Yet another shot at pinning down Love

Doesn't Love come

In all shapes;

All sizes;

All colours.

Multiple times.

Simultaneously. 

In all ways;

In any way,

Anyways. 

Reflection

Of oneself,

In other eyes. 

Perception of

A piece of divinity. 

The sunshine.

Timelessness.

Limitlessness.

Spontaneous connection-

A oneness. 

Synchronicity in the air. 

If all that be Love,

Don't we then go all ways? 

Woman, Man, Fluid, Trans...

Lame, Sightless, Deaf, One-armed...

Socialist, Communist, Capitalist, Humanist... 

Hindu, Buddhist, Jew, Christian, Muslim, Jain... 

Married.

Single.

Divorced.

Separated.

Complicated... 

What else cannot be transcended? 

Beyond. 

In Love. 

Every One,

A potential soulmate. 

You would see your reflection,

In the nasty worm 

that eve-teased you,

or adam-teased,

In the bus yesterday. 

But if you meet your teaser

In the dark alley

And see your reflection,

as (s)he overpowers you,

And don't whack your reflection

In the balls, 

Genitals, 

If that is what it takes; 

Then I will call you 

Completely cuckoo! 

If I am in limitedness,

Can I perceive limitlessness? 

If I am incomplete,

How can anybody ever complete me? 

If I am not in love with myself,

Do I really, truly, love anyone else? 

Love knows no sacrifice. 

Clarified, rare, moments

Of pure perception,

Oneness of being

That needs no more doing. 

Isn’t it its own doing?

Doesn't Love fulfil itself? 

We do more: 

Plan 
Expect 
Talk 
Demand 
Court 
Marry 
Protect      
Help... 

For ourselves. 

Heart on Fire – Rukmini Paatti’s Obituary

The first feeling that I had yesterday, as I went to the ice-box and saw paatti lying still in it, was of a sinking and heavy heart. One more life from that precious generation gone; paatti is, was, around 93 years - this generation I mean. I hold it precious because elders I know from this age seem to live with a sense of fullness of life… complete, whole, seasoned lives. The following sloka comes to mind as I think of this phenomenon:

ॐ पूर्णमदः पूर्णमिदं पूर्णात्पूर्णमुदच्यते ।
पूर्णस्य पूर्णमादाय पूर्णमेवावशिष्यते ॥
ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः ॥

Om Puurnnam-Adah Puurnnam-Idam Puurnnaat-Puurnnam-Udacyate |
Puurnnasya Puurnnam-Aadaaya Puurnnam-Eva-Avashissyate ||
Om Shaantih Shaantih Shaantih ||

Roughly translated, “That is complete. This is complete. From completeness, arises completeness. Removing completeness from completeness, only completeness remains. Peace. Peace. Peace.”

Granted that I didn’t see that much of Rukmini paatti in recent times. It had been in the 90s that I met her a lot, going to school with her granddaughter Sathya, one of my best friends from school.  And then for about a year or so between 1995 and 1997 I saw her for a few hours every day. Particular life circumstances made it such that I spent almost all my time besides school and sleeping hours, at their house for that time period. Then as we grew up, and supposed adulthood, its daily life and responsibilities took over, my visits got lesser and lesser.  

However, I never could forget her altogether. She made it so. I went over to visit them (paatti and thatha) in their lovely Mandaiveli house from time to time, selfishly just to get her sweet blessings. And she, peace be with her soul, never forgot to call and wish me every year for my wedding anniversary, a month earlier on the same date! Every year.  We would laugh about it, she’d say, ok I have it marked right this time, and then like clockwork call me a month earlier for my anniversary the next year.

This I will remember of her the foremost – her sweetness of speech.  In all the years that I have known her, I have never heard her utter one word that was harsh, or with ill-will.  The two instances that I do remember her starting to say something that was approaching negative, she stopped herself to say “but we don’t know what it is for them” and “we don’t know their circumstances”. 

A heart, so pure and innocent, was sending out the sweetest blessings for me and for others. Wholesome blessings with utter absence of any agenda, guile or self.  It was all between Perumaal (Lord Vishnu) and the receiver of the blessings. That she was simply the almost-invisible instrument, was the implicit feeling in the way she gave her blessings. I realise that my fervent prayer as I write this is for me to imbibe this quality of hers, while also laughing wryly at the irony that the prayer itself has so much self. Whenever I gave my obeisance in the traditional way, by doing namaskaaram and touching her feet (which was every visit, to hear her blessings of course!), she would just direct me to the altar as well every time. And say, “it all comes from there”.  

I will always remember her as so active, taking care of her household and everyone in such a lively manner. Not a stray moment around her, until the last couple of years when age took over Will I think.  She knew that I loved coffee, and the first thing she would do is to give me a cup whenever I visited. I always saw her taking care that all of us, Satya’s friends, or anyone else in her vicinity had eaten properly, and insist on this. Like many elders from that generation, she would remember the significant to the smallest life details that we tell her, and ask about them. The job offer. Daughter’s school. Shift to new city, are you settled. Cold and cough a month back, how are you now.  Didn’t you say painting was happening, is it over ... Such keen interest in the sense of well-being of people around that she would glean from all this apparently “just information”.   

It is this aspect of being able to serve the well-being of others that she seems to have held above all. Way back in 1992 I think, when I first started going over to their place, there'd been a time of water shortage in Chennai.  The water lorry came when I'd been there chatting with Satya. I helped with the activity of filling up many drums and pots and stocking up water and saw it through until the lorry left, and the work was over.  She never failed to mention this as her first introduction of me to anyone, for more than a decade.  I am pretty sure that it was this one instance that warmed her to me so much. 

It has been a couple of months now since I visited. When I mentioned regret that I hadn’t been able to see her one last time and get her aashirvaadam (blessings), Sathya sent me this message: “She really wasn’t talking the last 10 days. I would hold the memory of her as the active, loving person you know, with the natural simplicity of being that many of us aspire towards.” 

By the time the rituals were completed at home, and she was taken to the crematorium, her body had started shrinking rapidly, and face had started looking bird-like. As part of the ritual, coal was placed on her heart, ghee (clarified butter) was poured on it, and it was then lit. My heart was on fire. Her body was pushed into the incinerator.  The impermanence of this physical body and the permanence of some higher energy that it houses – Paatti and others of her generation seemed to be so much in touch with this, and so effortlessly.  Maybe it is this sensing that gave Rukmini paatti her pure and good heart and her simplicity of being. What more is this body for, if not this religion.

Sathya’s words are paatti’s truest essence - her religion of the heart. It is this picture of her I will carry in my heart forever, and this slokam as her life’s blessing:

ॐ पूर्णमदः पूर्णमिदं पूर्णात्पूर्णमुदच्यते ।
पूर्णस्य पूर्णमादाय पूर्णमेवावशिष्यते ॥
ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः ॥

Solitude

Blissful Solitude. 

Photo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fPoP7Kk7vgU
(Dakshinamurthy Sthothram)

And yet for the most part,
the world shuns it,
And ridicules those,
Who don’t.

They are afraid,
terrified even.
Of Pain.
They are even more,
Terrified
Of encountering
the heart in Pain.
The broken, bleeding heart
Is no joy.
And there is nowhere to run
in Solitude.
Perhaps the world is wise.

Blissful Solitude.
That rips me apart,
sucks me dry,
holds me Down
with the Pain.
I have no words,
to describe this.
There is no more fighting,
nothing left to fight with.
Not even my heart,
Or so I think.

The peace treaty
brings a discovery.
In his ode to Dakshinamoorthy,
Sri Sankara says,
The great lamp shines through
many holes in the pot,
shedding light in all directions.
I climb over
to the other side of Pain.

Blissful Solitude.
Is a paradox.
It takes us deep.
into the forests,
up the mountain,
the deep sea…
Take your pick.
It takes us
to find the hearts in Pain,
for they hold the treasures.
But those treasures --
Solitude’s Blisses,
can only be savoured,
in their reflections
in the Other
When Solitude is lost.
And yet it is not.
Perhaps the world is wise.

Beautiful, Ugly, Illusive, Certain, Magical, Mundane....

.... ENTER POETRYDOM! 

My 13-years-old niece wrote possibly one of her first poems and sent it across to my utter delight. I wrote back with one of my own. Not to be left behind in spontaneity, she responded soon enough with another, and yet another! Here they are in chronology: 

When the tangy aroma filled the room,,

I slapped my book down with a loud "BOOM"!

I got up, dropping my pencil stand,

and ran out of the room, whacking my hand!

I stopped at the kitchen and looked around,

and there it was! Making a sizzling sound.

I picked up a spoon and tasted what was so attracting,

Oh, yum, yum, yum, it was most amazing!

Next to it, in a pan was potato fry,

finally, I can eat it with Puliyotharai!!!!!!!!!'

The response: 

Welcome to the world of magic and miracles -  

Chambers of secrets ;-) and flying bicycles, 

Rainbows at night, 

The philosopher's sight; 

Oh, the pink talking pumpkin -  

And most preciously, the Beauty within.  

For, Poetry can take you to this world, 

And leave you bewitched and bedazzled. 

A world of priceless value, 

The one right within You. 

Imagine my Ecstasy at encountering 

Humour, a necessary component to be able to pierce through the depth of life and its nuances; 

A Romance with words and their meanings (the dancing and playing with words that adds the spice); and 

Willingness to give Time & Attention to the Soul's flight, in the following piece: 

Thanks a lot for the awesome reply,

about the yummy puliyotharai

and the delicious potato fry!

I will continue to write poems like this,

remembering it, I will not miss!

I will learn more new words,

and write about animals and birds;

about frogs and lizards,

witches and wizards;

plants and trees,

Rome and Greece;

bows and arrows,

joys and sorrows;

libraries and books,

anchors and hooks...

I will stop here...

if I write much more,

it would become a terrible bore!!!

And one more,

I asked amma and appa about the blog,

They said they have no problem at all!

Though I don't know much about blogs,

I'm thinking about writing a poem on dogs!

Please do send a link to it,

I am waiting... I will not quit!

---------------------------

I remember what one of my all-time favourite poets, Mary Oliver says about this Willingness, the meeting of "poetry and soul":

"If Romeo and Juliet had made their appointments to meet, in the moonlight-swept orchard, in all the peril and sweetness of conspiracy, and then more often than not failed to meet — one or the other lagging, or afraid, or busy elsewhere — there would have been no romance, no passion, none of the drama for which we remember and celebrate them. Writing a poem is not so different—it is a kind of possible love affair between something like the heart (that courageous but also shy factory of emotion) and the learned skills of the conscious mind. They make appointments with each other, and keep them, and something begins to happen. Or, they make appointments with each other but are casual and often fail to keep them: count on it, nothing happens. 

The part of the psyche that works in concert with consciousness and supplies a necessary part of the poem — the heart of the star as opposed to the shape of a star, let us say — exists in a mysterious, unmapped zone: not unconscious, not subconscious, but cautious. It learns quickly what sort of courtship it is going to be. Say you promise to be at your desk in the evenings, from seven to nine. It waits, it watches. If you are reliably there, it begins to show itself — soon it begins to arrive when you do. But if you are only there sometimes and are frequently late or inattentive, it will appear fleetingly, or it will not appear at all. 

Why should it? It can wait. It can stay silent a lifetime. Who knows anyway what it is, that wild, silky part of ourselves without which no poem can live? But we do know this: if it is going to enter into a passionate relationship and speak what is in its own portion of your mind, the other responsible and purposeful part of you had better be a Romeo. It doesn’t matter if risk is somewhere close by — risk is always hovering somewhere. But it won’t involve itself with anything less than a perfect seriousness. 

For the would-be writer of poems, this is the first and most essential thing to understand. It comes before everything, even technique."

Ode to Patience

Someone in a book struck out:
--That reams are written about Love, 
But no poetry around and about,
Extolling Patience, Lord Above!
Is it not Patience,  
that allows Love to stand;
that lends Love cadence;
through Time, Change and stranger land?--

I am caught. 
Looking at this, trying to understand...
Without it, Love is naught?
How is Patience playing its hand? 
Then like a burst of fragrance 
From freshly picked Jasmine 
Pervading the air with its essence,
I hear Patience's violin. 

This is not just,
Accepting petulant demands--
Or learning to adjust
with mercurials  and quicksands.
Patience is not just about,  
being a survival acrobat 
Although without a doubt 
There is something to all of that.

Because, there is something beyond 
and something underneath,
That moves a soul to respond 
In those ways; a force under-sheath. 
The same someone¹ from the same book², 
quotes Buddha, The Infallible: 
"When you are walking, walk. 
When you are sitting, sit. Dont wobble."

A Patience then, that is larger, 
Is love's force, within. 
Resting in even, steady temper-
Even as life decides to get into a tailspin.
A patience that lives deep,
Gushing an eternal, holy spring
Allowing love that is asleep
To walk, sit, breathe; without wobbling. 

The very breath and heart of Love, 
The mountain lake's tranquil depth,
A sheath of staying power and resolve -
And velvet strength, 
Covering Vivekananda's³ nerves of steel
Even taking forms of obstinacy or indulgence
Wait, this is necessity's veil 
To what we call Patience, a visceral intelligence. 

That which is in rhythm,
with Nature's forces,
with the Universe's algorithm;
so made stronger than Arjuna's⁴ horses;
Passion also its aspect,
directed by untainted endurance.
Inexplicable to the intellect,
Is this formative Patience.

Absorbing into itself, everything.
Life's ripples subside,
Like there were no ripples, nothing. 
Humour then is implied,
For staying with suffering
without struggle or escape --
Just an attention that is unwavering,
That transforms life's landscape.

Who then can remain still and steady,
Resting effortless, with ease.
And yet ripe and ready,
flowing along with life's whimsies.
(S)he then is the true 'patient',
Diving into the spring's sacred source.
A civilisation ancient;
Giving birth to Love, being life-force. 

Love then breathes, 
a deep, fine, smooth breath --
that regenerates, creates, soothes;
Reviving a shibboleth.
All creation being its category,
Giving life, giving vibrancy, romance.
Yet another story,
Thus my ode to patience. 

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dedicated to all those in my world who live this ode by example. These are after all, words. They are dull in the face of the actual. 

^{1, 2} The Book is "Take Your Time". And the Someone is Eknath Easwaran
³ Swami Vivekananda
⁴ Arjuna, one of the Pandavas in the epic, Mahabharata

Three Little Words

Well, maybe not so little. There were these three words that I remember my mother saying to me all the time when I was young.  Like way back, even when I was in 3rd standard; I say 3rd standard because I remember hearing these words from then.  I dont remember earlier.  And no, they are not " I love you"!

They are "Use your discretion"!  I thank her from the bottom of my heart today, for saying them to me as often as she did.  Although I don't know where she came from (from what perspective or why) when she replied with this phrase to my questions, but  I realise how much it had empowered me and in such a dignified way.  Even as all my friends save one, were being given step by step instructions on every action of theirs, even as they had to obey commands and strategise persuasion before asking permissions, here I was, being given "use your discretion".

Discretion, I find, is quite the word.  While it means the freedom to decide what should be done in a particular situation, it also means behaving or conducting oneself in such a manner so as not to cause hurt.  This does pack a punch for me.  It seems to be holding two states of being that could come in conflict with each other.  And somehow, even as my mother said her trademark phrase to me, she conveyed the nature of this being to me.  I dont know how though, but I do know that whenever she told me to use my discretion, while she communicated to me "freedom of choice", she also communicated, "Right Action".  I remember this as one of the highlights of my student years.

And today, I realised that in all my actions I unconsciously have this phrase with me.  Even when I make a mistake, many times when I have been too hasty to stop and consider and the mistake is done, even then, somewhere inside, this phrase "use your discretion" would be flashing a signal. I want to ask my mother today how she managed to communicate this, especially now when I am with my 3 and 1/2 year old daughter, and stopping myself from giving instructions time and again, and trying to allow her to find her space of discretion.  This space carries for me, what we call "Dharmasankata" in Yoga.  Wherein the choice is not between 'right' and 'wrong'.  Discretion is a space that has two equally determining forces pulling me.  One is to manifest one's uniqueness, individuality, what one believes / knows to be true, follow one's heart - all of this is in the realm of one force. The other is to do the right thing - in my head, I would like to say it is the Buddhist right action.  And 'using my discretion' can happen when these two statements are true at the same time.

I somehow got up this morning with this phrase and it has been a constant channel of reflection since then.  It may and may not be coincidental that today is being celebrated as Mother's Day.   I decided I have to write about it when I realised what was today, and in this small way celebrate my mother and motherhood. 

What's (in) a Name?

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose,

(1) from statusmind.com

By any other name would smell as sweet" (From Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare)

Beautiful lines that go straight to the heart of the matter - inherent quality and / or meaning.

I have quarreled with my name for as long back as I can remember - Priya.  What a common, ordinary name. During my dramatic teens, I would say that I am going to change my name once I turn 18.  I didn't.

However, my dissatisfaction with my name stayed buried somewhere deep.  This I realised now recently when I read something that gave my name a new meaning for me.

"Sarvam priyaabhyugatham dharmamaahurmaneeshinah | 
Pashyaitham lakshanoddhesham dharmodharme Yudhishthira || "

The above lines from the Shanti Parva, Mahabharatha are translated by Chaturvedi Badrinath as follows:

"Whatever one obtains from being agreeable and loving to all is in the opinion of those who know the true nature of things, the distinguishing mark of dharma from what is adharma"

(2) - from statusmind.com

All then I have to do is cultivate my name, 'priyam' (to feel and be loving) more and more to be aligned with dharma. And anyone who knows me beyond a cursory acquaintance would know how relevant this is for me!  I would have previously come across as anything but sweetly loving.  I might even have said at some point earlier in my life, "sweet! uggh!"

I have now made so much peace with my name.  Further I began recollecting names of people, events, situations, and on a whimsical note: I think that the names actually make so much sense and meaning for those respective entities and their journeys.  Deeper into the whimsy, I think that if the name ceases to make meaning, it changes!  It may or may not be an evident change of say, first name, say, from 'priya' to 'anubhuti' or some such.  But some change would occur.  Yes, its quite a fantastic notion, but there it is.

Traditionally, 'sound' has been given so much importance.  And hence, chanting, sweetness of speech, music, and all alike in the realm of sound are given such a primary place in the order of

(3) from pinterest.com

phenomena and meanings.  An entity is obviously known and called by its name.  Consequently, the sound of the name is made repeatedly, and thereby we infuse the entity's space and being with its meaning.  While the naming itself is an important event no doubt, the name is not a full stop.  It is a journey (as most things are).  And so yes, a rose by any other name would still smell sweet, and by the logic of sound and meaning-making, the sound (name) would change according to meaning and / or it would pervade its meaning slowly into the space of the entity.  This is true at least from my experience, because it has been a revelation that all my life the universe has been first and foremost, teaching me how to love. 

The Point of an Oxymoron

The title of this blog is an oxymoron, "Precise Ramblings". We come across oxymorons all the time, and may not even notice them, and / or take them for granted as part of everyday language, ordinary.  Well, they are and they are not.

Original copy... pretty ugly... minor issues... clearly misunderstood.... crash landing .... found missing .... old news .... open secret... random order!

The first time I came across the idea of an oxymoron was sometime in my 7th or 8th grade, and it fascinated me no end.  I don't remember the actual oxymoron, however I remember the sense of sudden joy and the burst of feeling every time I encountered an oxymoron or came up with one myself.  I still carry that feeling.

Image from soulspartan.com

At the time, it was explained to us in our English class as a phrase that has two opposite or contradictory statements put together, which gives insightful and / or humourous and / or ironic meaning.  Yes, oxymorons lend themselves to a clever turn in language, and leave us with a laugh or a gleam.  However, why should that clever turn in language give the reader his or her keen response? What quality in those words evokes its usual responses?  The turn is not one of language alone.

The oxymoron is not simply a phrase or a word that ends when the word ends on the page.  It is an ongoing phenomenon.  The point of an oxymoron is simultaneity.  It is only by holding together two seemingly contradictory truths, at the same time, the third truth is constantly discovered.

To give an example,
one way in which Ahimsa is defined is "to know one's limits", however, one needs to constantly test those limits to actually know them. Therein lies the paradox of Ahimsa.  The writer-philosopher, Chaturvedi Badrinath says of this: "the paradox of limits, which consists in the fact that one becomes aware of one's limits only by transgressing them; there is no known way by which one can know one's limits in advance."  Which for me means that the oxymoron is a constant process and discovery.  Like life.  It cannot be a stinking, one-point stagnation. We can of course in our limitation think, believe and act like it is so, while life itself is a constant affirmation of its flow.  It is a flow of simultaneously holding two seemingly contradictory movements, and in seeing them together, at the same time, the third, deeper and larger truth can be held.

A simultaneous holding and being in that space of tension between the two, and finding the truth therein.  How can some words strung together be precise and ramble at the same time? What are those truths when discussed allow my words the freedom and flexibility to meander and twist and turn and yet stay constant and focused?  Why is it important for me to be precise and ramble at the same time?  When do those A-ha! moments* occur, holding both together and creating art? The space and journey of this oxymoron, Precise Ramblings.
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* Many thanks to one of my teachers, Sashi Anant, for this bang-on phrase, "A-ha moment"

Words Also Hide Truth

A corollary to an earlier piece on words and writing.

(The earlier piece talks about how words are both my strength and weakness, and in not nourishing the strength I have let the weakness grow)

Further into the way words are being a paradox in my life, even while being in the pursuit of truth and writing it, I also use a lot of words to hide unpleasant truths first from myself and hence perhaps from the other as well.  I have not done this consciously and not all the time, and it cannot somehow fall in the category of lying, but words become a coping mechanism many times to deal with life events and situations that one does not feel capable of handling. And this has been happening at a very metal level.  I also realise that I have seen this phenomenon in the other and criticised it and so on and thus intellectualised the whole matter for myself.

I also see that often when there is clarity and truth, words are fewer and sharper and flowing.  Mostly, a poem comes out of me.  How insightful are the words of Chaturvedi Badrinath: "the paradox of language is that silence is its highest function."  

"Work is Love Made Visible" - Khalil Gibran

It has always been so "nice" to hear this above quote (and others) of Khalil Gibran.  However I realised that I now wanted tangibility.  How is work love made visible? This had become especially important because I had seen how much of a struggle working has been for me.  Why have I not been able to work at all? I had always seemed to be bogged down by "externals", "logistics", what I think of as my incapacities - all of this had seemed to stop me from working, from being able to work. 

How is work love made visible? Love for what? I really wanted to work, but it had not been happening.  By work I mean any or all kinds of work, domestic, social, the work that I had chosen for myself as part of my career. Some one or more parts would be frozen over at any given point in time.  Much more than anything else, the official work had been stagnating. Because a home means dependents, the household had to be run; there is no question of stopping there, however that could also become mechanical in a not-vibrant state of being.  

So my thoughts of incapacities and fear of failure held me frozen.  How can I work like I wanted, knowing I may fail, knowing that I don't know enough to work? There had been a layer of excuses and reasons on the surface which had to be peeled off before reaching this question.  The top layer was made up of issues around the externals like operational problems, issues with coworkers, ups and downs of balancing multiple roles of life and so on.  It took a while before getting to the hidden fear of failure and thoughts of inadequacy.  This was a layer of truth that again had to be peeled off to reveal deeper truths. 

Between that first question, "How is work love made visible?" and the other questions centered around oneself, "How can I work knowing I may fail?" etc, lies the favourite theme of writer-philosopher Chaturvedi Badrinath.  A theme that recurs in much of his expression, and now I see why.  There is a struggle between those 2 questions.  Because each question is in a different language altogether.  One is that of history, and the other, that of transcendence.  The voice that tells me I have all these limitations is the language of my history and experience - the voice of my thought-belief-perception self.  The other voice and language is that of transcendence.  Of that inner being, inner self that is watching all the drama of life.  That inner self which is love, which is oneness of all creation. 

Which voice am I aligning myself with at any given moment?  This seems to be a quintessential human struggle.  Each has its gifts and consequences.  I had always said, "Of course, I really want to work". I want to align myself with this deeper, inner self of which I have glimpses and flashes when there is clarity, when the inner space seems to be lighted. That was intention.  But what of action?  Why had it never flowed through and manifested in action?  The question here for me was, why do I want to align myself with that inner voice, and why do I want to work? Because I want to be productive, I want to be efficient, I want to be able to write the truth, every single day, I want, I want... And with this want, my mind has quietly aligned itself with the voice of the limited self.  This is self-love.  And I don't mean this in a judgmental way.  It is self-love in that I am in love with my own perceptions; taken with my perceptions of the end results of a love being made visible through work, for example. Some toys and sweets and savouries that I will be able to get from the Mela at the end of the walk.  If I am actually present there with that end in my head, it pulls me deeper into self-love.  I am struck by fear, what if I don't get those toys there in the Mela? Maybe I should see what route others are taking, then I will go to the correct Mela.  This then leads to mental paralysis, and of course paralysis of action.  In being stuck in this self-love, there is no Yoga.  There is no flowing of that inner being, love.  With that sudden sight into the struggle, the message of the Bhagavad Gita, which we have made into a platitude - "dont think of the fruits, only put in your best work" takes on such meaning and significance. 

In Yoga, that inner self flows.  And I, the actor in the drama of life, completely align myself with that flow, and allow it to make of me what it does; allow it to season me.  This feels suspiciously like surrender to me.  Funnily enough, I felt that I have been reflecting on self-effort.  What is this paradox? It perhaps is both at the same time? And life goes on.  The stage is set.  The actor is out there and in here at the same time.  And I realise that the question, which voice am I aligning myself with at any given moment?, is not an either-or question that has a one-time solution.  It then becomes a constant and on-going conversation that I engage with at every step, and that is Yoga. And this ongoing dialogue also gives one spaces and possibilities to travel back and forth between those two languages, to straddle both and, their paradoxical nature notwithstanding, take even concrete steps with seemingly abstract ideas - faith, taking responsibility, action despite / with fear and any number of ways as there are beings.  Then what begins to happen is work manifesting as a consequence of the greater self, greater love.