Summer, were you ever here?

The other day, I missed home.

In the midst of the emptied market corner of Union Square, I watched snow-filled clouds - the cold color of white-blue and purple – meld to cover the sky.  For an indefinite wintry spell, I’d miss the presence of the sun. I secretly mourned it inside my heart.

I grew up in Florida in a small Greek town called Tarpon Springs. There, cloudy days are also usually wet and warm. For a day or two, heavy-bellied grey clouds may unleash rains and winds might rustle or even thrash the tops of palm trees, but the sounds of thunder and claps of lightning are constant reminders of nature happening outside and around me.  The grass, I imagine, drinks up every splash happily. I feel safe and quenched inside. 

Cloudy winters are different.

Living in the northeast for twelve years has now come to be both effortless adoration and active “management.”  The ease comes from the everywhere beauty in the seasons I had always learned about in grade school: the way leaves literally “fall” in the fall (who knew?), tumbling across the street with every gust.  The way a silent winter frost brings a time for hibernation of both flower buds on resilient branches and for animals – humans, I include.  Freshly fallen snow sparkles like white diamonds as the city goes to sleep (but not without baking gooey chocolate chip cookies first). Then spring flirtatiously peeks out one day here and there toward the end of winter, tulip bulbs suddenly bursting into powerful stalks with color.  Cafes bring out their folding chairs and tables to their sidewalks and suddenly, dating is actually fun again.  The blurry summer heat seems to interrupt quickly - air conditioner sale signs taped on lampposts and PC Richards warehouses. Chilled bottles of water sold for $1 by random souls who wonderfully dis-heed the law can practically save your life.  I wait for the woman selling pre-cut spiced mango and cold orange slices in baggies. 

The burden comes from finally giving in, dropping to hands and knees to yank out the garbage bag full of heavy winter clothing wedged under the bed.  The 20 minutes of tango between yes and no before actually accepting going outside in the cold, another 20 minutes of dressing and lacing up heavy boots, looking for that damned other glove (where did I put it? Crap, did I drop it on the way home yesterday? Oh, no, there it is), checking the weather again on your smart phone after suiting up to see if you really need your wool hat, getting sidetracked by a new text message before the cold air hits your face.  Even in layered in cream and gloves, ashy and dry hands make you wonder: summer, were you ever here?

There, in Union Square, the snow clouds gathered outside of me and above me. For a moment, I felt them in my heart. I secretly worried if I would ever see the sun again.

I walked into the bodega, and the glass door jingled closed behind me.  My eyes dodged between the packets of Swiss Miss hot cocoa at the hot water station and refrigerated section where my eyes caught: “Freshly Squeezed Florida Orange Juice.”

I pulled off my gloves to open the carton and I took a swig of chilled juice. Eyes closed in that moment, I was transported home. The warm rains and sunrays just raised the oranges recently. I could feel the moist soil under my shoes and smell the citrus groves not far from my house.

Around me and above me, blue clouds.  Inside of me, sweet yellow summer.

Receiving, as much as Giving, is an act of Yoga.

Being in the "yogasphere," there's often a lot of hype or hearsay about what makes someone "yogic."

You've probably deduced that I love this topic. I get to read articles published by dear friends, peruse ancient texts (FYI "peruse" means to read carefully and not skim - who knew?), review research in science and education publications, and I get to practice alongside and under guidance of incredible yoga teachers and gurus.  But one of my favorite kinds of learning is one that unexpectedly sheds the light on all of the elements I choose to formally study: Talking to my parents.

My mom recently shared a story with me on a brief visit to Florida, where I grew up, as we drove back to our house from a yoga lecture. Her story offered a kind of purity and balance to what already was a positive experience of listening to a yogi's wise words.

As luck would have it, the timing of my pop-in home a few weeks ago was during a visit from Swami Muktananda, a man who travels nearly 9 months of the year through Europe and the U.S. before returning to India for three months of continued Kripalu yoga practice and planning.  My parents and I had just driven to a humble Hindu temple- a refurbished Tampa single-family home lined with red carpet and modest deities and paintings where the living room would have been- to listen to a lecture the Swami offered. He stood wearing a kurti dyed traditional turmeric orange at the door with a soft smile that made you feel peaceful - maybe more from his eyes than from his grin. People of Indian background were the majority (a rarity for me to experience since childhood which I've now learned to relish when it happens) though people from all races, ethnicities, and faiths were present. No exclusion. We were all there to gratefully receive his teachings.

Swami Muktananda's lecture and song hour offered insight into an inherent knowingness in all of us. How a cat can give birth to her kittens and know exactly how to care for them - no guidebook needed. Instinct is something all beings share. The swami's calling attention to this everyday knowledge allowed me to be mindful of the magic in Self. Of the profound intelligence in all Life.  The swami belted out mantras from the center of his chest, his eyes closed and happy as he swayed. It would seem that in his deeply committed offering of his own explorations of spirituality and free living through yoga and meditation were completely "self-less."  That this man, who is what I would truly call the definition of humble and pious, only gives without taking.  I thought to myself, "Man, this guy is truly yogic."

What what I now see as my half-understanding of the level of his "yogicity" or "yogic-ness" or whatever we want to call it was made more complete by a story my mother shared soon afterward as we drove through quiet, winding roads home later that night.

She told me about how on Swami Muktananda's visit the previous year, she and my dad had the privilege of driving the swami in our car to stay in one of our local friend's home for that night. On Swami Muktananda's travels for nine months, she explained, he is invited into homes to stay the night where he is given food, place to sleep, place to bathe.  When she and my dad had offered Swami Muktananda a ride to my "uncle's" (family friend's) house, he simply and graciously accepted without fuss or strangulated thank yous. When he stayed in my uncle's home and sat for dinner and breakfasts prepared for him by someone he had just met, he openly and graciously received it.

We often imagine that it is "un-yogic" to receive. That it is "un-yogic" to rely on others' for support and to allow us to stay lifted.  But what is clear from my mother's story after having viewed Swami Muktananda as only a noble giver of lectures is that the act of receiving - the art of receiving - is equally as important as giving.

We stand as individuals, yes, but we also trust and rely on one another as a collective. There is no shame in accepting when we offer in other ways.  And when we start to feel off-balance (maybe without spreadsheet evidence but more just a feeling of giving or receiving out of balance -I know you've felt it!) - to me, being yogic means simply paying attention to that.  It is a more profound and a higher level of trust than immediate 1-1 exchange of "I scratch your back, you scratch mine."  It is a trust in the Wholeness of all that is- that what we are putting out there is being received, and that what we are receiving may not look or feel exactly like what we are giving, but it is there for receiving.

We can all rest and evolve in being yogic. It is not reserved only for those who wear turmeric shirts or for those who own a purple yoga mat.  Yoga is Unity. Yoga is All. Reception is the balance to Giving. Giving is the balance to Reception.

We, Individually, make up a beautiful, intended Collective yogasphere.

Love Letter to Us.

I don’t know if this is coming from the heat outside bringing out the Shakti energy in me, or perhaps the conversations I’ve lately been having with my sister and sisterfriends, but man- I have just got to proclaim from the highest tops of the internet mountain that we, we Women, we are AWESOME.  If you were sitting next to me, too, you’d see my scrunched brow and my pursed lips as I truly get right now in this moment just how freaking awesome we are.  (Note that this is not a comment toward or against others who may not be women, nor is it to generalize that all women share the qualities that I just need to praise – well, maybe a little, ha- this is really just a celebration and yes, I have just got to say it again, baby: We Women are AWESOME).

When we’re in the midst of a real rush of changing hormones with real aches in our body, we carry backpacks and bags and boxes and sometimes even children, and we multitask to swiftly pay our bills on the phone at the same time.  We recognize the important work that must be done to better ourselves and better the world, and we do that work as mothers, as daughters, as sisters, girlfriends, wives, aunts, cousins, as students, as teachers, as healers, as business workers or owners or officers or writers or dramatists or painters or cleaners or as friends or countless other roles.  We make moves for ourselves and we make moves for others.  We gather together to get coats of Essie polish on our nails to celebrate each other’s birthday or marriage or new degree.  If someone says something hurtful to us or ignores us, we are incredible enough to think in ourselves, “Was there something in this that I could have done to make this person feel badly first?”  And then we are awesome enough to hear ourselves, pause, and say to ourselves in reflection, “I should really pay attention to when I unnecessarily impose blame or guilt on myself because I want to be as strong and good of a human and woman as I can be.”  When we have a problem with a friend, we are considerate enough to call another friend to ask her or him to listen and hear us and tell us if we did the right or wrong thing and ask them what they think could make it better.  Sometimes, we are awesome enough to call on many friends about the same matter of concern over and over again because, well, we care just that much, ha…;) We muster up the vulnerability to say sorry when we feel we were wrong.  When we feel hurt, we let the tears roll down our face or let the heat of anger build within us quietly and sometimes we cave and fall.  And we bravely allow it.  We hear its valuable communication to us. And then, after some undefined time that feels right to our individual, we see the power within the experience and use it to resolve.  We mull over words we should or should not say because it stems from a pure place of wanting to help others feel comfortable and feel safe because we respect what others may be experiencing.  We blurt out honest words at other times because we respect what others may need to hear.  We receive each others’ pain through a text message or voicemail and offer to share a glass of wine or bowls of ice cream in pajamas right away. 

We plan gatherings and avoid gatherings and we lead and we sit back and we don’t underestimate the power of a silent but comforting touch. We sometimes, in a state of overwhelming expression of emotion or in a state of overwhelming quiet, really just need a hug or space to watch Gilmore Girls or a bite to eat, and I find that simplicity masked in complexity just beautiful.  And we are not afraid to acknowledge the danger of generalizations that we feel could limit humanity’s collective view on how we as part of one large subgroup and may also operate differently and beautifully as individuals, but in doing so we also honor the golden intention behind someone’s large statements and proclamations of love :).

With you, dear women of all places and backgrounds and ways of being, dear one-day-will-grow-up-to-be-women (see brilliance of 6-year-old poet in photo I happened to pass by this morning), dear Self, 

I am in so Love with Us.

Xo,

Rina

"Current" A creative essay by Rina Deshpande

I'd like to give a special thanks to Nancy Sommers and all fellows and peers of T210M, HGSE for giving me inspiration, tools, and deadlines to ponder life through essay.  This essay is dedicated to my Lalla Mausi, whom I love very much.

Current

By Rina Deshpande

            I’m not sure how or why it began – maybe we were looking to pass the time while the power was out, or maybe I just happened to ask what was behind her metal armoire doors.  One by one, my great aunt Lalla shared the meaning behind each of her many saris, so abundant in number that she admitted in giggles she may never be able to wear them all.  Her words and movements flowed like a dance: pulling out one sari from the brilliant stack of hundreds, narrating the story as she unfolded and revealed its unique pattern, then refolding and replacing it before moving onto the next.  Like I was being walked through an album of textiles and colors.  Thin silks. Thick silks.  Rayons.  Cottons. Polyesters.  Peacock blues.  Hot pinks. Forest greens. Mustard yellows. Chocolate browns.  Light golds. Dark golds.  Daisy prints.  Paisleys. Solids.  Stripes.  Stars.  Each sari was a gift.  Each sari, an unchanging memory from her life.

            I can’t help but wonder if my great aunt made these stories up, but the details of each sari giver, occasion, time of day, and location all wove together so seamlessly for yards and yards that it’s quite possible every thread she said was true.  Perhaps, to her, it was not accuracy that mattered.

            I am thinking of her now after just hanging up with my unnervingly calm mother, wondering why I did not call my Lalla Mausi when my mind had told me to. 

            Two years ago, I am sitting on the edge of my great aunt’s cot like I’ve done on every visit to her Bangalore bungalow for the last thirty years.  Un-poised and relaxed in my Gap jeans and t-shirt, my legs dangle off of the wire frame like a teenager’s.  Herds of cars honk and packs of stray dogs bark on the dusty road outside.  The hollow sound of the ticking clock echoes on the bare walls – the “current” has stopped as it frequently does with no warning.  We patiently wait around for the electric buzz to return and revive the tube lights.

            Every five to seven years that I have visited my great aunt Lalitha - my Lalla Mausi - I’ve seen snapshots of a rapidly changing India.  Where her cement bungalow once rested quietly on a hill of red earth and bowing trees, now swarm bustling students to IT school and Tata cars ramming horns to fight for parking.   The population in the city of Bangalore has tripled from 3 million in 1982 to nearly 9 million people in 2013.  Lalla’s peach and red bungalow once seemed so tall and rooted on that dirt hill.  Over time, it has shrunken away from the main road, nearly forgotten in all of the change. 

            For now, we are inside of her home.  And on the inside, Lalla’s bungalow feels almost exactly the same.  Red tinted cement floors cool my bare feet in the summer heat.  Two humble ground level bedrooms each offer a cozy cot and armoire. Framed photos of my mother, sister, father and me from Disney World 1988 to high school and college graduations line the old wooden shelves.  I wince at the sight my bushy eyebrows in my blue graduation cap and gown.  Perhaps getting older comes with some benefits, I laugh to myself, like learning to have your eyebrows threaded.  Multiple horns bleep outside the window like angry sheep, sending the dogs into a fit.

            “Seems like it is even more chaotic out there than last time,” I am surprised by the grown-up nature of my own comment.

            “Mm,” my great aunt affirms with a glum nod from side to side.  “Happening so fast, no?  What to do?” she laments, lifting her hands and eyes toward the sky.  I share her frown. She immediately looks to console my concern like a grandmother to her grandchild, gently grasping her wrinkled brown fingers under my chin and smiling.  I close my eyes and hold onto the feeling of her cradle. 

            I do not want to forget her.  I do not want to be forgotten.

            My eyes magnetize to the emerald green silk with a hot pink band nestled in the colorful collection of her armoire.  I ask for her to please, pretty please pull that one out next.  We are two hours without power, and she has gone through nearly twenty saris. I am enjoying her performance and too comfortable squeezing my adult bottom into my booster seat in the audience.  Lalla Mausi giggles at my invitation for encore, and brimming with memories she reaches for the sari of my choice and starts to unfold. 

            “Ah, this was gifted to me by Shreshta at her daughter’s engagement in Delhi in May 1993 – do you recollect meeting Shreshta, Rina?  Vahini’s sister’s husband’s cousin.  You don’t remember?”  I smirk, having no idea to whom she refers.  I let her continue.  Right now there is no current.  Right now, we are right here.

            With every name she assigns to each sari, she weaves her loom aloud.  Saris from neighbors, casual acquaintances, brides and grooms, best friends, sisters, brothers, and one collectively from my mother, father, sister, and me.  I see a softness and security in her eyes as she narrates the latter. 

            “You only selected this sari for me,” she laughs as I ask who gave it to her.  “You were small.”  I admit that I do not remember, but I joke that I have pretty good taste.  Each strand in the nine yards of burgundy dyed silk is as sturdy and thick as wire.  As she opens the pallu tail end that drapes over the shoulder, she reveals an intricate pattern of elephants woven from what looks like pure golden thread.  I tell her I like this sari the best.  She touches my cheek and says that it is her favorite, too.

            Twenty-five years prior, I would draw my great aunt’s portrait on a wrinkled notebook page with markers: black braid, wire spectacles, sari pallu draped over her shoulder, and red bindi on her wide-ruled forehead.  I would present my wobbly artwork to her, and she would immediately hang it up on her metal armoire.  On this day - twenty-five years later - as we close the armoire doors to her sari album, I chuckle to see the portrait still remains displayed under the same round magnet.  To me, she still looks just the same.  I touch the dimming paper and try hard to remember my little hands gripping the marker in artist’s concentration.  My memory of myself as a child is dimmer than before.  Perhaps my Lalla Mausi still sees it clearly.  Perhaps it is through one another that we remain unchanging.

            The sound of buzzing zips through the walls of the room.   The lights flicker back on.  

            “Current,” she says. 

            The lights in my Cambridge apartment seem to buzz louder than usual.  I pick up my cell phone and dial the 800 number my mother gave me, entering India country code, Karnataka state code, and phone number for my Lalla’s Mausi’s room at the hospital.  She picks up.

            For this moment, the current is paused.

           

            

Socks on a Radiator

Socks on a toasty radiator
Make my feet feel great-iator
Icy toes now happy clams
Fruit-of-loom socks melt to jam.

Maybe work can wait-iator
Think I'll sleep in late-iator.

Zero to Seventeen in 60 Seconds

The other night, I flew back to Boston from a last-minute trip.  My eyes had the dusty feeling of wanting to close; it was well past anyone's EST bedtime.  I was in one of the very last seats to de-board the plane, and as the last few of us got ready to leave we noticed that a few stray dollars and a plastic bag lay crumpled on a seat ahead of us. Since no one had claimed it, I offered to take it up to a flight attendant.

Of course this happened to be the first time in history that no flight attendant was at the front of the plane, so I waited at the gate in the dim airport for an attendant with the roughly seven dollars worth of bills and change in hand.  Five minutes. No attendant.  Drowsy eyeball dust said it was time to leave.

The money wasn't mine and I felt weird about having it.  Lord knows I could spend it on lattes, but I didn't "need" it.  So I waited to have a chance to give it away.  Funny how soon that chance came.

As a few sleepy travelers waited for the metro (the "T" here in Cambridge), a very vocal man came onto the platform in obvious need of medical care for exposed chronic sores on his legs.  I've seen my fair share of impoverished people in New York City and India, but this was the first time in my life I had ever seen a homeless person crying.  "There's a bus to an HIV facility leaving in a few minutes, and I need $8 to get there. Please. They'll give me a bed for three days.  They'll treat me for free. But I need to get there and I have no money, and if I don't get there I lose my bed." At that time of night, I decided to put my skeptic mind to rest and I looked down at the money in my plastic bag.

I walked over, and started to reach out my bag of seven dollars, feeling a little bad that it was a buck short.  What was so freaking awesome was at the very same moment, another woman on the other side of the platform walked over, opening her wallet.

"Here," we both unexpectedly said in chorus to the man in front of us, me holding out seven of someone else's money and she holding out ten of her own.

We and the rest of the metro platform were left without words.  His eyes spoke volumes, though.

"Thank you. Oh my God. What? Thank you. Thank you so much," he finally said and took what we offered- albeit small, a momentary abundance- and darted back up the stairs, turning back every few leaps to say thank you at us.  My head hoped that he was heading for an actual bus ready depart. But my heart didn't and still doesn't care.

Lady-who-gave-away-her-ten-dollar-bill, wherever you are. That was awesome.  High five.

Drop your planner for a sec.

Today I was reminded of one very simple, very important thing.  Just get yourself onto the mat, and your practice will unfold.