I once nearly walked into a ditch while admiring this beautiful vine. Its florescence is enchanting, like a maiden having come into the first flush of her youth.
The cotton silk : the Semul tree stands barren all year long. Except in January, when waxen red flowers begin their bloom. One cold morning, I saw a single flower upon its body but in a week, it was laden in its entirety.
To me this blooming looked like hope, the promise of a fresh start no matter how frigid the winter.
Cosmos : Once during the lockdown, I walked past a piece of barren land. Extended periods of isolation had heightened my senses.. I saw and smelled and heard everything. As I turned the bend, they suddenly hove into view. Stretched out in the sun, smiling and nodding gently. It was still possible to believe in beauty despite the times. Resurrection. To rise after death. This is what they would remind me of.
On My shelf
The core of Wabi Sabi is essentially a simple one- to accept things in all that they encompass, the good and the bad. To keep up the good work while freeing oneself from the burden of perfection.
Here is a reminder dear reader, for us to stop looking at what is behind us, to be fully present in the moment instead:
A short audio reflection from the Waking Up app:
https://dynamic.wakingup.com/moment/SM0CE877B48
POETRY CORNER
Mysteries, Yes
by Mary Oliver
Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the lambs.
How rivers and stones are forever
in allegiance with gravity
while we ourselves dream of rising.
How two hands touch and the bonds will
never be broken.
How people come, from delight or the
scars of damage,
to the comfort of a poem.Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.Let me keep company always with those who say
“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.Nothing Wants to Suffer
by Danusha Lameris
Nothing wants to suffer. Not the wind
as it scrapes itself against the cliff. Not the cliffbeing eaten, slowly, by the sea. The earth does not want
to suffer the rough tread of those who do not notice it.The trees do not want to suffer the axe, nor see
their sisters felled by root rot, mildew, rust.The coyote in its den. The puma stalking its prey.
These, too, want ease and a tender animal in the mouthto take their hunger. An offering, one hopes,
made quickly, and without much suffering.The chair mourns an angry sitter. The lamp, a scalded moth.
A table, the weight of years of argument.We know this, though we forget.
Not the shark nor the tiger, fanged as they are.
Nor the worm, content in its windowless worldof soil and stone. Not the stone, resting in its riverbed.
The riverbed, gazing up at the stars.Least of all, the stars, ensconced in their canopy,
looking down at all of us— their offspring—scattered so far beyond reach.
How I go into the woods
by Mary Oliver
Ordinarily I go to the woods alone,
with not a single friend,
for they are all smilers and talkers
and therefore unsuitable.
I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds
or hugging the old black oak tree.
I have my ways of praying,
as you no doubt have yours.
Besides, when I am alone
I can become invisible.
I can sit on the top of a dune
as motionless as an uprise of weeds,
until the foxes run by unconcerned.
I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing.
If you have ever gone to the woods with me,
I must love you very much.The patience of ordinary things
by Pat Schneider
It is a kind of love, is it not?
How the cup holds the tea,
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes
Or toes. How soles of feet know
Where they’re supposed to be.
I’ve been thinking about the patience
Of ordinary things, how clothes
Wait respectfully in closets
And soap dries quietly in the dish,
And towels drink the wet
From the skin of the back.
And the lovely repetition of stairs.
And what is more generous than a window?
When this letter arrives dear reader, I hope to be in the hills. It has been a while, and I have missed them sorely. Most of all, I’ve pined for the sweet carefree sleep of the hills, the enchanted air that makes the soul come wholly alive.
Until next time,
Love❤
Shreya.