Is the mango tree still there?

My childhood was full of trees. All kinds. I often think of a mango tree that stood tall in my mother’s house. I remember catching a glimpse of it through the kitchen door and longing to be by its side. Even though the tree was only a few steps away, just looking at it gave me joy with an emotion that felt like love. Like longing.

The walk to the tree felt poetic. The very act of finding my way to the tree was filled with joy. From the kitchen of that old house, I would step down onto the small veranda that lined the house. From there out into the pebbled courtyard where, looking up, yellow trumpet flowers in full bloom would offer such a feast to my eyes and heart. Next to the yellow flowers were jasmine bushes – I can’t remember a time when they weren’t in bloom.

After admiring the beauty of the flowers, I climbed a stone ladder, the kind that connects one terrace to another, popular in the hilly areas of Kerala. The stones would become so moss-covered during the monsoon that I would get lost in their intricate universe. It was so easy to get lost. To forget everything else. During the rains, this path took on a new appearance and a new meaning that my words cannot describe the effect it had on my heart.

After climbing two terraces, I would be under the big mango tree. Under the tree there would be layers and layers of yellow and brown leaves with grass heads growing through them. I don’t know if my grandfather had thoughtfully placed some stones around the tree, or if the stones were already there. The placement of the rocks seemed very thoughtful – after picking a few mangoes it was very conveniant to hop on them and enjoy the fruit.

Under the beautiful blue sky, birds occasionally flew over my head from one tree to another. Then there were squirrels and chipmunks. On the trees, under the trees and everywhere in between. It was almost always quiet, except for the singing of the birds. My memory of the mango tree is intertwined with the memory of the time I spent in its neighbourhood. Looking back, I marvel at the interconnectedness of everything in nature. Just being there was enough to experience the heights of joy.

But what I wonder the most today is – is the mango tree still there?

(Image courtesty: flickr_marshneil)

Hot ginger tea

I hold the cup and close my eyes 
A wave of joy washes over my heart
Golden orange, golden brown
Earthen shades of warmth and comfort

A pot of ginger on my kitchen windowsill
A peek into the childhood
Delight in the mundane
Who would think a field of ginger spectacular?

A call to my warm, steaming cup of home 
A home that I call India
Where things grow easily 
Year in and year out

Tea in spring by the window

Quieting my inner critic and seeing a bear in my backyard!

That’s what I have been trying to do over the past few days. I succeeded in putting out a few notes while consciously trying to give a cold shoulder to the inner critic who repeated that my writing was not good enough.

There were messages from the external world that influenced me. A few people wrote to me saying that long form of writing was passe’ so why labour? I took it to heart and interpreted it differently. Well, may be my long form doesn’t cut it. So why bother?

Amidst this internal mumbling and external stimuli, my mind continued to give me ideas. Last night, I was reading while the TV was on. I was not watching but was in the same shared space – trying to read a book when I noticed a sudden movement outside my window.

The whole day it snowed so there was a huge amount of snow in the backyard. My gaze kept shifting from the book to the window and- for a moment, I thought I saw a sudden and abrupt movement in the backyard. It was dark and all I could see was snow.

Where there was no structure standing earlier, in the pristine white, I started seeing an image- that of a white animal. An animal covered in snow or perhaps an animal that had a white coat of fur.

While my mind continued to spin stories, I continued to read but whenever I looked at the window, I thought the white image moved. It was quite tall too- a tall animal? With white fur?

I started thinking about white bears. I had heard and read many bear tales but had never seen one in the wild. My logical brain instantly ruled out the possibility of any tall animal in the fenced backyard. Not possible.

Image: Sudbury Star

Though I knew about white bears in Ontario, I quickly Googled just to make sure – so I wouldn’t come across as idiotic. Dismissing the possibility of a real white bear in this part of Canada, I kept my discovery a secret.

On closer inspection, my husband said there wasn’t anything unusual in the backyard but from where I sat, I continued to see the figure in white.

I didn’t budge from where I sat but encouraged my better half to do the close inspection!

That’s when a paradigm shift occurred in my thinking. What if what I were seeing was not outside but was instead inside?

A reflection?

Well, it was the reflection of a gigantic white orchid flower! A few days ago, I had moved the orchid to its new destination and I hadn’t noticed its reflection in the window earlier. Or may be I did but it wasn’t noticeable enough. After the heavy snow made the backyard look magical, let loose by imagination, my mind gifted me the almost impossible thought of a bear in my backyard!

It must have been a clump of snow that fell from the rooftop- that the my peripheral vision captured and projected as a moving white object. Is that even possible? I don’t know. As soon as I looked my eyes were fixed on the white reflection. In no time, from the falling white clump of snow, my eyes shifted to the reflection of the white flowers. And as imaginative as I can get, I started seeing the bear!

I am telling myself that I can listen to that part of my mind that loves to spin stories – with imaginary provocation. That’s what makes me happy and upbeat. So here I am with another joyous note.

The sounds that Olive holds dear

It was minus 30 degrees outside. Through the dusty window, she saw hot air blowing from her heater. In the long term care home that she could see from her bedroom window, a few lights were on. A few years ago, the high rise building had almost all of its rooms lit. Olive often wondered what it would be like to live in a care home.

Winter afternoons can make the passage of time sorrowful for a senior, she thought. How much can crocheting help? Crocheting with friends felt different a few years ago, when Olive would go to the library and meet her friends once a week. They had plans to make it twice a week when things suddenly changed.

Veronica was the first to go. Then three more from her group of seven.

It was the sounds that she missed the most. When the birds were around in spring and summer, she hardly noticed them but now…the occasional visitors were not there any more.

Even the chipmunk with whom she had waged a battle, had gone. In her mind, she offered truce- you can come to my yard and I promise seeds, just don’t touch my sunflowers.

At that moment, all she wanted to do was sit by the window and watch the chipmunk make its hurried trips – from the neighbourhood pine trees to its den where it probably had a stash for winter – through her backyard fence. Merely thinking about its survival tactics lent an energy to her days.

A car screeched to a halt in the nearby Tim Hortons parking, breaking the silence of the afternoon. Must be a new driver or an angry one, she thought. But it instantly reminded her of something unexpected.

The way Jeff would clear his throat after he brushed his teeth thrice a day. He would never close the door behind him, causing reverberations of his throat-clearing sounds to reach the farthest corners of the house, making sure it hit her eardrums before losing steam.

65 years. Olive didn’t give up hope until a few months before Jeff left.

It was the sound that punctuated her days, though in the most annoying way. Some days she let it be but some days, she reminded him politely to shut the door before he launched into the sonic act. At least once a month, for several days in a row, she would lose her cool. But Jeff was okay with it. And that was amazing, she thought.

Occasionally, thinking about his calm reactions to her mild explosions would make her heart tender.

They had established a cadence to this. A slow, calm and understanding cadence.

Olive had prepared well for the silence. But occasionally unexpected sounds from her surroundings triggered memories.

The irony of things caught her unguarded. She didn’t appreciate silence now despite all her preparations to embrace it. When Daniel and David were in the house, she longed for everyone to leave so she could have the silence for herself.

When Jeff was around, she detested the times when he broke the permeating silence with his sounds which Olive thought were unwanted and avoidable. But the times when they put together their little dinners and ate them by the table under the beautiful lights , the time when they yanked the dahlia bulbs, and put away the Christmas tree long after Christmas- those were moments that she would hold dear.

Now she wished for the tap to run, for Jeff to putter around making the avoidable sounds…it didn’t matter if he left the door ajar.

Until the birds returned and the chipmunk came back, if at all it made it through the winter, she would not spare a single sound- she would hold onto them to go back in time. Just to be present in the past till the future arrived at her doorstep.

Lost in the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery

How does it feel to spend a day in this beautiful spring, away in a beautiful cemetery?

Last Sunday, we made a pilgrimage to the Sleepy Hollow cemetery. It left me thinking. It comforted me in more ways than one. It set off a chain of questions in my mind, and many days after the visit, I am still finding answers.

When I first heard about Sleepy Hollow as a destination, it left me wondering about the cemetery as a place of interest.

We did our bit of research about Sleepy Hollow. My husband raved about Washington Irving’s book and the movie.

When we started our drive, I was still skeptical about cemeteries as places to engage and enthuse. But at the same time, I felt gripped by a certain sense of mystery. The mystery of being in a place where multitudes take eternal rest – who walked the earth in vastly different time periods, from the 18^th century to the 21^st century, possibly telling different tales and nursing ambitions of their own, wearing widely different clothes, and maintaining this difference even in the way they said their final goodbyes.

I read about writers, historical figures, legends, business tycoons, even murderers taking rest in the sands of Sleepy Hollow.

The drive to Tarry Town, NY where Sleepy Hollow cemetery is located was beautiful. Tarry Town has a small town image, with rows of beautiful houses. The roads sitting pretty at the far edge of a cliff.

On the right – hilly terrain, the trees growing tall and enjoying the advent of spring, their leaves fresh and pure, green and gay.

Looking down through small roads to the left, my eyes nearly tumbled over, and fell into the Hudson river; flowing far and wide, a glassy surface glistening in the early sun light, reflecting images of houses and trees, of roofs and tree tops, and occasionally, some cumulonimbus clouds.

As we drove in through the gate, a big poster of the headless horseman greeted us. My children seemed amused. The office was closed, but the map dispenser had several copies. We picked up one, and started our journey through what seemed like an endless maze of tombstones.

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I had written till the above paragraph in 2013, the year I visited Tarry Town and the Sleepy Hollow. I am not sure why I stopped and never continued. After a long break, I revisited my WordPress account and found this in my drafts. I wish I had completed it then. I still have a few images from the cemetery and its surroundings intact in my mind, but nothing like how it was in 2013.

Can one ever get overwhelmed by quiet and calm? I remember being washed over by copious amounts of calm and quiet and feeling overjoyed in the process. We were the only tourists there in addition to a lady in black who was content resting on big rocks, lying down, with a book in hand, facing the sky, reading occasionally. She seemed to be enjoying the serenity and peace. The cemetery looked so beautiful with magnolias in full bloom everywhere that I I didn’t mind time coming to a standstill at that moment.

We visited the adjacent Old Dutch church and its cemetery – it’s this church and the churchyard that appear in Washington Irving’s short story, “The Legend of the Sleepy Hollow.” I remember being amused by a rusted, metallic chair by Irving’s tombstone. What purpose did a chair serve in a cemetery? Placed in an odd angle, the chair was worn out and overused. I wondered if Irving himself continued to use it – in the eerie silence of the night!

We wondered about the people whose names we found on the tombstones. There were many mausoleums, some as big as small houses, ornate and beautiful. A few names that I remember are William Rockefeller, Elizabeth Arden, Andrew Carnegie and Walter Chrysler. The epitaphs on tombstones were interesting, some engaging, poetic and even lyrical.

Walking on the bridge over which the headless horsemen was purportedly seen and even even the strange silence that marked the moment – are still fresh in memory, intact.

We spent an entire day in the Sleepy Hollow cemetery. While my children were happy reading the tombstones and the accompanying stories or poems, my heart wandered aimlessly in careless abandon.

I get stared at when I say that I love visiting cemeteries – understandably so because many of us consider cemeteries sad places filled with maudlin, melancholy and grief. Walking in cemeteries is nothing but peace, a gift of introspection, a pause in my hurried steps, a time to rejuvenate. Far from the madding crowds, it gives me time to be one with nature, reading from poetic epitaphs and stories of people who walked the earth before me.

Taphophiles- that’s what they are called. People who love the peace and quiet and the poetry and history of cemeteries.

I visited the Sleepy Hollow Cemetery in 2013 and have visited many cemeteries since then. The most famous people I have visited in their cemeteries are – Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Louisa May Alcott and more recently Leonard Cohen. More about them later.

For now, a walk in the woods.

What is it about the snow that keeps me calling?

It’s not a great headline but it sets me up for introspection. From the very first encounter with snow, my affinity for snow has remained strong, if not grown over the years.

Today I was looking through my photos from December 2021 and photographs of snow are many. It’s quite predictable given that I live in Ontario and I am a snow-enthusiast.

A snowy twilight in Sawmill Creek

What is it about the snow – that keeps me calling? I pondered for a while but ended up with no concrete answers. I arrived at many assumptions though.

1. It’s possibly snow’s serenading sense of calm that attracts me – the fact that there are not many vehicles on the road, on sidewalks and in trails. I don’t have anything against people, but as I grow older, I am enjoying the peace and quiet more than the buzz and chatter.
2. I find myself gravitating towards trails and hills rather than cities even when it is not snowing. While I love the energy of the city, I also love the reciprocity of nature. During snowy days, watching snow fall through trees, cling to barren branches and clump up in all kinds of natural habitats is more pleasurable than slushy city roads where smoke from vehicles stay in the thick atmosphere, making it very evident that I am inhaling polluted air.
3. The birds. I can never get enough of them. During my walks in winter, I wonder how they manage to stay warm enough – not only to merely survive, but also to thrive – to sing and make merry! Snowy trails are always filled with birds – at least where I live and often I stop by to watch them tweet from the shrubbery that acts as a natural protection from the cold, and provides them wild grapes sweetened by time and the freezing cold.
4. The slow cadence of snow has a calming effect on me. Is it their unhurriedness that soothes my mind, or is it because of their captivating nature that I forget to think and overthink? It’s an effortless thing for anyone who loves the snow – to get lost watching snow fall. Getting lost in a beautiful spectacle means time away from one’s own worries and thoughts – an escape to an oasis of calm.

I tell myself to make the most of it while it lasts. I don’t know what tomorrow holds with the realities about climate change looming large.

December in Notre Dame Cathedral, Montreal

It’s about time to step out for a night stroll in the snow.

The grandchild in me

I was walking back home, after more than an hour of being in the woods. It was October, and the day was warm for fall standards.

For me, the woods are always dark and deep. Quiet and still, except for the birds that chirp and dart from one tree to another. Sometimes, they just choose to perch on a branch and stay comfortably there for what feels like ever.

Sugar Maple Park

As I came out of the woods and entered a paved road, I noticed a little battalion walking towards the woods. A grandpa with a bunch of grandchildren, it looked like. The boys were jumping around, two of them holding grandpa’s hands. I couldn’t take my eyes off this group. I could feel the love and warmth they exuded. I continued to do what I do when I encounter such scenes. Keep looking and fill up my heart with their happy emotions.

The grandpa looked content. One of the boys sported a mischievous grin. So mischievous that I couldn’t but pay him more attention than the others. As soon as he understood that I was paying attention, his grin turned to a near laugh though I couldn’t hear the sound of it. ‘Maybe he chuckled’, I thought.

Sixteen Mile Creek, Oakville

I told my husband, who was walking alongside, that the little one was up to something. “The grandpa probably knew it, but he was playing along”, I suggested.

That’s when I noticed the boy with the mischievous grin stick something behind the grandpa’s t-shirt. Within seconds, we passed them and I turned to see what it was. Dried thistle flowers or Burdock burrs, as they are called, not just one or two, but a handful of them neatly stuck behind grandpa’s t-shirt!

I stole a glance at the grandpa who greeted us as we passed them. His smile was beautiful and he seemed blissful in the company of the little ones. I turned to look at them disappear into the woods and caught the little boy turn and look at me. More grinning and more mischief in his eyes!

The moment and the discovery brought alive the granddaughter in me. I suddenly thought about my grandpa who left us two years ago. I am almost 43 and I had my grandpa till I was 41. He was 100 when he left for the light. I have 41 years of memories with him, or a few years less, considering I don’t remember the first few years. Does one feel enough about the love of grandparents? I surely don’t.

I am grateful for all the beautiful times I have had with my grandparents, but I wonder what it would be to have them for a few more years. Would it make me feel younger?

My maternal grandpa was the last of my grandparents to leave. When he left, I felt the grandchild in me become less important. I felt that the grandchild in me started fading away, slowly.

One of the happiest moments that I would recall is a particular situation in which my grandpa had to introduce me to a third person. A neighbor, or someone visiting. He would proudly introduce me by saying, “She is my granddaughter.” After I became a mother, and after the responsibilities of being a parent weighed me down, ‘she is my granddaughter’ made me feel lighter and younger.

Now, years after he left me, it’s moments like the one in the woods, unexpected encounters with other grandfathers that would bring back memories of time spent with my own.

Burrs – image from ardentfootsteps.com

From a hammock in the forest

From a hammock in the forest
 
My tired body sunk into a hammock
High on a mountain where trees grow
Where grass feels free to scale high
Where fallen leaves roam at ease
 
Sunlight came in selective bursts
The branches wouldn’t let them all pass
I received what I needed though
Enough to show me the long lines
 
In the stillness, silence came by
No holds barred, she motioned,
No strings attached, she hushed,
Take it all, you need it, she nudged
 
I soaked in the moment’s beauty
When wind turned the pages,
And the trees shed a tear or two
Of yellowed leaves falling gently
 
The green rustled and ruffled,
Like youth crying for attention
The browned ones danced about
While the wind held their hands
 
I wished that moment wouldn’t arrive,
But go on forever and ever rather
The joy of life is to go on traveling
Waiting for the best moment to arrive

The hope of April

April is when the first green shoots appear in this part of the world. As the earth beneath my feet begins to thaw, bulbs lying dormant until they begin to make preparations to delight the world.

The early shoots are not quite noticeable unless one has an eye for it, a searching eye, a spirit that’s constantly stumbling upon small elements that whisper hope.

The advent of spring may not be as evident as the coming of fall. Or, is it just my thinking? The first signs of spring are muted compared to the colour changes sweeping across the entire terrain. There is a park full of sugar maple trees in my neighborhood. Even before fall makes its entry, watching the canopy from a distance, I sense that fall is not far away.

Spring is when I tell myself again and again that just being with a bunch of lilies can be joyous. In Spring, I am reminded again and again of the wonder of creation and feel gratitude wash over me.

The hyacinths, the tulips and the daffodils are quite the eager beavers. A few weeks ago, I noticed tiny green heads butting out of the still stiff earth. In no time, their tips were polished off by the bunnies, waiting for the first shoots, just like me.

Spring is the culmination of a long wait. It’s synonymous with the hope that a little seed, a bulb or the seemingly dead and brittle bark of a bare tree holds, it’s the promise of the returning birds.

Spring is hope.

The worlds we create for ourselves

There is pink coleus, green shamrock and ivy, and bright red and yellow crotons sitting on my desk. The coleus leaves exude radiance when light passes through. Though they find their sustenance from water alone, they make flowers every now and then. Long shoots with purple flowers stand out against the backdrop of the coffee brown couch.

From the table where I sit, I can see many more plants. A white orchid that my friends gifted me is still in bloom, reminding me of the magic of friendship. From the library shelf, wandering Jews have created a little garden, their branches readily answering gravity, tumbling down in undulating waves.

Pothos occupies all sorts of places in this house, from bright coloured, painted bottles to pots of all sizes. They are the easiest, most effortless ones to grow – sunlight or dimness, water or drought, they thrive. They complain the least. Sometimes I think I want to be like them. And then I think, no. I don’t want to be like them. I am clear of my needs and wants, I make plans to achieve my goals and thrive in my own world. I thrive in the sunlight of desire.

From up here, I see Boston ferns – at least two pots. I see a few Pilea plants, too. They are effortlessly making tiny babies. Once I had to separate around ten babies from their mother. There are many more plants, and these days I have begun to think about the diversity of their appearance. Each leaf is different from its neighbour’s – in the colours, shapes, and patterns they possess.

I once read that the human mind is naturally inclined to liking the patterns in nature. When I learnt about the science behind the calming effect of nature on the human mind, I was not surprised.

As a child, one of my hobbies was to step out and wander. I have memories of observing the patterns on leaves, the shapes of bushes and how fallen fruit had a rather different taste after a few hours of being in the sun.

Perhaps my best memories are with nature. I gravitate towards the woods and trails rather than shopping malls and busy places.

When I moved countries, the hardest part was not getting my children acclimatized to new cultures and places, but letting go of my plants. Every time I moved, I painstakingly built my green world and realized that the process was equally pleasurable.

Our sweetest longings may be tied to pleasurable moments from childhood. The things that we seek for ourselves, perhaps tied to our past. Time flies, but in our effort to cling onto the past we try to make the transition to the present smoother by recreating snippets of yesteryears.

The worlds we create for ourselves today have elements from long-ago that we cherish.

A hopeful evening

It snowed again when I thought we were done with snow. This year, winter felt short and when I had begun to become pensive watching the last remnants of snow melt, it fell again. This time, it felt more beautiful and ethereal – possibly because I knew I would have to wait for another year.

Crab apples on a snowy day

As much as I love snow, I love spring, summer and fall. May be summer the least, if I have to choose. When snow melts and ice begins to thaw, the birds return. The dandelions slowly make their appearance. I think they are the last to disappear and the first to magically appear out of nowhere, transforming seemingly barren fields into a celebration of yellow.

I woke up this morning, thinking about a long walk in the snow. We made plans. I even told the priest at our church that our plans for the day were all charted out – a long walk in Red Trail. For all the planning, I ended up with a headache – and not going for the much-hyped walk. I spent the hour trying to take a nap, applying medicated oils and even popping in a painkiller.

A beautiful sunset through my window

It gave me an opportunity – not that I have any dearth for such opportunities – to realize how futile our plans can be. As my pain subsided and as I sat wondering about what to do next – I looked through the window and noticed for the umpteenth time, the barren trees outside. I could only see a few branches, and though completely shriveled and barren, they were moving in the wind.

As the afternoon gave way to the evening, I watched the setting sun paint the sky in fiery hues. Right before my eyes, through my window, as frames shifted, I felt grateful for the beauty around me.

A misty morning in Mississauga

To be able to look at tree branches – be it any season – is a blessing. Trees and patterns in nature have a positive effect on the human mind and well-being. Through one of my windows, I see a pine tree that’s still green. Next to it is a bare crab apple tree – though it still has a lot of dry fruit clinging to its branches – food for the birds that never flew south and for the squirrels who come often for a little bite.

Looking at these branches, I realize that in a few weeks they will start putting forth the buds. From the hardest of stems, from the bare and barren surfaces will come tender buds that are new and fresh. Soon, they will transform the tree into a green oasis – where birds will make their nests, and build new families.

It’s my belief that these natural cycles will go on, and my knowledge about the change of seasons and trust in the process that gives me hope. Hope is something that perches in my soul and sings the songs of promising tomorrows.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all- Emily Dickinson

The silence of the early morning

Recently, my husband got a Google Home. The way he walked up to it as soon as he woke up and nudged it to say the day’s headlines made me wonder what his motivation was. The desire to stay abreast of the latest news? The novelty of listening to the headlines from a voice that is artificial and otherworldly? Though unintended, I thought he and I were beginning our mornings by soaking up on unpleasant happenings.

A peaceful morning by Lake Ontario

Until the Home arrived, we had peaceful mornings. We took turns to wake up first so tea would be ready by the time the other was in the kitchen. If I woke up first, tea would be ready by the time he was in the kitchen.

On days when he would wake up first, by the time I was in the kitchen, the tea would still be getting ready– the delay owing to his “quick checking of headlines” on his phone. It used to irk me for two reasons – why check the headlines when your brain is still fresh – after a good night’s sleep, why not allow the mind to stay fresh, wander a little, and let it soak in the pristine freshness that mornings offer? (is this what you would call a control freak?)

Second reason – simply, the tea is not yet ready when it could have been ready.

Owing to the above reasons, I preferred waking up before him. To save the routine and savor the silence.

The kitchen is a place of comfort. It’s exudes warmth, literally and figuratively. Even though I love peaceful music, I don’t particularly enjoy it in the first hour of my wakefulness. I prefer it to be as quiet as possible.

Seeking silence and trying to protect it is not a thought-through decision but something that I have come to discover in the passage of time and with advancement of age.

Until the Home arrived, I used to look forward to the silence of the early mornings at home.

Then, with the arrival of Home, I felt there was another entity sharing our mornings while spilling words that served as reminders of unpleasant things. Why share sacred mornings with a strange AI personal assistant?

After more than a week of Home, I think my husband overheard me tell a friend why I love silence in the early morning. I don’t remember asking him not to ask the Home for headlines.

It has been a few days since I regained my morning routine. And the priceless silence of the early morning.