Humour – Page 19 – Nourish-n-Cherish

🪷Happy 18th Birthday 🍀

May is the beautiful month of beauty, warmth , work, and birthdays (including the blog’s birthday)

The nourish-n-cherish saga is now officially an adult in the muggle world (18 years of age)

Over 1080 posts in, the blog seems to have had its own growth.

In the beginning , it was a place for short anecdotes on family and children.

Over time, as it neared school going age, I suppose the blog grew too

It started showing interests in varied subjects: gravitating towards science and nature based subjects for sure, but also retaining that shy curiosity about life and a sense of humor as we navigated the vicissitudes of life.

It isn’t as personal as a diary, so I doubt it will serve as a pensieve, but it serves as a cup of joy from which to sip when in a reminiscing mood.

🧘🏼‍♀️There were times when I could philosophize, contemplate, marvel in safety.

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Whatever it’s purpose was while starting out, I think I can safely say that it has helped along several dimensions (like a snowflake)

When first I started moving out of only personal anecdotes to writing a thing or two on a book I read etc, it seemed to have opened a door to innate curiosity.

Suddenly, I was more interested in varied topics, trying to understand different perspectives, open my mind to areas that I otherwise might not have had the opportunity to, etc. Inevitably, with all this fodder came the benefits of cross pollination, the joys of thinking through things, or the rewards of quiet contemplation.

In short, what started as a hobby soon became a source of such gratification, learning and joy that I could not help sharing with my friends (who, for their part have been nothing short of spectacular with reading, inspiring and encouraging me)

It Takes a Village

There have been times I’ve wondered what it all amounts to.But then I realize that it already has amounted to magnitudes more than I thought possible (sometimes human imaginations are limited.)

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⚡️Those moments when I am spinning ideas in my head, and have to stop mid-stride when a thought strikes.

⛈The magic of writing, re-writing and re-rewriting to get a piece right.

👻The frustration of unfinished pieces from a decade ago because of lack of time.

∫ The joy of tucking a good memory away so it can replenish us in written form later.

🪷The thrill of creativity as new ideas come in – the long list of children’s books ideas waiting to be written (also novellas & short stories) I have wisely given up on the idea of a novel given the constraints of time – but one never knows!

To all of you who have joined me on this journey, whether gamely taking it in your stride when featured, or given me things to think about as part of our stimulating conversations, or inspired me to try new things, or just being there in my life: Thank You!

A Redwood Run

It has been a few years since we attempted a destination run. The type where we run for the scenery, the physical gravitas of one’s surroundings, and the joy of camaraderie among one’s fellow runners. As we ran through the redwood forests, I thought to myself how marvelous it was to run and run like a true child of the Earth without urban buildings, construction noise, and piles of concrete. Even the gray road through the forest felt poetic and somehow attuned to its surroundings. (Well, maybe the double yellow lines were a bit jarring, but the gray road didn’t feel quite so intrusive)

After a chaotic start to the half-marathon, it took some time for us to settle into the run. The traffic jams were horrendous – the husband’s implacable optimism about making it to the start line on time was a bit misplaced, especially when we could see other runners leap out of their cars and run to the start line (adding a good mile to their already long runs). Our group of runners were split between two cars and by the time the bibs were collected and we started the race, it was a good 20 minutes past the race start. To make matters worse, the officials were adding to the confusion yelling to all in the vicinity that they would be removing the starter mats that record time. We were thoroughly frazzled as we ran across – not at all sure it had recorded our run, but we ran anyway.

The son ran a 10K, while the husband and I ran the half-marathon. The son having age and weight on his side flew on, while we huffed and puffed behind him trying to keep up. This resulted in a shin injury for the husband (which, he told me later, almost had him wondering whether he should do a 10K instead. Coming from the sun-is-shining husband, this must’ve been a serious enough injury) However, some stretches and slow miles later, he seemed to be in a better shape.

As we ran on and on, deeper into the forest, there was tranquillity there. A meditative pulse to running through trees that started life when humanity was still contemplating the merits of civilized living. Physical gravitas takes on a new meaning in the redwood forests. Young shoots and ferns, the young greens against the textured markers hues of the older trees, the sunlight poring through the branches high above. I thought of the books on redwood trees – Richard Power’s Overstory – the best one I could think off: powerful in its imagery and cathartic to think about just then.

“This is not our world with trees in it. It’s a world of trees, where humans have just arrived.”

– Richard Powers, The Overstory

Between the 7th and 8th mile, I thought I’d missed the mile marker somehow. It seemed interminably long. My leg seemed to have just given up, and I found myself looking up into the tall redwoods begging for strength. To drink from the infinity that seemed to stretch among those majestic trunks. It helped. The depths of the forest tends to speak to the depths of the soul, and I prodded on, careful not to tell the husband about the injury like saying it out loud would somehow make the injury worse. I stretched, grimaced, and plodded on. Each mile excruciatingly long.

I thought of the gray road cutting the mycelium web underground that sustained these trees for millennia and felt a strange stab of remorse : would the web have found a way to continue underneath the gravel to sustain the trees on either side? I’d have to check.

Cosmos episode for: The Search for Intelligent Life on Earth : narrated by Neil DeGrasse Tyson, written by Ann Druyan & Carl Sagan

But yet again, the forest helped.

Whenever the body felt drained and the pain in the right leg flared up, it felt grounding to remind myself that running this course was one of the best things to happen. For the redwoods were calm, the mists rolling in mystical, and the pattering of fellow runner’s feet grounding. There was a strange other worldliness to running through the redwood forests. Pain (possibly ITB) the only reminder that this was not a dream.

I cannot tell you how marvelous it felt to run the last mile and arrive at the finish line – famished yes, but we had managed to finish! Between our injuries, and a clatter of a start, a horse-wallop of a run, we had finally finished. The son was there cheering us on and all was well.

Having a wonderful set of friends on the journey is always helpful, and though we were scattered throughout the race, and didn’t see much of each other – the glimpses and cheers we did get was hugely inspiring.

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Write an ode to my wife, my life

“So, will I be getting my romantic poem then?!” I teased the husband who was looking sheepish. I giggled at his obvious discomfort. He is the sort of fellow who relishes the sentiment behind P G Wodehouse’s statement:

I once stayed at the residence of a newly-married pal of mine, and his bride had had carved in large letters over the fireplace in the drawing-room the legend: ‘Two Lovers Built This Nest’, and I can still recall the look of dumb anguish in the other half of the sketch’s eyes, every time he came in and saw it.

P G Wodehouse

We had been gurgling on about some rom-com movie, a rather touching spot of sentimentality that clinched the deal between the love-birds and all the rest of it. Which led to me to ask for my romantic poem. It is an old joke between us: we both know he is no poet, I am no queen, and so it goes.

I needn’t have worried though. If ever the man is discomfited, it is but a fleeting sensation. For he leaps into problem solving mode almost instantly. A few minutes later, the cocky fellow strode into the room looking pleased with himself.

“Check your WhatsApp messages!”, he said.

I did, and burst out laughing. He had done it. He had sent me a horrendous poem full of lines from 1980’s Hallmark cards, all culled together.

“Oh my goodness! Did you search up the first “romantic poem for my wife” and send it? I asked. I was laughing now, and he disappeared again looking even more pleased, and a sentence thrown to the winds, “The poem doesn’t speak of your particular gifts you are right. One minute.”

Then. A few minutes of deep thinking could be heard – the brain whirring probably and he said: “Check now!”

I must say it was much more than I expected. After seeing the previous attempt, I braced for a cheesy omelet.

My love, my life, my wife,

You are a woman of many talents

You are funny and witty.

And your writing is wonderful

The “poem “ went on in this vein for 3 more paragraphs.“Really?! You wrote this? I didn’t quite slot you as a loquacious poet, but good job! “ I said. The husband puffed out his chest and looked proud of himself. Too proud in fact, and that gave me pause. I narrowed my eyes x-raying the man’s soul and saw all. The twitching of the smile that gave it away, the hearty thanks, and I said incredulous, “Oh my goodness! Did you use ChatGPT for these?”

He nodded looking so proud of himself that I clutched my sides laughing barely able to breathe.

“Pretty good right? I asked it to write a poem for a loving wife who is also a funny writer.”, he said.

I beamed at the problem solver. I suppose all poetically challenged lovers can now relax. They can get help.

We had been talking about the ways in which this new technology can change things for us. Just as with every new piece of technology, there are pros and cons. I had been reading two books simultaneously :

Excerpt from Impromptu:

“Mintz immediately integrated the new tool into his decades-old teaching methods. Within months of ChatGPT becoming public, Mintz started requiring his seminar students to write their essays collaboratively with the new tool. As homework, they bring the ChatGPT prompts they tried and the responses they received for class discussion. They must turn in their final papers with a log of changes to the machine’s output.

As a great teacher, Mintz chose to use ChatGPT not as a source of answers and authority, nor as a replacement of his or his students’ work, but as a tool to help his students learn individually and together.”

ChatGPT: Threat or Menace?: By Prof Steven Mintz

Steven Mintz is professor of history at the University of Texas at Austin.

The book goes on to compare the use of calculators in Mathematics teaching a few decades ago:

“In 1970, the typical calculator was too pricey for wide- spread use in schools, but they hit a tipping point in the mid- 1970s. Many parents and teachers were alarmed at the influx of new tools; they worried that math skills would atrophy and students would simply cheat.

By 1980, however, the National Council of Teachers of Mathematics recommended that “mathematics programs [should] take full advantage of calculators . . . at all grade levels.” Today, most math instructors consider calculators to be a critical part of math instruction, and many states mandate calculator use with certain tests. “

It is curious to see how human intellect is ever ready to thrive and adapt and hopefully stay abreast of these. There are now jobs being created for Prompters for those who can get the ChatGPT/ OpenAI platforms to coax the AI platform into answering particular queries.

There are cautionary stances to be taken and our laws may not always evolve fast enough to keep abreast of technology. The buzz of AI is the most fascinating challenge thus far, and I am rooting for our species to master its use as humanely as is possible. Use it for the good of the world – climate, healthcare (physical and mental), food production, education and so much more.

But now, I am going to savor the husband’s poem. After all, it did say:

Thank you for being you.
You make the world a better place.

Professor Mintz would’ve been proud of the poem 🙄

Photo by Matheus Bertelli on Pexels.com

Photo by Andrew Neel on Pexels.com

🪷An Anthophile’s Angst🪷

The Earth in spring is filled with ephemeral beauty. If only there was a way for us to shore up these stores of promise and beauty to dip into on long, drab days when hope isn’t shining out of every pore, life would be set.

Last week-end, one of my best friends whisked us from our homes to a place where Earth, as Ralph Emerson Waldo, so clairvoyantly says, laughs in flowers. I had seen pictures of tulips from Netherlands, and from Oregon and Washington states as well. It is hard to miss these photographs on social media. But it has helped build the yearning to visit these flower fields in the peak of spring. Who says dreams do not come true? They do, and often, in ways you do not expect, adding a delicious twist of serendipity to the experience. For this time, it came in the form of a girls’ trip to one of my best friends’ home. The exemplary hostess that she is, we came back feeling like queens, glowing in the warmth of laughter and love she enveloped us in, and smiling secret smiles filled with tulips, daffodils, fields, lakes, clouds and the sound of the twinkling camaraderie between friends.

Walking in and out of these flower fields, I stopped to see the different ways in which we sought to preserve these memories for ourselves. The photographs were fast and furious. Some folks, like ourselves, tried silly photographs, and some others were trying their best to obscure the pictures and their angles so as remove the other people around them. I quite understood the yearning, but also felt a bit cheated (though I was guilty of the same thing). You see? I had expected to see endless fields of tulips stretching far into the horizon as far as the eye could see. What I saw instead was a finite field of flowers. They were brilliant, but not endless. The angle of photography can be misleading indeed.

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The ones most appreciative among us were a couple of dogs that stopped to sniff the blossoms reminding me of the dog in Mary Oliver’s poem that loved to sniff flowers.

“I had a dog
who loved flowers.…

she adored
every blossom

not in the serious
careful way
that we choose
this blossom or that blossom

the way we praise or don’t praise –
the way we love
or don’t love –
but the way

we long to be –
that happy
in the heaven of earth –
that wild, that loving.”

― Mary Oliver

Maybe the dog caught a whiff for their sense of smell is far sharper than ours, but we shall never know what the dog smelled. I shall however remember the satisfied contented look in its eyes. There was another child who sniffed at the tulips and looked up questioningly. I understood the confusion in the child’s face for it mirrored mine from a few moments ago: the tulips weren’t fragrant exactly – they simply had no smell.

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As I stood there surrounded by tulips first and then daffodils in another farm, I thought longingly of the patch in my front garden. For two years now, I have been trying to get it to bloom. But like a trichologist (Trichology is the scientific study of hair) battling a particularly persistent bald man’s patch, it has so far resisted. A shining bald patch in the middle of the yard, simply refusing to burst forth and shine in the spring time. How these horticulturists managed to get this many plants to bloom altogether, and not one of them a dud, is beyond me. #EarthMagicians.

In any case, I thought to myself as I sniffed a flower, I take inspiration from the dogs in spring time bounding about with energy and a bubbling happiness trying to capture infinity in flowers. An anthophile’s (lover of flowers) angst is easily remedied in the ephemeral beauty of every blossom. No rose stops to think of its purpose in life does it?

“Wild roses,” I said to them one morning.

“Do you have the answers? And if you do,

would you tell me?”

The roses laughed softly. “Forgive us,”

they said. “But as you can see, we are

just now entirely busy being roses.”

– Mary Oliver , Roses

Spring in the Sierra Nevada

The yearning for adventure was astir. Yodeling by the river was not enough, huffing and puffing like penguins in the Atlantis marathon was not enough. Luckily, spring time in California never disappoints the strider in the hills. So, off we went traveling to the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Driving up to the mountains, we passed by the green hills, greener pastures, and entire meadows, and hillsides covered in lupines, daisies, poppies, milkweed, and little yellow flowers (So many varieties!). If ever any one needs their worries and woes to flee, a drive like this is all it would take.

“In every wood, in every spring, there is a different green.” – J R R Tolkien

Yosemite National Park is probably one of the most explored parks in the world.

🪨Every major boulder is given an impressive (sometimes humorous) name: El Capitan, Half Dome, Cathedral Rocks.

💦Every major perennial waterfall carefully charted – yet every year in spring with the snow melt, the number of little creeks and waterfalls that arrive and vanish before the summer’s heat is like trying to estimate how many chips a kid would eat out of a fresh packet.

🏞 Every picturesque spot named – there is even a week dedicated to photographing a waterfall – that week the rays of the sun at sunset make the waterfall look like a volcanic lava flow. Photographers spend hours waiting for that wondrous shot.

Of course in spite of everything been catalogued and charted, nature finds a way to impress and astonish. High up in the Sierra Nevada mountains, we expected to be cold.

But, Spring in the Sierra Nevadas felt like winter left in a huff one evening. No lingering farewells, no tears, no gloom, no fussing. Just packed its bags and left.

Spring pranced in, as though waiting back-stage secretly shooing winter off for a bit of shine in the spotlight, and all the world suddenly brightened and lit up in the sunshine. We were so shocked to have two days without needing thermals, or jackets and just listening to the snow melt from the peaks whooshing down the rivers.

As we walked through the forests of Yosemite, poetic phrases bubbled up. Why oh why does this happen, and how oh how does the world know April is Poetry Month?

So we bubbled along, squirting out our little phrases. The ones that came and the ones we contrived to fit the ones that came.

Earth, River, Forest, Light
Green, Blue, Brown, Yellow
Pristine ponds reflecting these sights.
River rapids,
Birds chitter,
Breeze mellow.
Pine wood,
Gnarled roots,
Bulky boulders.
Puddles in the middle
Rugged rocky cliff faces
Moss clinging to these spaces.

This has probably been the most generous winter I have witnessed in the past two decades in California. I felt bad for the number of trees that were felled due to the extraordinary winds and rains coming after years of near-drought, but overall, I was grateful.

Wherever we turned in the massive valley – rivers and waterfalls surrounded us. It is truly a beautiful time. When the power of Earth makes you feel humbled, grateful, and joyous, is there a better retreat?

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Lessons in Spring Time

I sat one spring morning feeling a kinship that felt very Wind in the Willows, Frog & Toad, or any other sweet animal story that comes to mind. I thought fondly of the animal characters in my Festivals in the Jungle series (My own characters Oby Elephant, Jenny Rat, Biso Bison et al ).

Spring in the world means that a whole world sits up and takes notice. At least schools still honor this joyous season with a Spring Break. I am happy (and just a little jealous) to see the story book tucked under the son’s arm as he nestles into his reading nook in the mid-morning with his City Spies book, followed by a vigorous hour of television watching on the couch.

While most white-collar job humans have created have schedules and tasks quite divorced from the natural world outside, the bulk of the creatures that we share our planet with, have not fallen to this folly.

So, it is with glee that I stop typing to peer outside the window to see a bunch of squirrels fooling about and squealing – having fun while chasing each other and gearing up for the year ahead. It is with a surge of protectiveness that I look at the thrushes who are building and fortifying their nest in our patio. It is with pride that I look up and see a crow carry a long string in its beak for its own nest. It is with joy that I wait for the ducklings and goslings to hatch so I may see these stellar parents at work showing us a thing or two about parenting.

The other day, the husband & I went on a hike nearby – out on the rolling hills. Hearts a-flutter, toes a-flying, spirits a-singing, water-bottles a-swinging. We prattled on as we ascended the green hills bursting with wildflowers an all sides. The misty air was enhanced by the scents of eucalyptus and pine. The cows and calves grazing in the hillsides are always a joy to watch in spring time. As we neared one particularly narrow path in the trail, a large cow – or rather an extra-large cow obstructed our path. If I had been in the sub-Saharan areas of Africa instead of the lush green hills of California, I might’ve mistaken it for a hippopotamus. Gentle creature as it was, the husband and I exchanged quizzical looks and waited patiently. The poor animals seemed to have an itch and, having no other option, had scrambled up some steep hillsides to get to the fallen tree by the wayside and was scratching itself against the trunk.

We waited. The cow scratched.

We waited some more. The cow turned and scratched some more.

After some more minutes of this thrilling action, we decided to give the poor animal some space and started walking away the way we came.

Had this not happened to us, I might never have believed. But within a few steps of us going in the opposite direction, the cow called out to us. As if to say, “I am almost done. You can come along now.” Some more quizzical looks later, we doubled back. Right enough, the cow turned to look at us, and then ambled away. Slowly on the path, body language saying- come along now, don’t be silly. Of course you can carry on in your little amble beside me.

One time, I remember, a cow calling out to her calf in unmistakable tones of warning as it came close to us. The calf, like most little ones, was curious to see what was happening. The mother gave a warning, and some time later, as more people ambled up the path, called out, “Come here!” – Not in English of course, but in Moo-in-ese, and the calf thought about ignoring her, but then acquiesced, and agreeably went back to its mother only to get a gentle reward of some suckling.

The language of understanding is so marvelous to behold. The world in the spring-time is a place to soak in all these lessons with a beginners mind #Shoshin.

“In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.”
― Margaret Atwood, Bluebeard’s Egg

Spring Yodelers

It was a beautiful spring day and the senses were rebelling against the small act of staying indoors. So, I took myself to the seat by the window and lifted the windows. A slight chill came in – like a little river of spring amidst the cozy indoor air. But along with that something else came in too – I call it Spring Yodeling and I smiled despite myself. There, in the park nearby, sat a man who couldn’t stop himself singing at the top of his voice – bass tones and high spirits make for an enjoyable combination. I’ve heard of bards mention ‘song bursting forth’ and have heard the robins bursting with song on a spring morning and all that, but witnessing it is a whole lot better. It was joyous to behold.

If I knew the song, I would’ve joined in – but alas I did not.

I might’ve written it off as exuberant spring spirits, if it weren’t for the fact that I got to listen to another yodeler the same day while on an evening walk. It was a cold day with a promise of the rain and the clouds scudding obligingly to make way for some rays of the setting sun. I was walking along a river bed, and on the opposite side was a yodeler, this time with a high pitch and a wobbly track, but spring yodeling nonetheless.

When two spring yodelers show you how it’s done, a little spring humming cannot be far behind can it? And so, it was, that the son and I hummed to a tune, (completely out of tune obviously but joy and music-correctness are two different things). Afterward, after several glances to ensure no human company was nearby and inviting honks from the geese, we yodeled too. It was out of tune, true, but joyous and glorious all the same. We even got a rainbow to peek out at us at the very end. That must count for something right?!

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Of course, as I sat by the window ledge writing out this piece, I looked for suitable quotes and this one tickled my musical fancy:

“Blessed are those who yodel – for they shall never be troubled by offers of work.”

― Billy Connolly, Windswept & Interesting: My Autobiography

I threw my head back and laughed – yes, the hummers of that Spring evening shall not be troubled by offers of work in that department, and didn’t that make it all the more enjoyable?

Hummingbirds’ Magic

I was rushing to the car – needed to be somewhere. But the little hummingbirds stopped me for just a moment yet again. We have a few of them hovering over our lovely little lavender patch in the garden. The little bright flurries of beauty never fail to enthrall me. There is at least 1 red ruby throated hummingbird and several Anna’s hummingbirds gleaming in the sunshine with their green plumage catching the light of the day in brilliant angles.

I am eternally grateful – both for the fact that I have these little visitors and for the ability to stop and appreciate them.

I have now stopped trying to photograph them while they flit for I find I am barely ever able to capture them with my iPhone, and my friends are far better photographers. This way, I get to enjoy the brilliant pictures and the momentary flashes of joy unencumbered by the effort of trying to capture it.

Able to flap their wings upto 200 times a second, they are incredible long-distance flyers too. The ruby throated hummingbirds can fly 500 miles non-stop across the Gulf of Mexico during their fall and spring migration seasons.

The hummingbirds weigh only about 3 grams and therefore the term ‘more than their weight in gold’ doesn’t mean much. What they are able to accomplish with that body weight is phenomenal. Apparently, they can consume half their body weight in pure sugars and eat upto 5-8 times an hour.

More fascinating hummingbirds facts here:

https://nourishncherish.org/?s=hummingbird

That metabolism doesn’t come easy for the little ones are hardly ever sedentary, They take a maximum of 90 seconds per break and flit almost all day long. Gathering nectar, feeding their littles ones, building their nests, and generally making the world a more happening place.

If hummingbirds fascinate you as much, try reading this book:

My Tiny Life by Ruby T Hummingbird – written by Paul Meisel. It is a beautiful book that captures the life of hummingbirds. The book is a Theodor Seuss Geisel Honor winner and is a lovely informative little book.

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🪺On May 15th a tiny hummingbird hatches from its egg, and thus starts our marvelous journey with the little bird as it learns to fly, mature, meet and greet its fellow humminbirds and eventually enhance the circle of life by having its own little family to nurture and nourish.

🕊By June first week, the little ones in the nest are ready to fly with their mother, in a flurry of wings, and a soaring of tips.

“Up, down, backward, forward!”

🪷 By the first week of July, the bird is getting territorial and fending off its fellow hummingbirds. (Pic from the book, My Tiny Life – by Paul Meisel)

🚁 By the last week of September the birds are getting ready to migrate before they return in March, sometimes flying upto 18 hours non-stop to get back home where its journey started a year ago.

The illustrations and content is marvelous and once again, I am enamored by artists able to capture the magic of light and movement in art. (Sample pic inserted above to get a feel of the beautiful imagery in the book)

Talking about the Weather

I have no idea what people mean when they say talking about the weather is mundane. The disdain of, “Just talking about the weather!”, “I mean why not talk about the weather to kill time?”

Apparently, Oscar Wilde said: “conversation about the weather is the last refuge of the unimaginative.”

It isn’t. It is marvelous.

No two days are exactly the same, see?

In any case, I would much rather talk about the sunsets and moonrises, fluffy happy cirrus clouds and stormy heavy cumulonimbus clouds, than about any other foul thing wracking humanity.

In the Spring, I have counted 136 different kinds of weather inside of 24 hours.

– Mark Twain

It’s been a curious winter for those of us spoilt by our usually mild Californian winters. This winter saw us receive unusually large amounts of rain, our mountains are swollen with snowcaps, and our rivers are welling up and rushing into our oceans, the winds, when they came, ripped treetops, and crashed onto roads & homes and showed us how powerful nature is. One house on my regular commute route had a 100 ft tree crashed straight through – I can only hope the inhabitants weren’t present in the house when the tree fell, for it would most certainly have caused injury or worse.

Having grown up in the mountains where extreme weathers were not unheard of, and blackouts a way of life, I would’ve thought recent weather events would not have surprised me so much. But I suppose it still did. My heart leaped as a huge tree branch crashed right behind my car as I drove home through a particularly windy day. I think I held my heart in in my mouth to keep it from leaping out and flying off with the gale for a full 5 minutes.

The quickly changing weather has us all philosophising too. More than we usually do.

Do the weather related moods signify something as drastic as the impermanence of our existence? Or is it just that – vagaries of nature to be borne, witnessed and experienced? Could it signify our emotions flitting in and out of our systems, lapping like little waves against our psyche, shaping, reshaping and muddling our coastlines ever so subtly, the cumulative effect of what we allow to feel weighing in? Like weather patterns, we could change. After all, like one of our favorite songs often reminds us: Behind the clouds, the sun is shining. We can only appreciate a good day when we have days in which stepping outside is hard.

For those of us spoilt by the consistency of the sun and the brilliance of our days and the glows of our sunsets and sunrises, this is a time for philosophy. Unabashed but lovely philosophizing.

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I quite agree with this quote that I found attributed to John Ruskin:

Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather.

John Ruskin

The Peace of Pursuit

It was a rare day in which there were no pressing demands and I found myself wondering what to write. Now in wondering what to write, there was a strange sense of duty and an obligation to not waste the afternoon thus gifted for literary pursuits with anything else.

But I was also in a state of limbo – not wanting to write about any books I was currently reading, wanting to write that children’s book that has been gnawing in the back of my mind, and also itching to get that short story taken out of the attic for a proper airing and rewriting.

I did none of these.

My mind harked back to Intimations – a slim volume of essays. I have been wanting to read Zadie Smith for sometime now and thought essays a good place to begin. I do not understand what the fuss is about – some essays are good, others merely perfunctory. But the book was written and published as a sort of meditation during the early months of Covid-19. They are no works of philosophy, but one essay in which she touches upon the nature of time resonated.

It is a common refrain – if I spent half the time thinking about writing, actually writing, I could’ve had an impressive repertoire. But the thoughts of writing are far more entertaining. Sometimes, by the time the words make it to the physical form, some of that magic has evaporated. Other times, the art of writing brings forth something far different from what I anticipated and that is rewarding in itself. Nevertheless – less thinking more doing would be nice in the realm of writing at least.

Time To do : Essay by Zadie Smith in the book Intimations

I do feel comforted to discover I’m not the only person on this earth who has no idea what life is for, nor what is to be done with all this time aside from filling it.

Zadie Smith in the Essay, Time To Do, Book: Intimations

On a walk a few weeks ago, a close friend & I were talking about what is the making and breaking of us. As youth, young adults and as adults. The crux of it boiled down to what we wish to do with our time when there are no demands on it. That kind of time only increases as we age. I see many retired and older people at somewhat of a loose end. After the seemingly long years of bustling careers, raising children, paying mortgages: When all the business of living is done with, and the busyness of living is no longer there to fill our times, then what?

Those of us who are not there yet, have time now, to think of what brings us wholesome happiness, so that we may be better prepared.

Read: What is your friend?

What is your Friend?

I was musing thus on a walk with the husband one morning in which I begged for some quiet. My throat was not okay, and the river by our home was full and flowing. The husband, is not the quiet contemplative kind. Quite the opposite actually. So, I should’ve known that the quiet would last all of 100 meters. He glanced at me, and started laughing loudly.

“What?” I said.

“I was thinking – okay, I have seen the river, looked for birds, the clouds look good. What else? And I turn and look at you, and see you have a small smile playing on your lips! So, now I am thinking – did she see deer somewhere? Is that what the smile is about? I see no deer, and you still look lost and dreamy!”

river

“Well!” I croaked, joining him in his laughter this time. “I was thinking of this post actually. Tying an essay by Zadie Smith and Time.”

Oh the poor man! I started and we landed up chatting all the way back much to our pleasure.

I suppose mankind, over the centuries, has arranged life such that there is structure, work and livelihoods all to be taken care of, so that unstructured time is relatively hard to come by. Yet, I remember reading somewhere that one of the best things we can gift ourselves with is the ability to be comfortable with ourselves as there are periods (inevitably) where one is alone. The Covid years suddenly bought this crashing on the world population at once, but it is something philosophers have been musing about for eons.

So, I suppose finding something interesting to do, and finding ourselves rejuvenated in the thoughts of it, or the pursuit of it, are gifts in and of itself.

Who Am I?

Here 🥂 is to interests, hobbies and finding the Peace of Pursuit.

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