The alphabet parade just got over and the walking tree was one of the last in the line, thanks to the 'T' he picked. :)
I have been unwell this week, and working on his costume was one of the few distractions from being otherwise uncomfortable in my own skin. What seemed like a simple enough project at first, got a bit more strenuous when I got to cutting out the leaves and then stitching them on the poncho. I cut the leaf on cloth, then stitched it onto precut construction paper leaves, to give it a more solid feel, and then attached it to the costume. On hindsight, the costume looks a tad silly to my eye, and I came up with at least 10 things I would have done differently. For instance, I would have had it look more like an upturned V, with it being narrow at the neck and billowing out at the base like a real tree. Two, I would have done something about the hat to complete the look. But I wasn't feeling good, and R argued that it was a hot day and would make him sweat.
But now, none of that matters. What matters is what is already achieved. We thought up an idea of what he could be, sold him on it, put in 6 hours worth of tailoring effort, finished the costume to a good amount of satisfaction, he looked happy to be wearing it, and I made it to his school for the parade, with a camera in hand, and just like all the other kids, he had the pleasure of spotting my face amongst the crowd and waving a cheery hello, a shy smile playing on his handsome face!
When he comes home, we will talk about the parade and what went on behind the scenes, and the he-saids and the she-saids. Soon, the costume will be taken off and kept aside. I will fold it carefully and put it inside that little cardboard box where I have been storing all his kindergarten memorabilia till date. I don't know if we will ever use it again, and it will just become another one of those portkeysto the past! (Yes, I am looking forward to HP-7 on the big screen, this summer!)
In a way, this alphabet parade has become a rite of passage to my mind. These are the last few days of this school year and kindergarten to drawing to a close. And this is the last time, he will be in an alphabet parade. Its almost symbolic...of the way he leaves behind simple letters and sounds, and enters the more complex world of words and their meanings and their connotations and their conjurations!!!
This morning, we spent some time going over all the ideas you all had suggested for Winkie's Alphabet Parade costume. And since the instructions specified that the costume be made with things around the house, R came up with the idea of a Tree. T is for Tree, and Winkie could go dressed as a tree.
I was dubious at first, as to how we could accomplish this, but then he sketched this outline, and gave form to his idea. He said the tree could be like those conical pine trees, that we see outside our home. On his head, he could wear those conical party hats, which we would cover up with homemade paper leaves, and his main outfit could be stitched like a poncho, which we could decorate with more flower and cloth leaves. He could wear brown pants to become the trunk of the tree, and the capital T and small t could become branches on the front and back respectively. He could wear a corresponding brown shirt in full hand, or it could be green. We will decide that at the end. Further, we figured he could be a T is for Tangerine, tree. We whimsically imagined cutting out a leaf, making a hole in it for the ears and wrapping it around that part of his body as well. And maybe a little nest woven into his leafy hat! :D
Right after I hit publish on this post, we will head out to the craft store to see what goodies we can find. Its been a long time since we worked on a project collectively, and my knees are weak with the excitement of our shared enterprise. Oh! And we also decided what we wanted to do for the big man's coming up 6th! But more about that later. For now....T is for tataaaa!
You never realise what a crushing thing shyness can be, until you see something like this.
Watch the video and it is plain to see the kind of weight this man has been carrying all his life. He has become one with the song that seems to express the words of his soul. I am deeply touched by the step he took to overcome it. To come on the stage, with millions watching, the pain of his perceived weakness threatening to engulf him....all until he opens his mouth to sing. And there....he is transported into that world within himself that is pure music, the result to our ears...being sheer music! He couldn't even handle the applause or the comments at the end, and tears wracked his being. Why, I wondered, on a more intellectual level, while my own eyes became moist? Why the tears?
" Let your tears come. Let them water your soul. ~ Eileen Mayhew
"
Maybe it is because shyness is another expression of the Ego. Another factor of divisiveness which mirrors the illusion that we are all separate beings, when in fact, we are One. This expression of Ego becomes a habit and such a deeply ingrained part of who you are. So when you are finally in that position, where you have to have it stripped, where you have to drop that shyness and emerge from the shell of mere existence into l.i.f.e, the soul is instantly lifted and cries from the burden of that relief. So great is the release of unburdening, that this natural, most precious of expression, displays itself.
And why do our own own eyes become moist in turn? Why do we cry for a stranger on TV? Because for that moment, we all share in that relief. In that moment, all our souls are lifted in unison, and allowed to radiate into every pore of our being. And because we are all one, the tears mingle, and you cannot tell one salty component from the other.
I love tears. I love them. When a person cries, I feel privileged to witness such an intimacy of the soul. Though there have been times, when I have been left awkward by them. Why, I wonder again? It could be only because of the same divisive nature of the Ego that plays out so often. It creates the rift between You and Me, and that distance creates the awkwardness. And if I could just....take a few steps forward, and give a hug. Or rub a shoulder. Or hold a hand. Or coo sweet nothings. And just let myself be touched by that pain, even in silence..... and watch it instantly become a thing of beauty!
My mother was one of those people, who always woke up well before the crack of dawn. Every day, her alarm would be set for 3:50, and she would be out of bed by 4:00 AM. She needed this much of time for all the tasks ahead....boiling the milk, for all the coffees and teas that would follow later, cooking the oats for her and Pops' breakfast, cooking lunch from scratch, with just the vegetables being chopped the night before, and sometimes, not even that; packing our breakfast and keeping a little snack handy. By the time I walked into the kitchen at about 6:00 AM, all this would be done, and only box-ing the food remained, which would be my share of the work. Oh! And she would have also had a shower by this time, walked in to the bedroom, numerous times, first to wake up Pops and then us, and the lamp lighted, and the morning prayers done. And when I walked into the kitchen, she would hand me my tea and rush off to wash her face and brush her teeth once more. Then in under a space of 15 minutes, while Pops went down to warm up the car, she would hurriedly comb her hair, put it into a neat little bun, even more hurriedly don the saree I had picked out for her and the blouse I had ironed, all the while letting off the steam, about how after doing EVERTHING else, she had so little time to get ready for work. It really drove her mad, those rushed 15 minutes. Because we HAD to be out the door by 6:45, else we would get stuck in the hopeless traffic enroute to school which was a good 45 minutes away. My father who had warmed up the car by then, would be looking impatiently at his watch and pressing the buzzer below. peeeppeeeppeeep....it would sound insistently, aggravating her mood even more. I would hang around nervously, feeling sympathetic to her cause and also resentful of the words of frustration she often directed at me. I knew they were empty words....spoken just to work down her irritation, but it wasn't pleasant. As I folded the pleats of her saree in neat little folds, waiting for her to pin it up in place, I would be simmering inside, vowing that I would never be like this when I grew up.
Little did I know that I would turn out to be like her in more ways than one. I too love waking up before the crack of dawn. There is so much to get done with those extra few hours. A cup of tea to be savoured in this amazing quiet peace that can never be had at any other point of the day, with the mind still fresh, this sunrise to catch, as the first rays of light peek through the horizon, lightening up the room; the song of the birds to listen to, in their merry little chatter, as they get busy for their day; mails to check in the most luxurious of moods, when there is no other claim on your time; and if the mood is right, a little bit of yoga to stretch the limbs and gear up for a day of activity; and oh yeah....all the cooking and the packing too. :)
On the nights I have dutifully gone to bed by 8:30 PM with the boys, the sound of the alarm at 4:15 is a welcome one. I spring out of bed like I have a secret rendezvous to keep. So much about the early morning is beautiful and visually stimulating. The soft glow of the lamp after I have lit it, and switched off the passage lights, so that there is only that natural light marking each step on the stairs as I walk down carefully; the wonderful silence that is soo... intimate, punctuated only by the singsong of a bird, the little beep beep tone of the alarm system, as I disarm, so I can open the patio door in peace, that first cool morning breeze that blows across my face as I open the door; the green garden chair holding a little pool of water from yesterday's rains, flower petals strewn across the moist wood floor of the deck...everything, adds a sort of enchantment to the scene of the morning and the feel of the morning. And I savour it, for in under an hour, the quiet will be a forgotten elixir, soon replaced with a mind full of tasks and a hand flying at work.
The door upstairs will creak open, and R's footsteps will be heard, as he gently pads to the altar for that first morning prayer. Soon, little feet will thud slowly down the stairs and a sleepy little face will peep quietly at me from behind the wall, with a request for paal. And the form I would have really liked to have seen up and about, will be found reclining, deeply in slumber, harder to awaken, than even Kumbhakarna himself! Several trips will ensue up and down the stairs, as I lay out the clothes to be worn, iron the creases out of little pants, wash a little bum, while training a ear and a nose to the sounds and smells from the kitchen, making sure nothing gets burnt, and the steam is let off on time for the rice to get cooked. By the time I am satisfactorily done, its close to 7:40 and I have less than 20 minutes to get myself ready and presentable for work. The heart beats wildly, breaths sometimes coming in pants, a sort of feverish heat replacing the quiet of my mind earlier, as I consciously try to slow down and breathe a little deeply, a sigh escaping my mouth ever so often...the words, I am tired...being repeated in a steady litany within myself.
These are the times I often remember my mother, thankful that I don't need to wear a saree. These are the times when I understand most about the little sacrifices she made to make the running of our family a little more smooth. These are the times, I really empathise with 15 hurried minutes of dressing, after the early start to the morning, and the work filled hours that followed. Though of course, in my case, the beginning chunk of the morning was spent in absorbing the sensory delights of the birth of a new day, and it is something that I will never give up. And I think, in a way, she would have her stolen moments to cherish too. Her very own first cup of coffee, the first... off of a batch of freshly boiled milk, the light breeze coming in through the balcony door which faced east and gave her a view of the sun rising up from the Persian Gulf everyday, the strains of ayigirinandhini coming from her dusty old red tape recorder, soothing her soul, and the little snatches of time she took, as the food cooked on the stove, and she managed to catch a few minutes of her favorite cookery show recorded on timer from the day before, the 5 minute breaks as she played Solitaire on the computer.....all these would have been her little elixirs to thrive on...
The relationship between two spiritual aspirants can be a little complicated. On the one hand, there is the growing awareness of the way things work, and why they are the way they are and a certain compassion for the challenge of doing the right thing. And on the other hand, there is that crumbling ego that still cannot be tamed effectively at each and every juncture. The play of these two against the other, can cause quite a few fireworks, in good measure.
One instance, is the story of the dripping tap. Its been going on for some weeks now, and its certainly about time we called in the plumber for a fix. Its just one of those things that stay on the to-do list in your mind and never quite make it to the action zone. Anyways, since I am the one that uses this tap in the kitchen, the maximum no. of times during the day, I have been forgetting to shut it tight. To shut it, one needs to push the lever down, and then give it a nice turn to the side, either the right or the left, and no more drops escape. And because of the sheer number of times I use the tap, I have tended to neglect closing it with the required thoroughness. And who should notice that but my dear R, who on the other hand, is quite a thorough man. Whenever he points it out to me, I know that he is right. One should make the conscientious effort every time to not waste a single drop of water. But because it bit my ego blue, I couldn't accept it upfront. Instead, I would argue back that he needs to also be thorough and call the plumber, or else...fix it himself. And on and on this little exchange would go, hiking up the resentment and finger pointing each time. But within my heart I knew what I must do. With a little effort at sweeping the working ego aside, and with a little realignment of perspective, it became clear that the dripping tap was now my teacher. And a good teacher must know where the pupil's weakness lies, and must formulate the lessons to address this precise aspect. Thus with such careful mentoring and practiced discipline, the weakness can actually be overcome and life can move past it.
My weakness is carelessness. I have had it right from when I was a kid. Ask my father and he will tell you about how I have left the iron on in full heat, or set gold earrings in the bathroom, right where it can fall into the drain, or left the kitchen, with the stove still on. In fact, soon after the wedding, one of the first handover notes given by Pops to the mister, included all these little misdemeanors of mine and a warning to be careful with me. So our wedded life began with this one black mark against me. And sad to say, the list has only grown longer, despite the number of years that have been added to my age. It now includes ipods left on the hood of the car and ultimately lost, and credit cards found in the pockets of my pants. And it makes him maaaaaaaaad. And makes me maaaaaaaaad that it makes him maaaaaaaaaad. I hate anyone being mad at me, and I hate giving anyone a cause to complain against me. So strong is my ego, that I can do no wrong.
So anyways, when the shift of perspective happened, as it often does when you are faced with something about yourself, over and over and over again....I found it easy to accept this dripping tap as my teacher, to help me get over, at least in some part, my carelessness. I had to work hard on it. Many a times, I would forget and would rush back to rectify it. But slowly.....slooooowly...I got there. Now, it is an automatic movement of my hand, where I press and then turn, all in one single flow. Not a drop escapes, and the feeling of satisfaction on doing things with a little awareness is awesome. The epitome of my victory was the other day, when I came home from work, and noticed that the tap was leaking, one drop at a time. And before you all conclude that I had left it that way that morning, let me add that it was the day R was working from home, and the moment was right after lunchtime, where he had ample scope to be in the kitchen and use its resources!
Ha! Throwing courtesy out the window, I approached him with the felony and got a sheepish smile in response. Enough said! And now....its time to finally call the plumber!
SO that contest is over. And I came in second to Mad Momma with 390 votes. I am frankly, THRILLED! :)
I have never considered myself too much of a networking person, so to write to people asking for their votes and that of their friends, really took me out of my element in a big way, which is good from time to time. The funnest part of it was how the whole family got involved. Starting with my bro and sis, who were my first recruits, and who went all out to ring in the votes. To my FIL, who was my most avid supporter and diligently got in touch with all of his contacts with a personal email, to Pops, who got his student population to vote, to the 6 AM phonecall from my MIL who was concerned as to why the vote button was disabled in the middle; To those sweet friends and readers whom I bullied to be my campaign managers, with their quota of votes to deliver; to all my address book and facebook friends whom I must have messaged several times with the word 'voting' in the subject line! It was all fun.
The prize money comes to $100. And I have decided to give it to FMSC. I made up my mind after spending that evening there. After doing the math, I realise that at the cost of 17c a meal, $100 can feed approximately 588 children, one meal. 588 children! Each and every one of these 390 votes have their share in this. I do this in the name of all of you.
So...thank you so much for overcoming inertia and doing this. And now, we can finally go back to regular programming! Phew!
Winkie's having an alphabet parade in his school in 2 weeks. Which means he need a costume. A homemade one. The idea is to choose a letter that he wants to be, and then design a costume using things that start with that letter. He has to wear it to school and stay in the costume all day long, which means it should be comfortable enough for him.
I have been thinking about it, but no ideas have come up. I was hoping to get some inputs from all of you to be able to decide.
A few weeks ago, when I was immersed in the book Parenting with Spirit, one of the things I picked up was the idea of the celebration box. And I put that into practice right away. 2 weeks prior to Mother's Day, I told the boys (and by that I mean R and Winkie), that they were free to write nice things about me as a mother, and put it into that box, which would remain safe inside a drawer. I would, in the meantime, stay clear of it, and enjoy it in its entirety on the big day. R gave me the "look" and Winkie was excited, and there it was...
A week went by, and my resolve to stay away weakened and one day, I opened the drawer and shook the box just a little, to see if anything was inside. Nothing. No sound. Somehow, I wasn't surprised. I knew the idea wouldn't take off right away, and that evening, I approached the one person who could be influenced...and gave him a prod about the unfilled box.
A few more days went by and I had managed to stay far away from the box. But not far enough from my eagerness to see it filled. At bedtime a few nights ago, I asked Winkie again. Rather, the tone was one of complaint, and the words one of foregone conclusion. You still haven't written anything for the box yet, Winkie....I told him. But I have Amma....he replied, defending himself and my heart leapt on hearing the words. I hadn't really expected him to remember on his own. He revealed that he had put something in just that evening, when I wasn't looking. And no, I didn't bust the surprise and go looking for it the next day. I waited. Patiently.
Today, I finally opened the box. But the curiosity of what's inside, will have to wait. First comes the gift. It is especially significant because this is the first time he has done it all on his own. Its part of a school project actually, where he sowed sunflower seeds in a little pot, decoupaged in bright colours. In a few days, a little bud was peeping out of the soil. It seems, he had brought it home 4 days ago, and fortunately, it happened to be a day that R was unexpectedly working from home, for he steered Winkie away from gifting it to me right then and there, and together, they found a hiding place for it. Only, R forgot all about it after and there was no water or sunlight for the bud for the next 4 days!
Winkie told me over and over yesterday how excited he was for Mother's day. He even wore this shirt in honor of that, as it said....If you think I'm cute, you should see my Mom! He gave me a clue that the gift was green and brown. And he made me wait on a chair, whilst he ran upstairs to fetch it. But there was a delay. And I heard hurried whispering between father and son and footsteps walking up and down the hallway. Finally, he made an appearance, his hands hiding behind his back, holding something. And there was the green and brown. A cute little pot, with 2 leaves of a money plant sticking out.
The explanation followed quickly. It seems the sunflower shoot had just wilted. And here is the conversation that followed between them...
Winkie : Oh nooooooo....his face looking crushed.
R, was stricken. And guilty. He had forgotten all about watering the plant. Just give her the little pot, Winkie...it looks so nice.
Winkie : Noooooo. How can I give her just the pot..it will not look nice.
R : Ok, let's do this. And thus saying, he plucked out 2 leaves from our money plant and inserted it carefully into the soil.
Winkie : Okayyy...trying to put his chin up.
And that was the state of thing when I received my gift. To me, this story was the best part! I love little imperfections in a gift, because it is what lends it the most character. I loved the happy start from a little boy in his school, the days of quiet anticipation, not a word or a murmur escaping his mouth, the moment finally arriving on that Sunday morning, just after the morning tea when everybody was relaxed and laidback, the spring in the feet, as he rushes to get it, the discovery of the unexpected climax due to adult oversight, that crushing disappointment, that must have been almost too much for a little waiting heart to bear, the quick problem solving by an alert mind, the hurried adjustment made, and the happy ending of a little boy, beaming with a little plant in a pot in his hand, anxious to catch the delight in his mother's eyes.
Well, he got all of that and so much more, for I was just soo.. happy. I think one of the most beautiful gifts, apart from pricey inanimate objects :), is a living, breathing thing, which has a potential to grow into something beautiful. The plant where from the 2 leaves were plucked and hastily inserted into the soil, had had a similar beginning itself. It began from the shoot of 2 leaves, and today, it flowers out in every direction, and trails liberally to the ground, near our ever-meditating Buddha. And this little plant has that very same legacy to fulfil. And I have a feeling it will.
Which now, brings me back to the box. I set the plant aside and Winkie brought me the blue Ghirardelli box. There were 2 little chits of paper inside, and in both of them, he had wished me, and written about the surprise plant. They read like letters and didn't carry the original intent which I had in mind, which was to highlight my role as a mother, but I think that is something we will get with more practice. For now, I am extremely grateful that my son remembered to put something in there for me. And that, as usual, he addressed it on behalf of his brother as well. I am not disappointed that R did not think to put something in there. It is just as well, for it indicates that I have lots to better within myself, and when my own sense of self satisfaction is complete, his appreciation will also be forthcoming, in the exact way in which I seek it. Till then, I will learn to open my eyes to the ways in which he does express himself....like the amount of research he did on cellphones so I could get an upgrade, how he helped me choose the one that I would enjoy the most, that he got over his infamous inertia and ordered it on time, and that it got delivered in 2 unexpected days, and had me whooping with glee like a little kid!
All is good and I had a day, that I care to remember very fondly!
...So goes a little nursery rhyme, the words of which seem to be coming alive in our home every night. Or at the very least, for 15 odd nights of the month. :)
Thambi's fascination with the mun started recently and he has been quite diligent about it. Frequent have been the nights, when the rest of us have gone to bed, and he will still be wandering about in the darkness, his little form moulding the curtains, shifting every now and then, as he peeps in and out, the blinds rattling under his fingers, as he tries to lift them enough to catch a glimpse of his favorite nighttime object. The very form of a little boy, silhouetted in the darkness, looking upwards, face bathed in gentle moonlight, is so adorable and peaceful. And its just one of those things that makes time stand still, all the worries dissipate, and the bedtime stretch a little longer in the magic of simplicity...
The alphabet parade just got over and the walking tree was one of the last in the line, thanks to the 'T' he picked. :)
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