The Secret of Joy
"How do you manage to be so Joyful?"
The question was asked.
"That's what we really want to know. How you can smile and look so cheerful, so happy knowing what you know?"
That wasn't on the list I'd mentioned, not quite the exercise we'd been given, but I was in the chair to answer, so I answered. And this is in essence what I said.
" Every moment, of every day, is a choice that you make. You can choose the way you feel, the state that you want to be in. You may think that the days are repetitive, that everything is the same. But, what you need to realise is that no two moments are the same. Each day starts a-new, and you, the creator of your life, you decide on what is needed, the changes and what remains. Each day you awaken, and in that moment you can decide that feeling inside. Just breathe, just know, with that flowing heartbeat, with that stretching, morning yawn, that you're alive. And, with that rising, welcome the knowledge of things completed, and things yet to be done. Remember what it is to be grateful. To be needed. To be the doer, the enabler of dreams. You are the only you that will ever live your life, live your experiences, and taste the bitter and sweet of that knowing."
There were many other words said, questions asked and answers given. But it doesn't take the excess of explanation to distil the gist of this understanding. There is so much information now, so readily available, where clarity has been sought, and new learnings have answered. The memories we hold are chemical reactions. Electrical impulses, holding the very essence of your being. Their potency dependent on the importance, the intention, focus that they're given. The very thoughts that dominant, effect the beating of our hearts, and can forever change, the direction of the journey, the road, that we are on.
You can see life as hardships, or full of adventures. Of changes unwelcome, intruding, or opportunities catching you, eagerly, abounding. It has been said so many, many times, by many who have sought the knowledge, if you change the way you look at things, the things you look at change. It is when you realise that you hold your destiny in your hands, that you also realise that you are the greatest impacter, the influencer of where you go. That realisation, when it dawns, my friend, the world feels so much lighter, with the heaviness of worries, imposed by others, once held tight, all gone.
Its A Wonderful Life
You may have seen the movie. It's considered to be a classic now. Where a character despairing, broken, bowed, is thinking to end his life, in the mistaken belief, that those who he loves would be better off if he was dead. It is only the intervention of a miracle that shows, how this unassuming man was so very great within. The lives he changed, the lives he saved, the inspiration he gave. The hope, the dreams he enabled, and realised. It is only through this insight of his life's meaning and purpose, that he finally sees that, for him, 'It's A Wonderful Life'.
So if you chose to be a 'Seeker' my friend, you don't need to look to others for your inspiration, your guide. If you open your eyes, and listen to the wisdom you possess, you will come to know that the answers lie within. How you felt when your child was born. The first time you felt love's sweet touch. The laughter you shared with friends. It's all there, ready to show you a way. How easy it is to experience joy, the moments you can garner and learn. You know what your version of joy is, the scents, the tastes, the caresses, the pictures and the sounds.
I have learnt the lesson that was mine to learn, how I can feel joy in very simple things. I can hear a song, a melody that weaves a gossamer web, the jazzy voice of Satchmo, the rich timbre, the memories I have.
"I hear babies crying, I watch them grow
They'll learn much more than I'll ever know
And I think to myself what a wonderful world
Yes I think to myself what a wonderful world"
Being Jiwan…x
Tuesday 21 February 2017
Friday 17 February 2017
The Writer Not The Critic
Down the Rabbit Hole… Again
Have you ever done something where the memory of it was so bright, so clear, that you wanted to be touched by that experience again? I did some learnings a long while back that had that very deep imprinting on me. Where I can still recall the detail of rooms, of people, of muted conversations, moments of raucous laughter, of subtle changing.
So, many, many years later, almost a decade reached, I decided to see how things had aged, changed, or plain grown. If the vivid, silver, memories of overflowing enthusiasm, the glinting eagerness of like-minded souls, was so very different now. The fascination of times once lived, drew me back. Fresh eyes observed what the passing years can do. So a path well-trodden, was seen a-new.
Imagining, the very, very end. What did I need to do, have done by then? How would this word serve me, and what did that knowledge reveal, right here, right now?
So from simple, simple steps, I reached those levels, more profound. Who I was. Chose to be. At this ending. My hopes and my dreams.
Then a change. A different tack. Much, much, more delving. Conversations had, discussions, light, dark, humorous and revealing.
"What three things are you really good at?"
And in my Group, I responded:
"I'm really good at empathy."
"I'm really good at creativity."
"And, I'm really good at cooking."
The strangeness of this learning is, the truth, the curiosity that led me here.
In the silence of my imaginings, I changed perspectives. I looked down, and from that new viewpoint, the observer gave me clarity. Perched on a pillar of rapport, I realised, the anchor of the map could still be kept, the learner feeling safe, secure, whilst the territory itself, creativity, was explored. So, now, it was not about words pouring forth, perfect, whole, unbidden. Now, it was about the principles, what could be understood by them in the structure of NLP.
To be creative seek rapport, and be at ease with self. Focus on that desired outcome, the canvas daubs, the golden words, using the skilled, skilled tools of your sensory acuity. And keep that behavioural flexibility, to change at will, easily allowing for new approaches, and fresh perspectives, made ready just for you.
Still finding it difficult, to notice, observe and model?
My friend take note of a very simple word.
Jabberwocky.
Have you ever done something where the memory of it was so bright, so clear, that you wanted to be touched by that experience again? I did some learnings a long while back that had that very deep imprinting on me. Where I can still recall the detail of rooms, of people, of muted conversations, moments of raucous laughter, of subtle changing.
So, many, many years later, almost a decade reached, I decided to see how things had aged, changed, or plain grown. If the vivid, silver, memories of overflowing enthusiasm, the glinting eagerness of like-minded souls, was so very different now. The fascination of times once lived, drew me back. Fresh eyes observed what the passing years can do. So a path well-trodden, was seen a-new.
Recognition was there. Warm hugs of welcome, and a feeling of 'still here'. Knowledge, engagement, listening. Questioning and challenging. The magic formula was cast again, colours seeping through. Different, yet the same. It involved, it paced and it led, nudging and awakening, what we were there to learn.
Simple steps:
"What made you come?"
"Why are you here?"
Then, more probing:
"What is that, in a word?"
So from that very word, that "curiosity" that had drawn me, all the rest, flowed.
Simple steps:
"What made you come?"
"Why are you here?"
Then, more probing:
"What is that, in a word?"
So from that very word, that "curiosity" that had drawn me, all the rest, flowed.
Imagining, the very, very end. What did I need to do, have done by then? How would this word serve me, and what did that knowledge reveal, right here, right now?
So from simple, simple steps, I reached those levels, more profound. Who I was. Chose to be. At this ending. My hopes and my dreams.
Drink Me!
Then a change. A different tack. Much, much, more delving. Conversations had, discussions, light, dark, humorous and revealing.
"What three things are you really good at?"
And in my Group, I responded:
"I'm really good at empathy."
"I'm really good at creativity."
"And, I'm really good at cooking."
They chose to know about my creativity. And, I answered, did my best, to tell them what I felt. What I did, and how I was, when I was in the 'flow'.
But, this was just the beginning.
Now came that crunch, the "why?", of this curiosity. What would they have to do, to emulate, to model the 'me' who was the Writer, the Painter and the Poet. How could they gain that expert touch, and release their creative souls?
It should have been easier. The questions were there, printed clearly to see. The objective, the intent well known. Internal state. Internal computations.. External behaviours. Their role to notice, observe and model the distinctions I made clear. But, I floundered. I tried to answer. Honesty and clarity, I tried. But, I had never analysed. What it was that I did, before I entered that state, that gifted space, and creativity, it flowed.
I did not know the answers then, but quiet reflection, silence, has since revealed, there is a process, an A, B, C, that allows for some replication. Once I have sipped that sweet heady taste of my home made brew. My own, my very special mug of spiced, cinnamon-laced, rich, rich, chai. I knew. There is an intent, a motivation to create, a driving force within. A visual outcome, words aglow, are there waiting to be freed. The restraint cast by that critical voice that stills the flow, is quietened. Life's rich material lies at the core of all the expressions, the lines, the dabs that reveal what was intended.
The uniqueness of creating is yours, but the way is clear. Leave the routes you know behind, the heart can speak, and the head can show you another path to tread, new ways to explore.
But, this was just the beginning.
Now came that crunch, the "why?", of this curiosity. What would they have to do, to emulate, to model the 'me' who was the Writer, the Painter and the Poet. How could they gain that expert touch, and release their creative souls?
It should have been easier. The questions were there, printed clearly to see. The objective, the intent well known. Internal state. Internal computations.. External behaviours. Their role to notice, observe and model the distinctions I made clear. But, I floundered. I tried to answer. Honesty and clarity, I tried. But, I had never analysed. What it was that I did, before I entered that state, that gifted space, and creativity, it flowed.
I did not know the answers then, but quiet reflection, silence, has since revealed, there is a process, an A, B, C, that allows for some replication. Once I have sipped that sweet heady taste of my home made brew. My own, my very special mug of spiced, cinnamon-laced, rich, rich, chai. I knew. There is an intent, a motivation to create, a driving force within. A visual outcome, words aglow, are there waiting to be freed. The restraint cast by that critical voice that stills the flow, is quietened. Life's rich material lies at the core of all the expressions, the lines, the dabs that reveal what was intended.
The uniqueness of creating is yours, but the way is clear. Leave the routes you know behind, the heart can speak, and the head can show you another path to tread, new ways to explore.
Curiouser and curiouser…
The strangeness of this learning is, the truth, the curiosity that led me here.
In the silence of my imaginings, I changed perspectives. I looked down, and from that new viewpoint, the observer gave me clarity. Perched on a pillar of rapport, I realised, the anchor of the map could still be kept, the learner feeling safe, secure, whilst the territory itself, creativity, was explored. So, now, it was not about words pouring forth, perfect, whole, unbidden. Now, it was about the principles, what could be understood by them in the structure of NLP.
To be creative seek rapport, and be at ease with self. Focus on that desired outcome, the canvas daubs, the golden words, using the skilled, skilled tools of your sensory acuity. And keep that behavioural flexibility, to change at will, easily allowing for new approaches, and fresh perspectives, made ready just for you.
So, what does the writer know now, that silences that critical judge, that limiter within? It is simple really, not difficult or profound. When 'f'low' alights the spirit, and effort goes. it is the perfect state, the perfect way to be. Unleash that creativity, the storyteller unbound. Just remember, it is the territory that you explore, the map you left behind.
Still finding it difficult, to notice, observe and model?
My friend take note of a very simple word.
Jabberwocky.
That unborn canvas.
Those words of brilliance.
They are there, waiting, waiting, waiting for your call.
All wondrous. All fresh. All new. All yours.
Those words of brilliance.
They are there, waiting, waiting, waiting for your call.
All wondrous. All fresh. All new. All yours.
Being Jiwan…x
Friday 10 February 2017
A Letter to My Wife
24th August 19..
[A translation]
For a long time now, I have been searching for the right words, to send to you. About our child. Our daughter. But something has been stopping me. Stalling. I don't know what.
She was born on 9th April 19…. My beloved daughter's handprint, you sent to me, it's inked impression, here, on this envelope. I looked at that handprint, and read your words. With amazement. It sets me thinking. Nature's ways are inviolate, the same for everyone. To help forget, to break, twist, re-mould. To re-build someone's heart. How expert a hand is nature. A broken heart has been mended, with no cracks visible.
My child is over four months old, and I am so far away from her. Here, in London. It's five o'clock in the early morning. I am struggling to fall asleep, but I'm wide awake. Perched in front of me, are two photographs of our child. She is smiling, gazing at the photographer.
Perhaps, she is also wondering:
"This image will go to that man whose heart's deep wounds, have not yet healed. I can at least tell those wounds, father, I am the fulfilment of your dreams. I will make you laugh. Your wounds will heal."
She is trying her very best to make me smile. To laugh again.
Having lingered on that image, feelings overcome. My daughter is looking at me. Perhaps she wants to run, joyously, into my arms. My heart fills. I long to hold, and embrace her. This lightening of life's burden.
But, no. God has other plans for me. He has separated us for a reason. So, the longing grows. My child, will be older, and I will pick her up, take her in my arms. She will hug me with love. Bring cool, solace, to my hurts.
My wife seems lost, deeply, in her thoughts. Maybe she is having those very same feelings. My darling's father is so far away. What precious token can I send him, to show him this symbol? What was she thinking, when this image was taken? I see wistfulness, no laughter in her face. Her dreams, they have not been answered yet. She wanted to bring this joy to me. As if she owed me something. Maybe, maybe, she is longing for the very moment when she is able to present, that priceless gift to me.
Here, my longing, burns brightly. When can I leave this place? Then, I have to stop myself, stop this yearning. But, it is difficult. How can I stop this longing? There is a connection, a bond. I too have dreams I shared with her, she makes my world beautiful again. Three spirits will meet at the same time. A new world opening. Two halves will be reunited, and reach their destination. Then life will blossom.
I know this will happen one day. I know. This is the mystery of life, not easily understood. You have to bow and accept, your destiny, your fate, is written just for you.
But, don't worry. The fruit is sweeter, if you wait. My wife, and my daughter, who I didn't even nurture, who blossomed, without my presence. What will life hold for us? What will their desires be? What paths will they want to take? What kind of world will we be together?
These are the thoughts I have, that strengthen my resolve, that keep me going. I am struggling to give them a better life. Struggling to reach that sweetness. Only he who has travelled with me, truly knows. This sinking ship, this drowning man, has dreamed, has sought a safe haven. Many, many times. How painful it has been to reach this point. My family. How strange, this life. How sweet and sour. How heavy and painful. But, also, light as a feather.
God made life so wondrous. A man can become lost, a stranger, in its living. He knows not the end of it, or gives up the desire, the knowledge, or the struggle, of living. Without these struggles of life, you come to realise, that the living is hollow.
My child. God bless you. May your life be full of laughter. May you grow, and thrive. As much as I'm able, I will help you fulfil your dreams. Adding to the beauty, of our small, perfect world. May contentment fill our days, with all our friends around us, supporting the journey of our lives. May there be no lessening, weakening, of this bond. May we keep on going, strong, through whatever comes our way.
24th August 19..
Being Jiwan…x
[A translation]
For a long time now, I have been searching for the right words, to send to you. About our child. Our daughter. But something has been stopping me. Stalling. I don't know what.
She was born on 9th April 19…. My beloved daughter's handprint, you sent to me, it's inked impression, here, on this envelope. I looked at that handprint, and read your words. With amazement. It sets me thinking. Nature's ways are inviolate, the same for everyone. To help forget, to break, twist, re-mould. To re-build someone's heart. How expert a hand is nature. A broken heart has been mended, with no cracks visible.
My child is over four months old, and I am so far away from her. Here, in London. It's five o'clock in the early morning. I am struggling to fall asleep, but I'm wide awake. Perched in front of me, are two photographs of our child. She is smiling, gazing at the photographer.
Perhaps, she is also wondering:
"This image will go to that man whose heart's deep wounds, have not yet healed. I can at least tell those wounds, father, I am the fulfilment of your dreams. I will make you laugh. Your wounds will heal."
She is trying her very best to make me smile. To laugh again.
Having lingered on that image, feelings overcome. My daughter is looking at me. Perhaps she wants to run, joyously, into my arms. My heart fills. I long to hold, and embrace her. This lightening of life's burden.
But, no. God has other plans for me. He has separated us for a reason. So, the longing grows. My child, will be older, and I will pick her up, take her in my arms. She will hug me with love. Bring cool, solace, to my hurts.
My wife seems lost, deeply, in her thoughts. Maybe she is having those very same feelings. My darling's father is so far away. What precious token can I send him, to show him this symbol? What was she thinking, when this image was taken? I see wistfulness, no laughter in her face. Her dreams, they have not been answered yet. She wanted to bring this joy to me. As if she owed me something. Maybe, maybe, she is longing for the very moment when she is able to present, that priceless gift to me.
Here, my longing, burns brightly. When can I leave this place? Then, I have to stop myself, stop this yearning. But, it is difficult. How can I stop this longing? There is a connection, a bond. I too have dreams I shared with her, she makes my world beautiful again. Three spirits will meet at the same time. A new world opening. Two halves will be reunited, and reach their destination. Then life will blossom.
I know this will happen one day. I know. This is the mystery of life, not easily understood. You have to bow and accept, your destiny, your fate, is written just for you.
But, don't worry. The fruit is sweeter, if you wait. My wife, and my daughter, who I didn't even nurture, who blossomed, without my presence. What will life hold for us? What will their desires be? What paths will they want to take? What kind of world will we be together?
These are the thoughts I have, that strengthen my resolve, that keep me going. I am struggling to give them a better life. Struggling to reach that sweetness. Only he who has travelled with me, truly knows. This sinking ship, this drowning man, has dreamed, has sought a safe haven. Many, many times. How painful it has been to reach this point. My family. How strange, this life. How sweet and sour. How heavy and painful. But, also, light as a feather.
God made life so wondrous. A man can become lost, a stranger, in its living. He knows not the end of it, or gives up the desire, the knowledge, or the struggle, of living. Without these struggles of life, you come to realise, that the living is hollow.
My child. God bless you. May your life be full of laughter. May you grow, and thrive. As much as I'm able, I will help you fulfil your dreams. Adding to the beauty, of our small, perfect world. May contentment fill our days, with all our friends around us, supporting the journey of our lives. May there be no lessening, weakening, of this bond. May we keep on going, strong, through whatever comes our way.
24th August 19..
Being Jiwan…x
Thursday 9 February 2017
About That 'C' Word...
The Rocky Road
I chose the Rocky Road, all unknowing, innocent.
That first, timid, step, led me here, to shaded places, mouldy, stinking.
I thought it was the only path to take. Rocks, hidden. Held secrets. Shards. Cuts, invisible.
The warmth was not welcome there, only glimmers of sun sneaking.
Ghostly threads leaked, dancing shadows, swiftly, caressing, fading.
Doggedly, determined, I followed that rocky road.
Though other choices came and went, this one held me fast. Over the rocks I climbed.
Slips, stumbles and hurts were mine. Sometimes bruised, sometimes bloody. But surely, I thought,
This will change.
But. It didn't. Tears. Pain. Laughter tried to find a way. Joy flashed rainbow colours, but, the warmth found no permanence. Would not linger. Would not stay. Until, that fateful day, when a chance meeting intervened. Life changed. Another traveller, I found. A few steps further on. I caught the fellow up. Curious about this stranger, I chose to disturb.
"What is this road?' I asked,
"Where daylight hides its face?"
"Where you are the only other person walking?"
"Where does this journey take me?"
"The destination, reached, the travelling, end?
Glancing my way, still taking those steps forward, he spoke these words.
"This is the road less travelled, the harder path. We, we who are on this way, are those who gave freely, of our hopes, of our lives. Loved. Deeply. Took the burden, tried our best, to heal, to lighten woes, so others would thrive. Though the days, seemingly, arduous, we found wisdom, our purpose, our meaning. Along this rocky road. Sometimes, steps are taken, all unwitting. So the moments, experiences, the journey, seems long.
Beloved soul. If you pay attention, when first you have the choice, the directions, the way, is clear. Your eyes will reveal the inner truth of what lies veiled. Life is more enriching, beauty's touch, a lilting melody, when first you realise. It is the journey, the twists and turns that hone, that temper, that hold life's sweet, shining, surprise. Close your eyes. See with your heart. This is the life you chose."
Then, having answered, he seemed to melt away.
Pondering, I moved on.
You don't need to say the Words
The thing about difficult communications is, we avoid them. We just find it easier to talk euphemisms. The starkness of reality makes us uncomfortable. Talking silver linings, the other side of the rainbow, it's never as dark as it seems. Etc. etc. etc. as someone in a movie once said. Just so much easier to contend with, than those words. Endings, not beginnings, are all that is heard.
For me, at this moment, it's about communications. How we make things easier to understand. What we're told, what isn't said. What's misunderstood. What breaks you. What makes you whole. Losing hope, from simple words. Or gaining courage, anew, refreshed. When your living, shines through.
So, I try to make it easier for those afraid to ask. So empty promises, don't need to be made, or kept, or broken. Those who have known a while, know. The diagnosis that eats away the promise of tomorrows, of plans, of dreams. It refuses to leave me. It's very attached, you know. With loving thoughts and compassion, I first received the blow. My own poor body screaming. Neglect, you didn't listen, what about me? So very clear to see now. That bony, reflection, of a woman, was me.
So, for years I have travelled this rocky, rocky road. Of things being done, endured, to ease the heavy, heavy load. But it chooses to remain with me, this lesson of life, is mine, and the unburdening, is not a simple thing. Not something I can share. Not something I would give to others.
So. I focus, intent clear. Moment on moment, day by day. With that thought, with that need to strive, to live, be well. I carry on. I breathe, and stay. There are things that need to be done, where I am the doer. So, where possible, I speak and say the words. The tiredness of staying, is nipping at my heals. But, I hope I have shared enough. Given strength to those who fear to face or deal, with that final sleep that comes. For we all will meet that truth one day. The beginning of the end. The end of the beginning.
Being Jiwan…x
I chose the Rocky Road, all unknowing, innocent.
That first, timid, step, led me here, to shaded places, mouldy, stinking.
I thought it was the only path to take. Rocks, hidden. Held secrets. Shards. Cuts, invisible.
The warmth was not welcome there, only glimmers of sun sneaking.
Ghostly threads leaked, dancing shadows, swiftly, caressing, fading.
Doggedly, determined, I followed that rocky road.
Though other choices came and went, this one held me fast. Over the rocks I climbed.
Slips, stumbles and hurts were mine. Sometimes bruised, sometimes bloody. But surely, I thought,
This will change.
But. It didn't. Tears. Pain. Laughter tried to find a way. Joy flashed rainbow colours, but, the warmth found no permanence. Would not linger. Would not stay. Until, that fateful day, when a chance meeting intervened. Life changed. Another traveller, I found. A few steps further on. I caught the fellow up. Curious about this stranger, I chose to disturb.
"What is this road?' I asked,
"Where daylight hides its face?"
"Where you are the only other person walking?"
"Where does this journey take me?"
"The destination, reached, the travelling, end?
Glancing my way, still taking those steps forward, he spoke these words.
"This is the road less travelled, the harder path. We, we who are on this way, are those who gave freely, of our hopes, of our lives. Loved. Deeply. Took the burden, tried our best, to heal, to lighten woes, so others would thrive. Though the days, seemingly, arduous, we found wisdom, our purpose, our meaning. Along this rocky road. Sometimes, steps are taken, all unwitting. So the moments, experiences, the journey, seems long.
Beloved soul. If you pay attention, when first you have the choice, the directions, the way, is clear. Your eyes will reveal the inner truth of what lies veiled. Life is more enriching, beauty's touch, a lilting melody, when first you realise. It is the journey, the twists and turns that hone, that temper, that hold life's sweet, shining, surprise. Close your eyes. See with your heart. This is the life you chose."
Then, having answered, he seemed to melt away.
Pondering, I moved on.
You don't need to say the Words
The thing about difficult communications is, we avoid them. We just find it easier to talk euphemisms. The starkness of reality makes us uncomfortable. Talking silver linings, the other side of the rainbow, it's never as dark as it seems. Etc. etc. etc. as someone in a movie once said. Just so much easier to contend with, than those words. Endings, not beginnings, are all that is heard.
For me, at this moment, it's about communications. How we make things easier to understand. What we're told, what isn't said. What's misunderstood. What breaks you. What makes you whole. Losing hope, from simple words. Or gaining courage, anew, refreshed. When your living, shines through.
So, I try to make it easier for those afraid to ask. So empty promises, don't need to be made, or kept, or broken. Those who have known a while, know. The diagnosis that eats away the promise of tomorrows, of plans, of dreams. It refuses to leave me. It's very attached, you know. With loving thoughts and compassion, I first received the blow. My own poor body screaming. Neglect, you didn't listen, what about me? So very clear to see now. That bony, reflection, of a woman, was me.
So, for years I have travelled this rocky, rocky road. Of things being done, endured, to ease the heavy, heavy load. But it chooses to remain with me, this lesson of life, is mine, and the unburdening, is not a simple thing. Not something I can share. Not something I would give to others.
So. I focus, intent clear. Moment on moment, day by day. With that thought, with that need to strive, to live, be well. I carry on. I breathe, and stay. There are things that need to be done, where I am the doer. So, where possible, I speak and say the words. The tiredness of staying, is nipping at my heals. But, I hope I have shared enough. Given strength to those who fear to face or deal, with that final sleep that comes. For we all will meet that truth one day. The beginning of the end. The end of the beginning.
Being Jiwan…x
Wednesday 8 February 2017
Gandhi's Daughter
The Return
Her eyes searched. Lingering. Amongst the mud, cooled, enclosed dwellings. Searching for that simple abode, seen, so briefly, so many years before. It was only in this guise, pure spirit, that she had made the journey. The hindering, limiting, ailments of her awkward self, shed. Left behind. In this lightness of being, the travelling had been effortless. She had returned. Come home.
But, she couldn't find what she sought. The fruitless twists, and turns. Heat scorching, empty. Dustiness covering, reigning supreme. She knew things would have changed. So many years lived. But this place. It was so very different from the memories she held. And, the haunting, sadness of it was, they had forgotten him. Whatever had been that humble place, taken over. Remade. Left, now, just motes of dust, floating, drifting, gently, moving on.
But, as she turned to go, softly drooping shoulders, thoughts ebbing low, she stopped. She heard. Whispers in the breeze, voices growing. In their dream states, other spirits were clamouring, calling.
"Don't go! Please wait! We didn't know you were coming! Don't let us be too late! Stay awhile! You've come home to us!"
Surprised. She halted, and found herself, easily surrounded. Wrapped, cocooned, shaded, engulfed in the heady joy, the light of pure love.
Eyes wide in wonderment, spirit shining, brighter still, she asked the question in her heart:
"Why have you come?"
The answer came, loud and clear, ringing splendour, bell-like tone. All the voices, all at once, together pealed their resolve.
"Because, You, child, You are Gandhi's Daughter! With You His spirit blesses, guides, and teaches us a-new. When we see You, we hear His voice. The truth of His words."
She looked at them. their eager glances, tender smiles, their gentle touches. With tears she spoke, and asked another question:
"What is it that He taught, that you remember Him so well?"
Then an old, old man hobbled forth and took her by the hand. She saw that although he was spirit form, he still needed rest. She found him a shaded spot, found seating so that he could speak, say his words.
Still holding her gently by the hand, his aged voice replied:
"Listen and listen well. He was a Mahatma to us. A Master. A Teacher to lead the way. Gandhi wasn't the name of His birth, but God's Light he was, in truth. His aspirations were a torch, they lit our path, inspired our way. By very, very, small, small steps, He taught us how to be. How the lowly place we were forced to hold, could be shed, and our children's, children free. No longer drudges, meanly kept, despised. We are equal. Stand proud. We live.
Equality, dignity, respect. Education was the key. So even when He wasn't here with us, His hand reached out. Helped us up. We climbed that ladder after Him. The spirits that you see here now, are the ones touched by Him. These are the generations still present, and yet to come, who received the benefit, the care, of that humble, simple man. They are the real fruits of His sacrifice. The Giver who gave his all. What you see in us, is His dream realised. The truth made bold.
And we are pained He didn't know. That at the very end, He felt so lost, so abandoned. So alone. But we, we whose lives He touched, in our hearts He still glows. As long as our memories serve, and our children's, and their children's and beyond. Don't think that He is forgotten. His name is forever written, indelible, in the heartbeats of our living.
But you, Gandhi's Daughter. You returned. And to you we say these words. Don't look for His mark in superficial, shallow things. That's not who He was. He sought no fame, or worldly renown. No riches, or glory. His life's meaning was much, much deeper. Tell Him when the final summons comes. And You meet Him again. Even if the knowledge is not needed now. We need to let Him know. We loved Him. He was the Master. The Teacher. And, we, we still learn."
She listened to the aged man. The truths he spoke, in the stillness of that heat. She would never forget the ringing, emotion of his words. The silence, tangible, though crowds surrounded her. The love that dazzled brightness. In her heartbeat, her very breath, that message grew. He was not forgotten.
And so Gandhi's Daughter, with heart rejoicing, left that faraway land. Her spirit returned. Her eyes opened. She awoke. Another day.
Being Jiwan…x
Her eyes searched. Lingering. Amongst the mud, cooled, enclosed dwellings. Searching for that simple abode, seen, so briefly, so many years before. It was only in this guise, pure spirit, that she had made the journey. The hindering, limiting, ailments of her awkward self, shed. Left behind. In this lightness of being, the travelling had been effortless. She had returned. Come home.
But, she couldn't find what she sought. The fruitless twists, and turns. Heat scorching, empty. Dustiness covering, reigning supreme. She knew things would have changed. So many years lived. But this place. It was so very different from the memories she held. And, the haunting, sadness of it was, they had forgotten him. Whatever had been that humble place, taken over. Remade. Left, now, just motes of dust, floating, drifting, gently, moving on.
But, as she turned to go, softly drooping shoulders, thoughts ebbing low, she stopped. She heard. Whispers in the breeze, voices growing. In their dream states, other spirits were clamouring, calling.
"Don't go! Please wait! We didn't know you were coming! Don't let us be too late! Stay awhile! You've come home to us!"
Surprised. She halted, and found herself, easily surrounded. Wrapped, cocooned, shaded, engulfed in the heady joy, the light of pure love.
Eyes wide in wonderment, spirit shining, brighter still, she asked the question in her heart:
"Why have you come?"
The answer came, loud and clear, ringing splendour, bell-like tone. All the voices, all at once, together pealed their resolve.
"Because, You, child, You are Gandhi's Daughter! With You His spirit blesses, guides, and teaches us a-new. When we see You, we hear His voice. The truth of His words."
She looked at them. their eager glances, tender smiles, their gentle touches. With tears she spoke, and asked another question:
"What is it that He taught, that you remember Him so well?"
Then an old, old man hobbled forth and took her by the hand. She saw that although he was spirit form, he still needed rest. She found him a shaded spot, found seating so that he could speak, say his words.
Still holding her gently by the hand, his aged voice replied:
"Listen and listen well. He was a Mahatma to us. A Master. A Teacher to lead the way. Gandhi wasn't the name of His birth, but God's Light he was, in truth. His aspirations were a torch, they lit our path, inspired our way. By very, very, small, small steps, He taught us how to be. How the lowly place we were forced to hold, could be shed, and our children's, children free. No longer drudges, meanly kept, despised. We are equal. Stand proud. We live.
Equality, dignity, respect. Education was the key. So even when He wasn't here with us, His hand reached out. Helped us up. We climbed that ladder after Him. The spirits that you see here now, are the ones touched by Him. These are the generations still present, and yet to come, who received the benefit, the care, of that humble, simple man. They are the real fruits of His sacrifice. The Giver who gave his all. What you see in us, is His dream realised. The truth made bold.
And we are pained He didn't know. That at the very end, He felt so lost, so abandoned. So alone. But we, we whose lives He touched, in our hearts He still glows. As long as our memories serve, and our children's, and their children's and beyond. Don't think that He is forgotten. His name is forever written, indelible, in the heartbeats of our living.
But you, Gandhi's Daughter. You returned. And to you we say these words. Don't look for His mark in superficial, shallow things. That's not who He was. He sought no fame, or worldly renown. No riches, or glory. His life's meaning was much, much deeper. Tell Him when the final summons comes. And You meet Him again. Even if the knowledge is not needed now. We need to let Him know. We loved Him. He was the Master. The Teacher. And, we, we still learn."
She listened to the aged man. The truths he spoke, in the stillness of that heat. She would never forget the ringing, emotion of his words. The silence, tangible, though crowds surrounded her. The love that dazzled brightness. In her heartbeat, her very breath, that message grew. He was not forgotten.
And so Gandhi's Daughter, with heart rejoicing, left that faraway land. Her spirit returned. Her eyes opened. She awoke. Another day.
Being Jiwan…x
Elephant. Giraffera. Balluooo...
Meri Ma
My mother.
I had a lot of names for her, loving names to hug, peck, tease and let her know with simple words, just how much she meant to me. Meri Ma. Mother of my heart.
In her final years, when she was fading, I would talk, enthuse, alight with my latest dreams of venture. I was learning all a-new. Different things. Fascinating potentials. Knowledge not taught in schools. Planning dreams. Growing futures. Disturbing rest, while she listened, patient. Until, finally, eyes heavy with sleep drenched tiredness, she'd seek respite.
"We'll talk tomorrow, tell me then", she'd say.
And I, sitting on her bed, would sneak a guilty look at the time, almost midnight, before wishing her an even guiltier goodnight. She was the best of listeners. The very best of huggers. Warm, tender, engulfing embraces. Stoic and uncomplaining. To the end, I saw only those smiles. She hid the rest.
Every day was richer for her presence. I miss her. Still.
But why talk about her now? Well, I went to see 'Lion' yesterday. It was spur of the moment decision. I wanted to do something a bit different, the day had dragged. So I ended up having a bite of scrumptious scotch egg with seasonal greens, at a wonderful organic place I know. And then, having booked the ticket first, I watched the early evening show.
Feelings wrought, emotions challenged. I was deeply moved. Loved it. But, the mothers in the movie. What they did. How they strived. That look of loss, held close, deep in their eyes. I know the story was all about the search, about the small, lost, boy. But. How they held on. Loving tenderness in their words. Soft caresses in their hands. I know it was a movie, entertainment on view, but, in that darkness, it made me cry.
That's the thing you see. The chords that resonant with us. Our experience of what a mother will do. What she will endure. For her child. To raise him. To clothe and feed her. To show right, from wrong. Uncomplaining, quietly tending, just caring, being mum. Easy to forget she is more than that role. But the nature, naturing part of her, that kicks in when you're born. Come into her life. How profound. If you are of the blessed creed, that has known a mother's love, it is something that will stay with you, beyond that final engulfing hug.
So, when you see a film like that, it's your own mum you recall, who you remember. Whatever those memories are for you, the sweet nectar of a mother's love, lingers. Infusing, gently soothing the trials of this world. That's what I remember, still do, always will. How she made life easier, lighter, even when times where hard, and when tears flowed.
My mother was beautiful. Her beauty, a bright, shining radiance. To my loving eyes, she glowed. But in the years of her ageing, to her, her reflection showed a different mien. Someone she didn't recognise. Someone she didn't know. She'd avoid looking at her face saying those very words. And I, I in my distress, would try and re-assure her, forgetting she was a woman too.
"Look mum. Look. Look at yourself with my eyes. Can't you see, just see how beautiful you are."
And, as she had been quietly suffering, the effects of her failing heart:
"I'm so grateful you're still here with us, so grateful you're alive."
And, she, she with her mother's love would wryly respond, in laughter tinged, sing-song refrain:
"Not Beautiful. Not Beautiful Me. Beautiful My Children. My Children. Me Elephant. Giraffera. Balluooo..."
My life was all the richer for her presence. I miss her. Still.
Being Jiwan…x
My mother.
I had a lot of names for her, loving names to hug, peck, tease and let her know with simple words, just how much she meant to me. Meri Ma. Mother of my heart.
In her final years, when she was fading, I would talk, enthuse, alight with my latest dreams of venture. I was learning all a-new. Different things. Fascinating potentials. Knowledge not taught in schools. Planning dreams. Growing futures. Disturbing rest, while she listened, patient. Until, finally, eyes heavy with sleep drenched tiredness, she'd seek respite.
"We'll talk tomorrow, tell me then", she'd say.
And I, sitting on her bed, would sneak a guilty look at the time, almost midnight, before wishing her an even guiltier goodnight. She was the best of listeners. The very best of huggers. Warm, tender, engulfing embraces. Stoic and uncomplaining. To the end, I saw only those smiles. She hid the rest.
Every day was richer for her presence. I miss her. Still.
But why talk about her now? Well, I went to see 'Lion' yesterday. It was spur of the moment decision. I wanted to do something a bit different, the day had dragged. So I ended up having a bite of scrumptious scotch egg with seasonal greens, at a wonderful organic place I know. And then, having booked the ticket first, I watched the early evening show.
Feelings wrought, emotions challenged. I was deeply moved. Loved it. But, the mothers in the movie. What they did. How they strived. That look of loss, held close, deep in their eyes. I know the story was all about the search, about the small, lost, boy. But. How they held on. Loving tenderness in their words. Soft caresses in their hands. I know it was a movie, entertainment on view, but, in that darkness, it made me cry.
That's the thing you see. The chords that resonant with us. Our experience of what a mother will do. What she will endure. For her child. To raise him. To clothe and feed her. To show right, from wrong. Uncomplaining, quietly tending, just caring, being mum. Easy to forget she is more than that role. But the nature, naturing part of her, that kicks in when you're born. Come into her life. How profound. If you are of the blessed creed, that has known a mother's love, it is something that will stay with you, beyond that final engulfing hug.
So, when you see a film like that, it's your own mum you recall, who you remember. Whatever those memories are for you, the sweet nectar of a mother's love, lingers. Infusing, gently soothing the trials of this world. That's what I remember, still do, always will. How she made life easier, lighter, even when times where hard, and when tears flowed.
My mother was beautiful. Her beauty, a bright, shining radiance. To my loving eyes, she glowed. But in the years of her ageing, to her, her reflection showed a different mien. Someone she didn't recognise. Someone she didn't know. She'd avoid looking at her face saying those very words. And I, I in my distress, would try and re-assure her, forgetting she was a woman too.
"Look mum. Look. Look at yourself with my eyes. Can't you see, just see how beautiful you are."
And, as she had been quietly suffering, the effects of her failing heart:
"I'm so grateful you're still here with us, so grateful you're alive."
And, she, she with her mother's love would wryly respond, in laughter tinged, sing-song refrain:
"Not Beautiful. Not Beautiful Me. Beautiful My Children. My Children. Me Elephant. Giraffera. Balluooo..."
My life was all the richer for her presence. I miss her. Still.
Being Jiwan…x
Monday 6 February 2017
The Art of Dying
Colour Me
Colour me New-born, a mewling, puking babe.
Fresh delivered, scented, loving.
Welcomed, and embraced.
Fragile, small, spun delicacy.
Hope.
Eternity clutched fast, held close, held tight, in tiny, tiny hands.
Paint me a Dreamer, child, maiden, woman.
Unfurling, blooming, changing.
Awkward graces, seen and hidden.
Blushing fiery, loving, pained.
Feelings, experiences, abundance. A riotous glory. Mystery unveiled.
The seven ages writ large, writ clear, in moving drifts, in shifting sand.
Clothe me with Maturity. The Master's Autumn Palate.
Ambers. Golds. Sepia memories.
Touched, tinted, brushed ruby. A flickering, burning glow.
The rich, deep, turbulence of living, gently ebbing.
In the blessed, silent, solitude, of night.
In the eventide, stillness, life flows.
Shroud me in indigo, in shades of midnight hues,
The warm, sacred, enfolding spirit.
Beckons. Whispers, come, come now.
Move on.
A single drop. That was, is, will be.
Hope.
Eternity, clutched fast, held close, held tight, in tiny, tiny hands.
You really want to know?
Death. Dying. Dead. No more. You want to ask. Question. To help, heal, succour or just plain know. It's one of those subjects people will avoid. The words difficult. Painful and scary. To speak the haunting dreaded names, makes it too, too, real. So instead of being a part of life, something lived with, endings known, discussed, even casually hugged away. It's stuff to put off until the decision is already taken, no choices left to be made. And so the journey ends, with precious things kept silent, left unsaid. With bruised sadness left adrift, still seeking, searching, for that firmly, closed, locked door.
The Art of Dying.
But, it's not that hard. Not so difficult. There is a way of doing this, if you take it easy, if you take it slow. Just take my hand. Hold it fast. I know you find it hard. But you can still listen, still hear, and understand, these are simple words. Until that final breath, I'll breathe. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat, repeat, repeat. And repeat again. No thoughts required, no plans to tend. For until that last long exhale, that lingering sigh good-bye, I live life in joy's transcendent, ethereal, light. Breathing in, breathing out. This simple breath of life, it humbles, and sustains.
Colour me New-born, a mewling, puking babe.
Fresh delivered, scented, loving.
Welcomed, and embraced.
Fragile, small, spun delicacy.
Hope.
Eternity clutched fast, held close, held tight, in tiny, tiny hands.
Paint me a Dreamer, child, maiden, woman.
Unfurling, blooming, changing.
Awkward graces, seen and hidden.
Blushing fiery, loving, pained.
Feelings, experiences, abundance. A riotous glory. Mystery unveiled.
The seven ages writ large, writ clear, in moving drifts, in shifting sand.
Clothe me with Maturity. The Master's Autumn Palate.
Ambers. Golds. Sepia memories.
Touched, tinted, brushed ruby. A flickering, burning glow.
The rich, deep, turbulence of living, gently ebbing.
In the blessed, silent, solitude, of night.
In the eventide, stillness, life flows.
Shroud me in indigo, in shades of midnight hues,
The warm, sacred, enfolding spirit.
Beckons. Whispers, come, come now.
Move on.
A single drop. That was, is, will be.
Hope.
Eternity, clutched fast, held close, held tight, in tiny, tiny hands.
You really want to know?
Death. Dying. Dead. No more. You want to ask. Question. To help, heal, succour or just plain know. It's one of those subjects people will avoid. The words difficult. Painful and scary. To speak the haunting dreaded names, makes it too, too, real. So instead of being a part of life, something lived with, endings known, discussed, even casually hugged away. It's stuff to put off until the decision is already taken, no choices left to be made. And so the journey ends, with precious things kept silent, left unsaid. With bruised sadness left adrift, still seeking, searching, for that firmly, closed, locked door.
The Art of Dying.
But, it's not that hard. Not so difficult. There is a way of doing this, if you take it easy, if you take it slow. Just take my hand. Hold it fast. I know you find it hard. But you can still listen, still hear, and understand, these are simple words. Until that final breath, I'll breathe. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat, repeat, repeat. And repeat again. No thoughts required, no plans to tend. For until that last long exhale, that lingering sigh good-bye, I live life in joy's transcendent, ethereal, light. Breathing in, breathing out. This simple breath of life, it humbles, and sustains.
Colour the ignorance of fear my friend, chase away regrets. Just learn to live, breathe life, laugh, sing and dance again. This subtle scent of waking hours. The life, today, you own. This moment. This space. Right here. Right now.
Breathe.
Live.
Just Be.
Being Jiwan…x
Sunday 5 February 2017
Once Upon a Time...
Memoirs of a Forgotten Man
Once upon a time, a very long time ago, in a far away country where the days blazed heat, and you sought the cool caress and breeze of shade, there lived a boy. A very young boy. The boy was the centre of his mother's world. She doted, and adored him. And he spent his days playing, laughing and learning like all the other boys. He knew he was loved, and he loved in return.
Now, this boy was very special. Although he seemed like every little boy. He was very intuitive. Gentle. Caring. Sensitive. He noticed things missed by others. He knew there were things that his mother tried to hide from him. He heard her soft weeping in the dark, aloneness, of night. But he never talked about it. In the bright, light of shining days his mother sang him lullabies, songs of love, of dreams, of hopes. But the boy he knew of the pain she carried, and he loved her all the more.
Now, the boy had a special name. Because his mother made him simple clothes, dressed him in the fresh cool of white from head to toe, the other kids would tease, and call him a name. You have to know that this name meant something in the country of his birth. He didn't really mind. It wasn't hurtful. So the name, it stuck, though the roots forgotten.
Now, the little boy was excited because he'd just started school. Like all the other children he would hurry to his classes, with the earth already warming, heating, for the day. Small feet were left hot, sore and tired, but he didn't complain. Learning was a joy to him. The wonder of new things. Where letters became words. And books beckoned, enticed, drawing him in. And the boy was truly blessed. Unlike the other mothers, his would stand outside the school when it was time for him to leave, and picked him up and carried him home in her arms. His feet kept cool. He was wrapped, embraced, in love. He was a very little boy. She loved him. He loved her in return.
But, then something awful happened. Life changed. His mother died. Nothing was the same. He heard stories of her broken heart. He heard stories of his father's disdain. His mother you see was a gentle soul, sweet, loving and true. But his father, his father was a handsome man. To him, appearance, good looks, beauty, was all. In his ignorance, these shallow traits, these small, small things, they mattered much, much more. He was fair. She was dark, and therein lay the bitter gourd. Although she was womanly kindness, everything and more, she was never loved by him, and the cruelty, it showed. He broke her spirit one final day, and it left his son alone.
Now, although he was a little boy. Only five years old. He never forgot her sweetness, the gentleness of her soul. He had to grow up that day, when his mother died. His father worked in a distant place, and his relatives, his uncles, they were cold. So cold. They didn't want to bother with a little boy alone. They gave him scraps. What wasn't wanted. Leftovers. Stale and poor. He who had known such love, now wept. In front of that fire. Burning fingers. He cooked his own bread and dipped it into thin, thin whey. They didn't want to keep or feed him, but what would others say? Besides, his father was sending money, so there was still some gain.
Now what happened to the little boy, with the special name? The miracle of all this is, that he was still the same. He was not bitter. He was not angry. He did not rile, or hate. A very little boy he was when he decided his own fate. He would live. He would help his people rise. He would show the way. That was who he was. Equality. Dignity. Education. He knew that was the key. He would live his aspirations, his mother's dream. Work hard, strive, serve. And above all. Give. His mother had been a gentle soul, sweet and true. And her spirit lived on. Can you see? It was shining bright, glowing there in him.
And the special little boy? With that special name?
Gandhi. He grew up.
And that, that is for another day.
Being Jiwan…x
Once upon a time, a very long time ago, in a far away country where the days blazed heat, and you sought the cool caress and breeze of shade, there lived a boy. A very young boy. The boy was the centre of his mother's world. She doted, and adored him. And he spent his days playing, laughing and learning like all the other boys. He knew he was loved, and he loved in return.
Now, this boy was very special. Although he seemed like every little boy. He was very intuitive. Gentle. Caring. Sensitive. He noticed things missed by others. He knew there were things that his mother tried to hide from him. He heard her soft weeping in the dark, aloneness, of night. But he never talked about it. In the bright, light of shining days his mother sang him lullabies, songs of love, of dreams, of hopes. But the boy he knew of the pain she carried, and he loved her all the more.
Now, the boy had a special name. Because his mother made him simple clothes, dressed him in the fresh cool of white from head to toe, the other kids would tease, and call him a name. You have to know that this name meant something in the country of his birth. He didn't really mind. It wasn't hurtful. So the name, it stuck, though the roots forgotten.
Now, the little boy was excited because he'd just started school. Like all the other children he would hurry to his classes, with the earth already warming, heating, for the day. Small feet were left hot, sore and tired, but he didn't complain. Learning was a joy to him. The wonder of new things. Where letters became words. And books beckoned, enticed, drawing him in. And the boy was truly blessed. Unlike the other mothers, his would stand outside the school when it was time for him to leave, and picked him up and carried him home in her arms. His feet kept cool. He was wrapped, embraced, in love. He was a very little boy. She loved him. He loved her in return.
But, then something awful happened. Life changed. His mother died. Nothing was the same. He heard stories of her broken heart. He heard stories of his father's disdain. His mother you see was a gentle soul, sweet, loving and true. But his father, his father was a handsome man. To him, appearance, good looks, beauty, was all. In his ignorance, these shallow traits, these small, small things, they mattered much, much more. He was fair. She was dark, and therein lay the bitter gourd. Although she was womanly kindness, everything and more, she was never loved by him, and the cruelty, it showed. He broke her spirit one final day, and it left his son alone.
Now, although he was a little boy. Only five years old. He never forgot her sweetness, the gentleness of her soul. He had to grow up that day, when his mother died. His father worked in a distant place, and his relatives, his uncles, they were cold. So cold. They didn't want to bother with a little boy alone. They gave him scraps. What wasn't wanted. Leftovers. Stale and poor. He who had known such love, now wept. In front of that fire. Burning fingers. He cooked his own bread and dipped it into thin, thin whey. They didn't want to keep or feed him, but what would others say? Besides, his father was sending money, so there was still some gain.
Now what happened to the little boy, with the special name? The miracle of all this is, that he was still the same. He was not bitter. He was not angry. He did not rile, or hate. A very little boy he was when he decided his own fate. He would live. He would help his people rise. He would show the way. That was who he was. Equality. Dignity. Education. He knew that was the key. He would live his aspirations, his mother's dream. Work hard, strive, serve. And above all. Give. His mother had been a gentle soul, sweet and true. And her spirit lived on. Can you see? It was shining bright, glowing there in him.
And the special little boy? With that special name?
Gandhi. He grew up.
And that, that is for another day.
Being Jiwan…x
Thursday 2 February 2017
Time to Talk/Time to Change
Do You See Me Now?
Do you see Me now?
Do you know My name?
No, no, look at Me,
Don't turn your face. Don't hide My shame.
Can you hear Me now?
The words I spew?
No, NO! Don't listen to That.
"FUCKING BITCH. WHORE.
YOU LOCKED ME UP. GET ME OUT! GET ME OUT!"
That's NOT Me.
What I want to say.
Turn it off! TURN IT OFF! SWITCH IT! NOW!
Listen. Listen. Listen… Get closer... closer… still...
Here. In this silence. I'm screaming pain.
I'm Here. Still. Here. Hiding. Deep. Hide Me. Again.
I'm scared.
Don't tell them. Don't let them know.
Pills, jabs, restraint. Twisted limbs. Swollen hands. Dark despair.
I raged. I hurt. I wept.
Do you care?
You know Me. ME. The Me I was. The Me I am.
Really ME.
See Me again.
Hear Me.
HELP ME.
Let Me be.
Don't let pity crush.
It's hell I'm living.
LET ME BE!
I Know You See Me.
You Know My name.
It's Time to Talk.
NOW!
It's Time to Talk
It's Time to Change.
Today is 'Time to Talk' day.
You have a voice.
You may know or care for someone who suffers from the debilitating effects of poor mental health. There are a lot of very dedicated caring professionals involved in supporting the misunderstood and vulnerable individuals in our society. There are also a lot of families and friends that try and do the same. I do. We struggle. Physical ailments are much easier to handle. To deal with. To respond to. To care for. To explain.
It is not easy to care. When fear strikes. Reality twists. Abuse screams. How to relate. Reach out. Shine a light. Listen. Just be there.
Please take the time to start a conversation or take an initiative to mitigate the stigma still experienced by a lot of people with mental health issues. Make it easier for them to talk. Especially those individuals isolated by crippling severe, enduring conditions. Depression. Bipolar. Schizophrenia. Words that bind. Forgiveness. Compassion. Understanding. Words that heal.
Be the difference. Make a difference. See the person, not the dis-ease.
Being Jiwan…x
Do you see Me now?
Do you know My name?
No, no, look at Me,
Don't turn your face. Don't hide My shame.
Can you hear Me now?
The words I spew?
No, NO! Don't listen to That.
"FUCKING BITCH. WHORE.
YOU LOCKED ME UP. GET ME OUT! GET ME OUT!"
That's NOT Me.
What I want to say.
Turn it off! TURN IT OFF! SWITCH IT! NOW!
Listen. Listen. Listen… Get closer... closer… still...
Here. In this silence. I'm screaming pain.
I'm Here. Still. Here. Hiding. Deep. Hide Me. Again.
I'm scared.
Don't tell them. Don't let them know.
Pills, jabs, restraint. Twisted limbs. Swollen hands. Dark despair.
I raged. I hurt. I wept.
Do you care?
You know Me. ME. The Me I was. The Me I am.
Really ME.
See Me again.
Hear Me.
HELP ME.
Let Me be.
Don't let pity crush.
It's hell I'm living.
LET ME BE!
I Know You See Me.
You Know My name.
It's Time to Talk.
NOW!
It's Time to Talk
It's Time to Change.
Today is 'Time to Talk' day.
You have a voice.
You may know or care for someone who suffers from the debilitating effects of poor mental health. There are a lot of very dedicated caring professionals involved in supporting the misunderstood and vulnerable individuals in our society. There are also a lot of families and friends that try and do the same. I do. We struggle. Physical ailments are much easier to handle. To deal with. To respond to. To care for. To explain.
It is not easy to care. When fear strikes. Reality twists. Abuse screams. How to relate. Reach out. Shine a light. Listen. Just be there.
Please take the time to start a conversation or take an initiative to mitigate the stigma still experienced by a lot of people with mental health issues. Make it easier for them to talk. Especially those individuals isolated by crippling severe, enduring conditions. Depression. Bipolar. Schizophrenia. Words that bind. Forgiveness. Compassion. Understanding. Words that heal.
Be the difference. Make a difference. See the person, not the dis-ease.
Being Jiwan…x
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