Tag: Humor

The Joys of Student Teaching

This week I am with the children – a whole week in which we manage by ourselves. Me. With the children.

Trouble being heard? Or Trouble speaking?

I anticipated many problems. What I did not anticipate was losing my voice. The class has a microphone, it has a mike. In spite of all this, my voice was strained. I was croaking by the end of the day. Even the classroom Alexa refused to listen to me. I suppose my voice did not sound human at all. It was all very trying.

Classrooms are filled with technology – just like the rest of our lives. Something or the other malfunctions all the time providing for equal parts amusement, frustration, and a shared camaraderie as each of the children tries a different technique to get things going.

One time, the text-to-reader was not working. I know the children do not like listening to it either. They say it doesn’t sound like a real person. Which is fair. It does have a robotic monotone which I suppose is trying to fifth graders trying to not bounce around before recess. So, I started to read with that voice of mine.

One of the kids said, “Ms Bala, we can do popcorn reading!” I must’ve looked lost for they explained with the patience and indulgence they reserve for me, knowing I am a student teacher,  “We’ll each read a page.” And just like that, they showed me kindness and compassion without making a fuss. Or being asked to do so.

I really do love these children!

Dancing like Baboons or Flamingoes?

Just as I glowed in appreciation for them, they’d also try my patience by refusing to work out a hard math concept. I found myself coaxing and cajoling them to slide through the cubes to find the volume and surface area one morning.

“But we won’t even use this anywhere!” Whine.

“We did this all already! We filled out our answers!” Indignant.

“Not correctly! I checked your work. Most of you got it wrong. And I am so glad you brought up that it may never be used!” And I went on to tell them all the ways in which we use surface area to design products, or rooms, or cabin holds in flights, or medical instruments for that matter.

Only the promise of a dance video at the end of the lesson got them through the class. I shook my head as I watched imitate flamingoes or baboons in a dance video and moved away. But at the end of the lesson, two of them came up to me and said shyly, “Ms Bala – You really are a fun math teacher!”

I’d do the whole lesson again just for that. Don’t tell them that.

Oh the things you do!

Some days they behaved fabulously, and other days they were irritated with the fact that they were having to do work even though their main teacher was out. It was fascinating to watch.

Just as I’d admire how emotionally intelligent some of them were, I’d be faced with something like this:

“Ms Bala! He’s been saying that he’s going to take away my toys!”

“Which toys did you bring to school, Lysa?”

“I didn’t bring any toys!”

“So what can he take from you?”

I was reminded of P G Wodehouse’s quote about teachers:

“There is always something going on in a .. school. Beyond breaking up fights,…, inducing boys of all sizes not to throw stones, go on the wet grass, , tease the cat, make too much noise, …, swallow pencils, and drink ink because somebody bet them they wouldn’t, I had very little to do except teach mathematics,…,  play football, herd stragglers into meals… “

 

AIImagegeneratedbasedonthequotebyPGWodehouse:

I have James Patterson’s book, Thank You, Teachers, beaming at me from the bookshelf waiting to be read. I can already identify with it. Teachers really are as he describes it, “our last line of defense and our first line of hope.”

I am waiting to see the stories he has collected from teachers in the book.

I am full of tales every day, and I know now why there are so few teachers who are also mainstream writers. Life is so full in a classroom. It is filled with camaraderie, drama, and sweet moments that make you believe in humanity. But just like the children say “How was your day?”” Good!”” What did you do?” “Nothing!”  So it is with teachers.

You cherish the moments and prepare for the next class.

Imagination: An Instrument of Ethics

I was excited to discuss the first two stories of Exhalation by Ted Chiang in our book club that evening. So, when I had a few minutes to myself, I decided to write up the notes on Ted Chiang’s brilliant book.  I did not have the book with me, so I used AI to get me going. 

Human Intelligence Vs Artificial Intelligence

It is a book of short stories, and several times, I stopped to re-read the stories to make sense of them. A hidden clue, a brilliantly woven story somehow loops backs to some reference earlier in the story. Now, when AI was giving me salient points about the story, I did not remember reading any of that. It spoke eloquently of characters I did not remember, and with so much confidence! 

I had read these stories a while ago, so I still wrote down some of the things AI said, knowing fully well that it would have to be redone with human intelligence soon, faulty as it may be.

I came home, and skimmed through the stories and right enough, it had not even got the characters name right. I smiled at this almost-human folly, but the source of the error was not far to find. There wasn’t too much material on the book, and the blog post that it had relied on had it all muddled up.

I tucked it away in a corner as an example when I caution a class in the future. I also remembered a professor smiling at her own brilliance when she told us that her trick included a question that ChatGPT got wrong to see who had relied on AI instead of HI. 

For those of you who are looking at truly different ways in which to stretch your modes of understanding, Exhalation is a good place to start.

The themes and universes in which each of these stories is set is different, and still somehow manages to touch human experiences of empathy, trials, love, failure, revenge – all woven through the different ways in which time is measured. 

The Merchant & The Alchemist’s Gate

This one is a tale that has a very interesting narrative structure. A time portal and stories within stories. This is one of those tales where the nested tales create an interesting portal between the narrator, his stories, and the reader. Written clearly in simple language, the beauty lies in the subtle hints embedded in each level of narrative.  

These are apparently called Matryoshka structures as they are similar to russian nesting dolls in thematic. I am in awe of the technique and if anyone has recommendations on multiple levels, please let me know. For those wishing to try a short story to see if his writing appeals to you, this is a good story. 

Exhalation

The next story is also the title of the book. This story refers to an alternate universe in which the beings function on argon. The pressure differentials in the surrounding argon somehow seems to be the cause for their world to function as well as their own bodies. 

This was an interesting story to discuss as each of us had a different understanding of the story. The protagonist is able to perform ‘brain-surgery’ on himself to examine the workings of his mind, as he is trying to figure out why time is slowing down in their universe. I do not have a proper understanding of the link between time and the brain-surgery. But I think it has to do with the fact that time slowing down is a manifestation of their brains slowing down because of the reduced pressure of the argon surrounding them and not time itself slowing down. 

In any case, this story is one that when discussed in a good high school classroom moderated by a competent teacher is worth listening to. 

 

The remaining stories proceed in the same vein. One on free will, another on nurturing online pets and robots as a method to nurture connections, and so on. 

Just like AI can lead you down a wrong path when it is a path less-trodden, this book can lead you down paths forcing you to think of alternate worlds and realities in the confines of your mind.

Ursula Le Guin’s Essay on Science Fiction & Fantasy

I have been looking for several years for this essay by Ursula Le Guin on Science Fiction and Fantasy as a genre. It is not available online. I borrowed a copy of The Left Hand of Darkness in the Hainish Chronicles from the library, and there, as an introduction by the author, was this gem of the essay. There are times I wish I had an eidetic memory, and this was one of those times. 

This book, too, is determined to set us thinking of alternate modes of living, societal norms etc.

However, for those looking for a good essay online on Fantasy, here is one:

https://www.ursulakleguin.com/some-assumptions-about-fantasy

Imagination is the instrument of ethics. 

  • Ursula K Le Guin

Often, I find that is exactly what a good, thought-provoking piece of science-fiction does. It helps us examine where we land on certain issues – morality, reactions, acceptance, and therefore leads to ephemeral moments of examined living.

First Week Jitters

First Day Jitters

It was the first day of school. I had the First Day Jitters book read aloud to me by our professor, and was still as nervous as Ms Sarah.

All the advice from the children, fellow teachers, professors, aunts and parents who’d been teachers, friends and family rattling away merrily in my head.

Do I smile? Should I be friendly?

Strict? No nonsense?

If only the children knew! I felt like they were observing and wondering what to make of me.

Trying their luck?

I saw over the next few days how exactly they tried their luck.

“Can I sit there next to Joseph?”

“Why? What happened to your spot?”

Shrug.

“Usually no. But I’ll allow it today.” I said. I was telling the son all the ways in which they were asking me for this and that as I picked him up from his high school, and he drew in his breath sharply.

“Oooh! Rookie mistake Amma!”

I looked over at him puzzled.

“If they are asking you – they k-n-o-w it isn’t allowed! It’s why they aren’t asking the main teacher – because it will be shut down so quickly!” , he said zipping his hands through the air, and I blinked, and then laughed.

“You’re right. So initially, say no to everything?”

“Most things! You want them to like you too. And only for the first few days. After that, they’ll get used to getting directions from you.”, he said sounding sage-like.

It is true. Children are like that, aren’t they? I thought of all the little ways in which they settled in  with their new teachers.

  • They pushed in their chairs when they got up. Yes.Good Job.
  • They did that thing where they lean back on their chairs on two legs.No.We do not that. It is dangerous.

 

  • Thank you for listening.
  • People who do not listen are going to miss this.

 

  • Thank you for doing your classroom jobs.
  • Why didn’t you do your job?

The human spirit

I also saw plenty of things that warm the human spirit too. The kind of things that I hope we retain as we grow older. For instance, we played a small game to wrap up the day one day. The children partnered up with each other and played. It was a quick paced game based on reflexes and the children were quick to react.

“So how many of you didn’t win a single round?”, asked the teacher, and one of the children raised their hand. “Got to work on your reflexes buddy!” She said good-naturedly and moved on.

I watched the game with interest and smiled at the moans when they lost and the whoops of joy when they won.

At the end of the game, she asked the partners to agree on the winner between them and come for a quick treat of candy. One of the children who sat many desks away from the child who hadn’t won a single round walked around in the mayhem and shared his candy with him. No fanfare – just friendship.

The bond between them was laughter. They were able to see together the same absurdities and incongruities in things. The most trivial and unnoticeable thing to others would tickle them to death.”

R K Narayan – Swami & His Friends

I smiled the whole way home.

 

Pinecones & the Secrets of the Universe

I was in a class in which we were learning how to teach art. This class was particularly fascinating for me. For the class had a very hands-on make-your-art-while-learning approach to it. One session we learnt free-play, another session: elements of music. One time we all went downstairs and broke off into small groups choreographing dance routines with little themes. Birds in a storm, ritual-rhythm-like movements, a morning routine etc. Teaching through drama, poetry (this is where I learnt about black-out poetry), and one time we learnt how to extract pine nuts from a pinecone. 

The Secrets of the Universe

There are many reasons that I loved that particular activity. I have always loved pinecones. There is something about them. Like it is hiding all the layers and secrets of life itself inside that protective cone. I thought if I could ever design a home for myself, it would be like living inside a pine cone hanging off a handsome, bounteous pine tree, swaying in the breeze, holding my own in the storm, and gently lulling fellow living beings to a peaceful state as they rest under my boughs. 

Of course, human-beings are never as accomplished as all that, and instead, I spent many wonderful evenings gazing lovingly at the pine trees nearby. Watching a pine cone drop from the boughs above, trying to pry it open to see  what lies inside. 

I was reminded of Hope Jahren’s book, Lab Girl while musing about the pine cones.

In the book, Dr Jahren writes about the science and its demands on its lovers. Her writing is lyrical, and when she writes of her research and her little moments of leap, it is nothing short of poetic. For instance, she writes of the time she was studying the structural makeup of the seeds of hackberry trees, and she unmistakably finds traces of Opal in the seeds:

“It was opal and this was something I could draw a circle around and testify to as being true. While looking at the graph, I thought about how I now knew something for certain that only an hour ago had been an absolute unknown, and I slowly began to appreciate how my life had just changed.

I was the only person in an infinite exploding universe who knew that this powder was made of opal. In a wide, wide world full of unimaginable numbers of people, I was – in addition to being small and insufficient—special. I was not only a quirky bundle of genes, but I was also unique existentially because of the tiny detail that I knew about Creation,…Until I phoned someone, the concrete knowledge that opal was the mineral that fortified each seed on each hackberry tree was mine alone.”

Not that we learnt anything that was ours alone during that lesson with pinecones, but it felt just as special. Like the pinecones were divulging the little secrets of the universe to us, to hold carefully and pass on.

Pine nuts are nuts!

It was a fascinating experience to see how pine nuts were extracted from the pinecone. The pine cones do not open wherever they please. It has to be under certain temperatures and even then, it is a tricky business. Once the pine nuts can be extracted, it isn’t a simple task to extract the flesh within them which is the edible part of the whole thing. 

So we sat there polishing the nuts against sandpaper chatting amiably with each other on how much effort it takes. I could very well imagine this being a community-building, all-the-aunts-and-grandmas-singing-together kind of activity. 

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/N1OeoaHGeLM

Of course, now there are mechanical shakers and crushers to do some of the work. But still, the process remains an expensive, labor-intensive process. Pine nuts are expensive – “Pine nuts are nuts!”

By the end of extracting the flesh from within the nuts though,I had a renewed sense of appreciation for the expensive packets in stores. 

I sat there one evening gazing up at the tree and saw the squirrels in the neighborhood loosen a pine cone from the tree. It fell with a soft thud upon the grass below. A single pine cone in a suburban lawn. Holding the secrets of the universe or at least the universes of pine trees in them.

Literary Conversations

I was talking to a friend recently.

“Are you driving?” She said, astute as ever. I smiled to myself in the car. She had me there. She knew from the relaxed way in which I was carrying on the conversation that I must have time and not flibberty-gibbeting around like I usually do.

“Yes!” I confessed – the sheepish feeling in my heart oozing into my voice, and she laughed.

“In that case we can talk about books!”, she said, and my heart warmed toward her. Bless her.

I told her about a book that I read recently:

The Care & Management of Lies – By Jacqueline Winspear

The tone of the writing on Jacqueline Winspear is somewhat similar to Miss Read (one of my favorite authors) – full of warmth and everyday practicality. Winspear was introduced to me by one of my son’s teachers, and I enjoyed this book more than her more famous series based on Maisie Dobbs, the detective. 

The main character, Kezzie’s treatment of food preparation borders on irreverent and artsy enough to be charming, though the food recipes do get to be a bit much towards the end.

I identified with the young bride Kezzie married to a farmer, Tom, with these short lines:

“They were in the first flush of marriage, and this was another source of fascination for the young husband, that this wife of his had no attachment to her prowess as a cook. She didn’t seem to care that pastry might be underdone, meat overdone, that bread was too doughy in the crumb, too hard on the crust, or that the men looked at their eggs and bacon and then at each other every morning. She seemed like a sprite assigned to a factory job, flitting from stove to table, then out to the kitchen garden, cutting rosemary to garnish an egg on toast-and not one of the farmworkers had ever seen garnish, nor would the word be part of their vocabulary.”

How could I not? Kezzie’s flair for the artistic, and the unconventional had me smiling. After all, I share the same sentiment towards cooking even after all these years. When I say things like, “No need to make a big deal – I’ll figure something for dinner.” I can see the looks being exchanged as though this means starving the family. It doesn’t. The family is well-fed. Ask the weighing scale. It just means, I will not think about it when I am looking for the deer shaped cloud with the sun peeping out from its antlers.

In turn, she told me about a similarly warm-toned book, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I look forward to reading it. That got us talking about how the same things that life has to offer can be written in bleak ways, or in uplifting ways. After all, the book I had just read was set in The First World War, and the whole world was buffeted by its ill-effects. It isn’t fairy-tale material. It isn’t bedtime reading material. And yet, somehow the sentiment of the book felt welcoming.

On the other hand, Grapes of Wrath – By John Steinbeck had me moping for days afterward. Good writing – but bleak in outlook.

We spoke of this and that, and hung up.

Relatable optimism?

So, what is it that makes the tone of a story appealing to you? Plenty of people like Steinbeck & Dostoevsky. I do too. Just not for comfort reading. The same sentiment seems to rule my entertainment options. Life is hard enough – I don’t need my entertainment to be the same. Maybe that is the reason sitcoms are so popular with society.

Could it relatable optimism and a familiar feeling of laughter and comfort at the end of the day?

Related: https://nourishncherish.org/2012/07/25/slimy-brazil-sprout-rice-recipe/

🌥️🌎🎨🌦️ Gaia, the Artist 🌥️🌎🎨🌦️

🌦️🌎🌥️ Pleasures of a Pluviophile 🌦️🌎🌥️

The clouds were beautiful on this summer day, and though I had a row of deadlines to meet, I took off cloud gazing. As I walked towards my regular haunt admiring the riverbed nearby, I felt a few plops of satisfying raindrops.

Raindrops in July – even the sparsest of sprinklings – is a blessing. I took my time, strolling and savoring every drop on my face. The pleasures of being a pluviophile in the Bay Area means that, that part of me only gets to come out and play rarely.

By evening, the clouds could scatter and be gone. The next day was forecasted to be scorching. And yet, I had no option but to turn back and take care of my work, instead of doing what the avocets and bluebirds were doing. Swooping and swaying to the mild breeze and enjoying the weather.

🌥️ 🌥️ 🌥️ Is there a task more important than cloud-gazing? 🌥️ 🌥️ 🌥️

Duty beckons. Life is earnest. I tried telling myself. But it was no use – how could there be anything more important than cloud-gazing? I wonder.

When I have a classroom, I shall have a marvelous lesson on clouds, replete with cloud-poetry, art, and a science lesson, on beautiful cloudy days. Cirrus, cumulonimbus, cumulus, stratocumulus. The poetry writes itself, the paintbrush yearns, and the moisture droplets coalesce, weigh into Earth without pressing down, and all of it is science and magic.

I went home, and finished up my tasks in a tearing hurry so I could step out for sunset again, all the while praying that the clouds would still be there in the evening. They were. You see? The summer thus far has had its share of sunsets with not a speck of a cloud. I know because I gaze longingly for clouds every time I step out at sunset.

🌥️🌎🎨🌦️ An Evening on Earth  🌥️🌎🎨🌦️

I sighed a gusty sigh as I saw the beautiful fluffy cirrus clouds on the horizon. No deadline was going to keep me from this sunset now. The birds chirped in agreement and the breeze swirled its approval of my decision. So, this time, I took my time. I savored every streak: every elegant swirl of grey, every blushing splash of pink, watched it turn into a brilliant orange, and then bloom into purple.

I watched the diamonds of the evening twinkle from in between the clouds.

I watched the planets shine, and hours later, the stars sparkle and tease. If I could send a snippet of this to fellow beings on other planets, I would. For what greater magic is there than the birds flying home, the crickets chirping their evening greeting, the California poppies slowly closing their petals as though trapping that last drop of golden light in them, and the deer stopping to gaze at a being admiring a sunset?

An Evening on Earth.

Black-out Poetry

“MGR is dead?”

“MGR is dead?”

That’s the joke in the house when I tell folks I learnt of something. The joke is on them of course. Because MGR is dead. But the cultural reference is to a Tamil movie in which a comedian says, “What?! MGR is dead?!”  years after he died. In fairness, I am unusually dense when it comes to cultural trends, and so many times entire songs or references that rocked the younger generation just pass me by. Usually, some kind child enlightens me and by then of course the joke is gone. Very tiring – especially now in the age of social media. Remember when 6-7 was a thing? Now it is not a thing, it is a cringe. Things 15 year olds get called ‘gramps’ by 10 year olds for. Sigh.

So expecting some similar response, I told folks about this latest thing we learnt called Black-out Poetry. As expected, the children had heard of it, the husband thought it was cool. Poets have been running channels and videos posting how it is done for over a decade. So, all is well. MGR is dead.

What is Black-out Poetry?

As it turns out, this is an amazing thing to do while riffling through old magazines or you just want to do something creative in a short span. Pick out random words or phrases across the page, and try to frame a poem from it.

I tried it, and even for an amateur, I loved it. The process, the words, the picture it conjured in my mind. It was all beautiful.

I chose an article in the magazine, The Outlook Traveller, which was an absolute delight to fish for words and phrases in.

The finished piece is here:

The Silence is Broken

Dawn is breaking
over 20000 ft
in the Himalayas.

The silence is broken
I 
          b
       m
      i
    l
 c
with a q    u   i  e  t  thrill
to accept the GIFTS of the forest.

The silence is broken.

Your One Marvelous Life

Now, I am sure poets will do a fantastic job with this sort of thing. I shall be looking for exemplary black-out poetry from now on. Really! The world is full of creative souls. 

So, what do you plan to do with one marvelous life ( to paraphrase Mary Oliver)? Would you try your black-out poetry and share it with me?

What are your favorite bedtime books?

Bedtime Books 

The past few nights have been hot. I would’ve used the term ‘sweltering’ but after reading about chinchillas, I am not sure. They are the ones that live in the sweltering volcanic regions. I live in a place that is hot in summer. It is hot till the air conditioner kicks in. I was over-stimulated and was looking for something soothing to calm down and go to bed.

I sighed, and picked up a book from my latest set of creature books. (I need to put up a separate post on them soon)

The Bedtime Book of Nighttime Animals: More Than 100 Creatures Who Come Out to Play When You Go to Bed

Why this strange fascination for creature books?

What is this strange fascination with children’s books on creatures, you ask. To that, I say, if you aren’t reading them, you’re missing out on life. Take for instance this set of books that I have been reading, admiring and glancing through every chance I get. Sometimes, we think being a human is all there is to life. But is it? A book like this is marvelous to imagine all the creatures out and about on Earth just as we tuck ourselves into bed. I felt a pang for the times the children and I would read these kind of books when they were toddlers. So, maybe it is just a little piece of that I cling to when reading these books. 

I know the children as toddlers would have been enthralled by the names of the creatures in this book: Tasmanian devils, roborovski monsters, spinner dolphins, pipstrelles, kakapo, natterjack toad, kuhli loach. If I were a rap singer with any sort of talent, just imagine rapping the names of the creatures who are up at night.

Imagine being a kinkajou?

Still unable to sleep, I sat with a strange urge for a midnight snack and wondered whether to get out of bed, go downstairs, and then decided against it. Now, if I were a kinkajou that would not be a problem at all, would it?

The kinkajous live on trees, and think nothing of hanging from them for a midnight snack. They love to raid beehives for honey, and being nocturnal means that the bees must be in residence when they do so. If that isn’t brave, I don’t what is.

  • Why does the kinkajou not get stung by bees? Because the bees are asleep!
  • And what of blood sugar at night? The kinkajou doesn’t care.

I flipped a few more pages, and there staring at me was the roborovski hamster. It is the smallest and fastest hamster in the world. Why the long name, Roborovski? I think it is brilliant.  “Roborovski hamster – come here this instant!” And he vanishes before you finish calling his name. See? 

As I nodded off to sleep, I couldn’t help thinking of the cute chinchillas who are so smart that when caught by predators, they simply shrug off their fur and take off into the silver night. They manage to sleep during the day in hot volcanic regions, I am sure I should be able to sleep now, I told myself and thought of all the happy creatures sleeping at night and all the ones enjoying themselves in the light of the stars.

The Unlikely Friendships of Larks & Koalas

Sunrise! Sunrise! Please don’t sing!

It was one of those swift week-end trips to the Pacific Northwest. An early morning flight to catch meant that we were out before the sun rose. Watching the sunrise is something I do not do often, but when I do, I like it to be just the way I am. A little sleepy, groggy, the rays of the sun slowly brightening the skies. Taking its time. 

I have written about this appalling tendency of some people to get up and switch themselves on like fluorescent flashlights illuminating an international football stadium. The daughter and yours truly are not like that. We like to take our time. Rise and shine in slow motion after a cup of coffee preferably. We have just switched out from another realm of our dreams to earth, and we like to adjust.

The daughter looked like a rock. Literally. She had a brown hoodie pulled over her head, and looked slightly delirious if addressed. Clearly wishing to be left alone. Her eyelids drooping behind the eyelids. Yours Truly did not have the hoodie, but I was yawning so relentlessly even after a shower and a cup of coffee, that no one but visiting fruit flies should have come near me.

The husband, on the other hand, had this beaming smile on his face, and was … get this … hold your breath … dancing to the appalling music he had on. The daughter and I moaned, but it didn’t seem to deter him. Feigning sleep only seemed to make this enthusiasm worse. “Come on!”, he said with an exaggerated dance move that made the car swerve a bit with the early morning winds of the bay.

Sunrises soothe souls

I was lost for a solution when I peeked outside and the caught the pinkening of the skies. Like soothing an overactive child, I directed his attention to the skies. He wow-ed and look-ed – but at least the dancing had stopped. The daughter’s feeble , “Good job ma!” Was all the appreciation I needed. The sunrise had given us all what we were looking for.

What was it that made some of us diurnal creatures and others nocturnal? How is it some of us are koalas and groggy after 18 hours of sleep and a dose of eucalyptus oils, while others chirp and think nothing of belting out that early morning birdsong and hopping about – what are these birds? Yes, larks.

We were like larks and koalas in the mornings, and somehow, we manage to shake down together on this earth. Talk about unlikely friendships and all that.

Are you good at this-and-that OR that-and-this?

Indians in India have this habit of rising at ungodly hours to drink coffee. Even when there is nothing much to be done for the rest of the day. Why potter about at 5:30 in the morning, rouse the household, and drink coffee if you are only to get into bed for a nap at 11 a.m?

There have been plenty of studies showing that an early riser is good and this-and-that, while late-night folks are good at that-and-this. 

This turtle that I saw in the Pacific Northwest after a good few hours of sunshine, was rising and clearly taking its time. I saw it shrinking from the energetic joggers and speed walkers, and felt a sense of kinship with it. Even though I got a baleful look at the fact that I crouched down to take its picture that early in the morning, I thought I’d share it with my readers. 

So tell me. How are you in the mornings?

Yoga Audiences

We were doing yoga on the lawn. It isn’t too much to say that we were being spoiled by the hot summer days and a generous neighbor with a fantastic backyard. It felt luxurious even if the rest of the day did not feel that way.

Lawn yoga is a source of great joy to birds, squirrels and cats in the neighborhood too. Today, it was the crows and blue jays who provided us with entertainment. Or at least they provided us with as much entertainment as we provided them. I could almost see the crow’s smirk at our crow pose and pigeon pose.

The Bird’s Eye View

The blue jays were more vociferous in their appreciation, or maybe it was their fight for the tallest bough in the trees. They both seemed territorial for the perch, and I wondered not for the first time, how it must be to fly and select a tree upon which to alight and take in the world.

If ever there was a meditative pursuit there’s one. I would love to flit and perch on a tree, taking in the sights of my fellow beings doing yoga on the grass below.

The cats, crows and blue jays seem to have understood the essence of living far better than we did, however, and for the whole hour, that we stretched and pulled our muscles, they did their own set of stretching their wings and paws with ease, a smile in their easy postures, and a certain earnest interest in the abilities of human-beings.

The cats are an especially discerning audience. They seem to raise one eye if you get the cat pose wrong, and show you how to do the down-dog pose without trying.

Strangely Un-extraordinary Creatures

It had been an interesting, if somewhat tiring day. I was up to my neck with deadlines, and I felt a certain helpless anxiety pervading the system, as I headed out to do my yoga. After an hour of stretching this-and-that, and more importantly watching my fellow creatures stretch this-and-that, I was filled with amusement, and strangely a sense of hope.

After all, if we could find a way to muddle along on this planet, when our capabilities are not extraordinary compared to our fellow creatures, we could figure out deadlines couldn’t we?

Yoga itself, I mused as I made my way back to my duties, was a result of human-kind trying their best to fit into the natural world around them. It is an art to remind us that we are more than our task-lists, accomplishments, and capabilities, and no more than simple breathing creatures who must learn to use their bodies to the best of our abilities and settle into the world around us.

The cat brushed against my legs – a rare act of acknowledgement, as it usually acted like it was the queen, and I was a peasant hoping for a favor.  I bent down to pat her, and she allowed me to do so. I must’ve done my cat pose well today.