The End

Part 1 and All: The Last Stretch

I remember when I used to run a race, my dad would tell me “don’t look back”, when I neared the finish line. I always looked anyway.
I think somewhere in the bible it says “help us, we pray, in the midst of things we cannot understand.” I like that line. For a long time there I felt like I understood next to nothing, sometimes I still feel that way; thought mostly I think things make more sense now. I don’t understand why some are better off than others, I know why but I don’t understand. I don’t get how God works sometimes, and sometimes I do.
I wonder if anyone has ever tried to rate an exchange year on a scale of 1 to 10… I suppose it’s possible but I certainly couldn’t do it. I remember just how terrified I was when I first came here. Easily then I could have said 1 or 2, but on other occasions I thought I would never long to be anywhere else. My exchange has hand much resemblance to American politics: unpredictable, unreliable, and indecisive with quite a few fireworks.
Children are always convinced that they will never be like their parents. “I wont be anything like you when I grow up,” they tell them though inside they know it’s inevitable. There’s that ominous “WHEN I GROW UP,” such a heavy hand on the shoulder. I never want to grow up and let go of so much only to take on so much more. Sometimes I think I’m a lot older than I really am. I’m just a kid, even if I try not to be. This year has been nice because I had a lot of responsibility for myself; things didn’t come easy all that often, but I think I’m ready to be taken care of a little bit.
People say that “looks can be deceiving,” but mostly looks cut straight to the point… except for when it comes to Australia, which happens to look like the head of a nun flipped sideways. What’s that all about anyway? The India I’ve seen looks rather dusty and underfed. The American I’ve seen looks like Lindsay Lohan’s cleavage and another bad boy band. I don’t know where to rest between these two extremes that I call home. But this is the difference between seeing and knowing. The India I know is a melting pot of religious influence and culture, with people both good and bad. The America I know is a small city with a welcoming church where friends and family can be counted on. India is buses and buses and very hot sun. America is my bike, my feet. I’m not sure where I am anymore.
Everywhere I’ve ever stayed, there has always been that one guy who everyone either looks up to or despises. People tend to like Mahatma Gandhi here, where as the leader of Pakistan or the opposing cricket team is often frowned upon. Back home, of course we all know that Mr. Obama is a big hit and well, I must admit; if I happened to cross paths with Mr. Bush, I would still throw an egg at him. I’m not sure why this is relevant… we’re just talking here.
I don’t know if I got what I came here for. I think as the year progressed what I came here for changed a lot. I know one solid goal was to gain some sort of forgiveness, in myself and in God. I don’t know, I never really pray by the book but it’s really more of talking. I guess I’ll just feel it when it comes.
My English teachers have always been some of my greatest inspirations. Whatever I’ve done, I’ve always tried my hardest to do well in English. I need to prove to myself that I can do SOMETHING. I think one day I’ll know. I can thank those who have given me encouragement in writing, or things to write about but at the same time I can thank those who have criticized me.
It’s weird to think about going back. I know what’s waiting for me and just how long I’ve been waiting for it, but…. Change is everything. The world depends on change. This you know, and yet someday we’ll accept but just not today. I can honestly say that I’m afraid, afraid of how different everything and everyone will be, and yet I know I’m different too. It’s that excited kind of fear, like standing at the edge of a diving board for the first time and knowing that everything will be alright after jumping.
I was never a good sleeper. I thought that might change while I was here, but it didn’t really, it did a little. For whatever reason, be it lack of motivation or other things to do, bad dreams or caffeine what’s it not… I just don’t get much sleep. I think I think too much, but really I hate when people say that because it’s physically impossible.
Sometimes people catch you by surprise, like why you’re completely not expecting something then it happens like vomit or a solar eclipse. I thought more of some people than I should have, gave them more credit than they deserved. It’s alright though; the thing about forgetting is that often times the bad moments we spend with people tend to go first, leaving the warm afterglow of memory.
I’ve always been so caught up in these dealings of the mind: control and willpower and whatnot. Mostly I just don’t get how things work. Time confuses me, one minute it’s there and the next it’s not. I remember I used to pick flowers on Sunday, which seems almost poetic. When you’re not generally happy it’s easier to find the beauty in the little things because everything is so much better than what you know. Often times I find myself wishing I could go back to how I felt earlier, when I wasn’t as happy but at least I was remotely comfortable with whom I was.
When my mind wanders (which it has a tendency to do) I pretend I’ve been living somewhere really far away for a long time. Then I remember that I’ve been living somewhere really far away for a long time. But far away from what? From my family? From home? From education? When I go back to America, what will I be far from?
I remember when I left. I remember almost every moment that I’ve experienced here. I didn’t cry, not when I left. For some reason I was never actually leaving, I was just boarding a plane for the fun of it, not to go anywhere. It all hit me in Delhi, and then I cried. I cried so much. I still cry a lot but in a different way and for different reasons.
One time I was trying to write a poem that went something like this:
“Because the sky is blue
It makes me cry.
Love is old,
Love is new…”
and immediately at that point I longed to finish with “love will die.” Now I really can’t bring myself to write that. Love doesn’t die, not really. I love India I love my family both near and far. These things don’t change.
Really all I want sometimes is to have the power to disappear. People stare at me and it makes me mad. I do have quite a bit of patience in general but sometimes it’s just too much. At this point I really just want to be invisible when that happens. I don’t know when people touch my feet out of a respect that I’ve done nothing to deserve. I have rather pathetic dislike, such as the idea that the left hand is “inauspicious,” codswallop, it’s not.
There was once a very frightening ride installed at Disneyland that claimed “It’s a small world” through song. I don’t think so, and not just because that ride scared the pants off me when I was a little kid, but because the world is actually a very big place. I don’t think people understand just how many places there are to go until they step through the front door. I think sometime we get so wrapped up in our own small world that we tend to forget everything and everyone surrounding. The man walking down the street in the button up and corduroys is just as likely to have as many problems as you. Don’t forget others.
A dead woman once told me that she wanted to live forever. As I’ve said before, forever is an awfully long time. I don’t think I’d want to be around forever, it’s too much. I believe in general, life is meant to see, experience, believe, and create. If I can do all that before my time of dying, I’ll be a satisfied mind. I don’t like when people tell me that it’s not good to think about death at my age. Those are the people that will run and hide when death comes knocking. It’s not like it’s something I’m preoccupied with, or that I’m one of those attention seeking crazies who carve the world into their arm with broken glass because it makes them special… no, I jus accept it as something bound to come.
Krishna says to Arjuna in that Bhagavad Gita, “yas tu indriyani manasa niyama rabhate’rjuna karmendriyaih karma-yogam asaktah sa visisyate.” – “He who has controlled his senses together with the mind, O Arjuna! And remaining unattached, undertakes the path of works with origins of action, is superior.”
Krishna often spoke of detachment so in turn, my host father often spoke of detachment. I think that there is not many I admire more. No matter how many times I read through the Vedas, the Mahabharata, the Bhagavad Gita, I have not been able to find the power in myself to practice that kind of lifestyle fully. My host father can lead life this way very strictly. He told me once (something I wont forget) that we cannot live in the way where we can’t be without something. “I will die without it,” can never be a thought in the mind. This applies to people as well; those you know have to be dead to you. No matter how hard I try, I could not even imagine that; nor could I ever be as strong as he.
Appa told me once, “if people are having a good time, you also enjoy, but only on the outside.” Meaning the inside has to remain neutral. If there is too much happiness or too much sorrow, what will we do? Once after lunch Appa was offering out bananas to everyone, and all declined. I said jokingly, “Looks like you’re all alone Appa!” I laughed and he replied “I’m always all alone.”
At that time I didn’t understand, I just thought he was upset of joking around, but now I see. Appa meant that there is no one to him, he is alone and all else is mere figures. It is purely Appa and God, nothing else. It took me a while to realize but now I see.
I never said I’m weak, I know I’m not. I lived almost a year in a country I’ve never even heard about without my family. I laugh at people who ask me if I “can speak Indian.” I want nothing to do with such cartoon characters. I love India’s acceptance mostly. I’m not saying that everyone here loves everyone else. I’ve met a couple people who try to trash talk Jews and Pakistanis to me. “Wrong Number,” I tell the m. Erroneous, there’s no better or worse; we’re all people.
So much has changed but I still sing in the street so it’s okay. No matter how scary change is to me, somehow I know it will be alright. My host family is trying to mentally prepare me. I will miss India and all it encompasses, but I’m ready: ready from showers and drying machines and water that doesn’t make your hair fall out or cause your bowels to go haywire. I’m ready to build brain cells in school rather than lose them, and to walk down the street without feeling all eyes on me. I’m ready for church and Saturdays off, I’m ready to see my friends but mostly I’m ready to be with my family again.
This departure will be like Gandhi’s spinning wheel, so I might as well continue to wave goodbye, because if I wave goodbye long enough I’ll soon be waving hello again.
When I would run a race, I remember my dad would always tell me not to look back as I reached the finish line. Now I realize I don’t need to look back at India as I run this long race of experience, because India is not only behind me, but in front of me as well. India is all around me, and I feel her, like a warm breath in the wind that moves me forward, through this race that never ends.

Shhppwwiinngg

Part 1: Poem

Soldier

This uniform is too tight
It irritates my skin
Like the thought of Death before young eyes
Something as intricate as a human life
So easily stolen by the slip of my finger
But we are not humans here
We: the Machines of War

I find pride in the power I cannot control
The sudden flash and the sound of a gunshot
Now he is crimson
Before this last breath stolen like a glance
He was nineteen and engaged with a child on the way
Simply longing to be home
We were not so different
Now he is crimson

Tearing away this uniform
Washing his blood of my hands
I cannot forget
Eyes so white in a red sea
Eyes that will follow me
Long after they close

Part 2: On a Wednesday

Birds chitter in the threes, gossiping about one another as the wind flits through the leaves. The air is calm and cool in the shade of overhanging branches. Beyond the grounds of the park, cars speed by with no recollection of one another and no eyes for the oncoming pedestrians. The sun plays charades over the dry grass, scorching the many insect colonies hiding within the weathered blades.
Two dragonflies hum behind one another, making circles in the air like a paintbrush on canvas. A hungry cat stalks through the bushes behind a clearing that sports an abandoned picnic.
On a Wednesday, the sky is clear without a cloud to divert the blistering sun. The plastic window feels warm beneath a forehead and one could ride this bus forever without any particular purpose or direction. The engine teeth clatter over potholes and construction sites. The air inside this metal tube is sticky and uncomfortable. Site is obstructed by drooping eyelids as the soft ticking of an insect on the sill sings a lullaby for the ear.
The bus pulls slowly to a stop and worn feet clamber down the metal steps. Outside stray dogs jump in and out of traffic lanes, testing fate. On a Wednesday, one stays on the bus, waiting.

Part 3: Marianna from Maryland and the Fabulous Proceedings of the Week that Followed My Arrival

I am the delicious scof-and-imitation-cheese omelet, frying upon the great skillet of Gujarat. It’s so hot here that my skin is melting, but not really.
I did a lot of new stuff: new food, new music, new weather. It was very nice. I stayed with marianna’s host family, who are also very nice. There were a lot of nice things. Her host mom showed me how to make some Gujarati dishes and her host sisters were a lot of fun.
We visited a palace, trekked up tons of stair really early in the morning to visit a temple, which was beautiful as well. This was my favourite thing we did, over 1000 steps and then we went exploring in the hills.
Overall Baroda is a very quant little place. We visited the large city by it as well on the last day and wandered about. Bangalore is my home base here in India, but it was nice to travel and maybe I’ll go back again.

Part 4: Waiting

All I want to do is read and write. I’m currently going through like 100 books at once, including the Bhagavad Gita. I’m writing a story because it’s better than studying for the SATs. I’ve been learning a lot even though I’m not in school… funny how that works.
I’m always waiting for something, or someone but it’s okay. I’ve got this superb amount of patience now. I find I’m never bored in any situation. If I don’t have a means to read or write, I use my imagination. My mind creates creatures that wander around the room I’m in. I try to say the ABCs backwards, or talk to animals that don’t exist. When I’m in a place with a particularly interesting ceiling, I pick out all the fascinating features and rearrange them in a way that makes sense.
Nothing makes sense but I like it that way. There are patterns hidden in newspapers or posted on walls. This is what goes on while waiting.

Part 5: Gandhi Spoke of Cheese

All there is to it is that easy cheese is gross so it represents the easy way out in life and that homemade cheese is good so it represents the benefits reaped from hard work. The words of Gandhi himself… well maybe not but whatever and ever amen it’s the end.

Part 6: Poem

Shadow

I want to forget
Those things that keep me
From seeing
My face beyond the mirror
But forgetting
Wont repair what is broken
Forgetting
Wont make it go away

Shadows of Fear dance on the floor
Of my past and present
But now I realize
Forgetting the darkness
Will not drown it out

Bathe my soul in light
I cast back the shadows
And my future is a floor of white marble
My reflection is clear and genuine

I want to remember
Those things that I fear
Those moments that make me
Afraid
When I welcome the shadows and rain
I am not cold I am not alone
Remembering the light
I’m tired of being afraid
I don’t want to forget anymore

Yet More Photos...

Twas a Festivus for the Rest-uv-us



Yes, more festivus....



We cookied part 1


We cookied part 2

What is March

Part 1: Penny for Your Thoughts

I’ve been here but all the while gone. My pen and I got into an argument and he wouldn’t write for me… bastard. We sorted it out so maybe now you can read my wonderful brain food.
I’ve decided to be a vegan when I come back. It has been fun and all with the whole dairy thing and other shenanigans, but I think it’s time I came back to myself. I like being vegan.
I have this creepy mind control now. It’s hard to explain, but it makes me feel powerful. Yoga has been one of the single most amazing experiences of my stay here; I’ve learned so much.
I went from writing poems every day to writing none at all. Working on it, but I don’t seem to be able to string things together properly. To wrap it up, I’m tired. I may be traveling soon. I like my family. I am pro at ­procrastination. I will miss bindis. To be continued…

Part 2: Marianna from Maryland and the Fabulous Proceedings of the Week that Followed Her Arrival

“Marianna from Maryland” became a favourite line in my house as my entire host family took to my friend upon her arrival. My host father dubbed her as such because I believe he enjoyed the way the words rolled off his tongue. Since “Caitlin” doesn’t rhyme with “California”, I became “Caitlin from Berlin.” Skippy.
To sum it up all quick and dirty like, I did my best to show her what I know of Bangalore. We went shopping (it is the fastest industrializing city in India), met with friends, went to temples, baked cookies, walked through parks, rode elephants, ventured to Mysore, saw palaces and tombs, you know all that pish posh….
It was much fun. Nithin named her “Marinda” after the soda pop, and when we came home he would make the motion of unscrewing her head and drinking the contents of what was supposed to be an orange fizzy drink.
We all three shared a room; Marianna, Narahari, and myself. Sleep was a very rare visitor, and we were welcomed upon awakening by Appa’s “good evening, I thought you were dead.” That’s what we get for sleeping in.
The house seems a bit empty now, I just cant be “Marianna from Maryland.”

Part 3: Ascension

Every evening I ascend the stairs to the terrace, and every evening I ascend the latter on the terrace to the water tower (as I’ve so properly named it, seeing as there are two enormous water heaters up there leaving just enough place for a yoga mat and a humming conscience).
I do yoga beneath the stars while some where below, my host mother serves dinner, Narahari studies for tomorrow’s exam, and Appa arrives home with a load of work to do. This is the quiet, this is the dark lighted only by a stillness of mind and abundance of stars. The wind is cool as it whispers through my asanas.
The day is a long one. Every hour holds another task. I am free from the shackles of Jain College, and freedom is a sweet thing. Every day I wash and hang my clothing by hand, every day I pick up trash around my neighbourhood, every day I do a art craft of some sort. Every evening is yoga, every night is cards and a story with Narahari. We argue a lot… well if you can call it that. He just shouts about something like how horrible the lions are, or how mosquitoes cant possibly reproduce, and vainly I try to explain to him such mind boggling laws of the animal kingdom. The outcome is one with very little outcome. Appa says by the time I go I wont have an American accent anymore because Narahari will have taken it all. I think by the time I’ll go I will have ascended. Still, every ascending….

Part 4: Poem at Last

Trail

We leave today
Down the pather where your eyes have wandered
Over golden fields and trees of willow
This place where there is no fear
Only understanding devoid of explanation

Never has there been such lightness
Where erstwhile the candor of past shadows was so present
Vexatious dreams like hazy illusion flooding mind’s eye
And the jackal of time trickling down depression’s drain

Forgotten was the surmise of faith
Until God’s warm lips met the cheek
Until hands of belief, once lost,
Led to the birth of a foreign trail
Down which
Morose eyes have wandered
Down which
We leave today

Recent Photos That Will Be Followed By A Post Shortly

Marianna, Sindhu, and I in the back of a rickshaw



We's be pooja goers



Outfront Mysore Palace



I test Marianna's patience as she does mahindi on me



Her Talent part 1



Her Talent part 2



Yes sir yes sir i rode an elephant



Elephant Kiss!



Everything i've done in life led up to this moment...

Pictures

From left to right: Joanne, Bugen, Simone, Shiley, and Anelia



Krithika and I



A lot of people



First Sari



The Silk Gang



Aswini, Myself, and Krithika on Shivaratri

Little Yogi Child

Part 1: In the Beginning

Right now I’m sitting on a slab of granite under a beautiful tree at the yoga instructor’s camp. It’s just the beginning and the sun is trying to get through the huge leafy umbrella above. Each individual leaf is bigger than my head, and that’s saying something.
First thing to say is that it’s very quiet. The wind talks to me, and gentle music sounds in the background, somewhere they are praying and now I know why. When I hear all these facts about yoga, it makes me want to be a healthy person. Not just in what I eat and in exercise, but in how I lead my life and how I project myself. Over the course of a month, we’ll follow my progress.
I’m standing in the woman’s hostel where fourteen other girls are staying in the dorm. Everyone is older than I am, and I’m the only non-indian in the room. I couldn’t be more pleased with my situation as the luxury of a two person room (typical set up for foreigners) would ruin the idea for me. It’s supposed to be learning to enjoy life through the simplicities, coming to appreciate everything you have in a spiritual aspect. I’ll try to write down everything, but a instructor told me that after today we will have no time. I’ll do my best.
Oh and one more thing: to give you an idea of the kind of quixotic characters inhabit this forestee facility, I’ll have you know that everyone calls eachother, not by names, but rather by “brother” (viyah) and “sister” (didi).

Part 2: The Attack

The first day and our dorm room was already under siege. The attack of the vicious foot-wear thieving monkeys. You know why they’re so cute at the zoo? I’ll tell you, because they’re where they belong: behind bars. These monkeys drove us from the hostel room, ransacked all the luggage in search of food, and then disarmed us by kidnapping my poor shoes. We only managed to fend them off when the maid came to the rescue with a “I dare you to come any closer” stick brandished for the swing. To add insult to injury, I had to hunt down my shoes after the confrontation. Turns out the squashed fruit that everyone had been walking on all day was what attracted those bloody flea-picking jackals from hell in the first place. It’s clear to see that behind every adorable curious George there’s a violent monkey baring its teeth at you.

Part 3: Movement

I didn’t know the day could move so slowly and at the same time with such rapidity. “The hours are long but the day is short,” would be one way to describe it. There is so much to write, but I’ll have to sum it up quickly as my time is almost as limited as my memory. On the second day everyone tried to get up at four, and a few brave soldiers were successful, myself among them. Turns out hot water is a stingy bastard so the early risers couldn’t take their bath. The day started while stars were still clearly visible in the sky; it just wasn’t right.
Deep in another world of meditative conciousness, I found myself wandering; my mind continually flitting back to the sound of the leaves and the two big trees in the park across from my grandparents house. They rustle in October when the wind passes through them. I thought of the feeling of going through wet grass while barefoot, and how the moist earth seeps up through your toes to dry between them.
After our first set of classes we had breakfast, then “Karma Yoga”, where we apply yogic principles to action. Everyone cultivated the land for a new crop site, and soon enough sweat was running down many a back in the malicious morning sun. “Where were you a few hours ago when I was shivering my skivvies off?” I ask. The sun smiles mischievously, doubtlessly up to no good.
The hot water still refused to show its face, so I took a bath in water that felt like it had just come from melted icecaps. After a few more classes I washed my own laundry, and god it was hot. After that was lunch and yet more classes, then a brief interval in which I crammed as much math review as possible.
Finally the lingering skylight put track shoes over my blistered toes, and I was off on my first real run in ages. Gym is alright, but having sweaty old fat men for scenery gets rather unpleasant after a while. It was nice to do some cross country running, even in the blistering heat. I don’t think there was a moment when I wasn’t all sticky, or alternatively all wet from trying to get rid of the sticky.
The best thing about it all is the company. I’m the only teen I think but I’ve met a great group of people. Get this, there’s even a woman from the Czech Republic! Everyone gets on splendidly as well and I’ve made some great friends.

Part 4: Writing

Beginning, a poem

This is how we begin
With our knees drawn to the chest
In the womb is where we find our first home
How I long for home
How I long for that warmth
Where we knew nothing greater
Than the beating of our mother’s heart

It was so simple
Do you remember?
Balled fists where sadness will not manifest the soul
Everything before everything else
Before blinding hospital lights and cold air
Still we have to grow

Do not end this way
With knees drawn to the chest
The position of comfort
When we were so afraid
So inexperienced
Still we had to grow

When the sun of life sets in the east
Stretch your feet forward
Close your eyes
Then open the mind and the hands and the heart
This is how we end
This is where we begin.

Love Does This, a poem

Everything is okay with compassion
Love does this
I could forget
Close my eyes and silence my mind
While somewhere rages a storm of longing
With air sticky hot
But when I open my eyes
Warm winds of calm play across my face
Filling my lungs

Wind-chimes sing and I have let go
Love does this

Moment, a poem

If I could only breathe for a moment
Before the cold water strangles skin
Before the sting of everything that I just keep pushing away
Like by trying to forget will wash it down the drain
Along with the flowing realization that is so uncomfortable beneath my toes

If I could only sit in silence for a moment
Silence where the mind is beyond eternal
Beyond consciousness
Beyond
Only when I feel the presence of silence
Then the music starts

If I could only be six years old again
For one moment
To remember that feeling without attachment or anger
But light and pure
Like a first breath upon surfacing
Crisp cool waters of river

If I could only know
For just a moment
That there is something great behind it all
A force
A being
An indelible truth
Assurance of the reason to rise like tomorrow’s sun
Just a moment
That would be enough

What am I?, a poem

What am I?
Not a name
For names are just photographs on a Christmas card
Beautiful
Disposable
Names
Nothing beyond deceptive identification
And you will forget them all

I want to walk freely
I cannot be a shadow upon the sidewalk
Beneath your feet
Following you as a stay follows the illusion of love
Yet I am not the spirit at the head of the parade
Leading the people to some greater place
But someone
Somewhere
In between

I know what I am not
I am not alone
Not empty
I am not flesh and bone
As self goes far past the body
I am not a waste of sixteen years or sixteen minutes
If you just stop and listen

God said
“I am what I am”,
He must have known
He must have seen
No matter what I am not
I know what I am
A question
The question
What am i?

Marigold’s Dream, a poem

I once would watch her grow
A beautiful Marigold on my windowsill
Can I nourish her with sunrays of experience?
Can I satisfy her thirst with waters of affection?
I wanted to let her grow

I am far from a role model
I am nothing
Disappointment, like a blank white sheet
When words refuse to come
Yet she has eyes like mine but hers are beautiful
Can she look up and see me?
I will cover her wide eyes with my hands
And kiss her on the nose

She sleeps in the quiet but not the dark
Her hair is golden waves in an ocean around her face of porcelain and freckles
Can she be dreaming?
Can I be dreaming?
I sit by her on the cold floor in the quiet in my dark and sing
But she will never hear me-

“Sleep, sleep, my sister, sleep, sleep
When you wake I will be far from here
But never gone, no never gone
And if you wait then I will hold you
If you wait
Sleep, sleep, my little sister, sleep, sleep”

An insect hums beyond my comprehension
Up and down the artificial airplane window
She wakes, opening her eyes to look up
As I fly over an ocean of ten long months
She cannot see me

The marigold upon my windowsill begins to fade
I cannot give her water
I cannot shower her in sun
I once would watch her grow
I once would watch her sleep and sing-

“Sleep, sleep, my sister, sleep, sleep”
She cannot hear me
“When you wake I will be far from here,
But never gone, no never gone”
Does she dream as I do, with tears resting on the cheek?
“If you wait then I will hold you, if you wait”
Marigold, when I come home then I will take you close,
Wrap myself around you and never let go
My arms are yours, my dreams are yours
“Sleep, sleep, my little sister, sleep, sleep.”

Bark, a poem

I will grow
Like a sapling in new soil
Because souls are like trees
With limbs that stretch for the sky
Soak up the tears of sun
Trees are beautiful
Even with their imperfections
And thick bark that only the sharpest axe
Can penetrate
Blades of the past
Because souls are like trees
And these blades beat at our soul’s bark
But mine will not break
I will not fall and succumb to ash
In a forest of misery, no.
Like a sapling in new soil,
I will grow.

Dancing Shoes, a poem

With eyes closed I remember
How she would once dance
Just as moonlight plays across a dark ballroom floor
She would glide like a beautiful starling
With winds around her coloured by a smile
And the sound of her voice
In the reflection of a stained-glass window
That forms the effulgent barrier
Between God and everything after
I see the shimmer of her dancing shoes
As her contour paints the walls with spirit
I hear piano song pour from effusive fingers
And I breathe
The smell of rosemary and freshly baked bread

I open my eyes
And feel her in the leaves trickling across the sky
In the reflection of sunlight swimming through a nearby river
I see the shimmer of her dancing shoes

Glass, a poem

I cry because sometimes
Birds will fly into the window pane
Blind to that solid sheet of glass
And they will plummet to the ground
Dead as if they had never known
The beauty of flying

I cry because
It’s not just the bird but the concept
We are birds with unseen barriers
That send us to the ground in mid-flight
And I cry because
The bird beneath my window
Looks so familiar
Like gazing into the glass above

Watermelon Seeds, a poem

The cool crisp on lips
She shivers
Warm summer winds
And this breeze will whisper in her ears
Secrets of beginning
Dust and soft morning sun

The taste of watermelon
Sweet and pink like childhood
Like tomorrow
She smiles at the boy in the dirt
Spits out the seeds

I remember what it was like to be empty
But being full is so much more
Even if I forget to spit out the seeds
It just means growing
Like yesterday
Like tomorrow
She licks her lips

Departure from the Porch, a poem

We were on the porch
Drinking tea atop the picnic table
Where I was once a little girl
And the sky was pink
As the sky set over the roof of the house
Where my brother learned to crawl

The willow tree hangs overhead
Our sitting tree and reading tree
Our dreaming tree
Where I taught my sister how to climb
And on the longest limb
There once hung an old rope swing
I remember when we cut it down

The tides of sun
Vanish into her soft eyelids
As I gaze into the space above
And we talked all through the even
About everything we could imagine
Because in the morning
I’d be gone

We were on the porch
Listening to the music without really hearing
While stars emerge from the dark
And her hands were warm
Her eyes were wet with dew
Because we had to say goodbye

Part 6: Come Together

It feels like we all knew each other for a long time before coming here, then everyone just decided to meet up at Prashanti for the month. I’ve grown fond of it here. The people are great, I have met amazing friends and it feels good to learn again. Yoga is great fun (though a rarity at times) and I feel really good and flexible. I’m wearing all white, is that okay? I don’t know, I like it though. I think when things happen, I’ll be there. I know I’ll be there.
At night my dorm room is insane. Mostly just me, actually. I love these people. I like singing really loud while dancing really bad. I like to creep, and I like climbing palm trees. I don’t like being called a baby but actually I like it a lot. Krithika is cool, really cool. Cool like kool-aide. I fall down a lot. Thank god for the banana phone. The end.

Part 7: Yoga Broadway

I was a narrator in our play, which was the life story of swami Vivekananda. It was very fun, and I was hardly even nervous. Also I’ve become “Cate”, the name everyone calls me. My favourite thing is to tie a pro turban on my head and frolic about the dorm room. My group is called team ananda, which means happiness, how appropriate. Our most recent project was to perform a skit illustrating a stream of yoga. The end again.

Part 8: Shiva Shiva

Shivaratri was the festival on the 23rd of February; the celebration of Lord Shiva. It was the first day that I ever wore a sari, and it was not to be forgotten. How these women function, I know not. Walking was a task in itself, sitting became a dynamic aerobic. You should have seen how they laughed at me. The silk was itchy and irritating and the exposed skin was like stretching out the arms to mosquitoes to say “come, eat me friends.” I sat in this silk entanglement for two and a half hours while listening to bajans… but I had a Krithika, I had an Asha and a Ashwini. It was all okay. I got plenty of pictures but you’re just going to have to hold tight because I’m lazy.

Part 9: 28 days

This is an after note. Overall, a splendid experience, despite the usurp of time spent sitting in oblivion. I made good friends, I learned a lot. My favourite thing is stargazing with the girl, and walks at sunset. I will miss it. I can stretch like a rubby. I do promise photos, when… only time will tell. I’m back home now, and it’s a little weird. We shall see.