Prayers like gravel

flung  at the sky’s

window, hoping to attract

the loved one’s

attention. But without

visible plaits to let

down for the believer

to climb up,

to what purpose open

that casement?

I would have refrained long since

But that peering once

Through my locked fingers

I thought that I detected

the movement of a curtain.

I think I would like to spend the next few months  not running around and being quiet. In fact, I sense the call of the wild within (and without, thanks to our mongrel pooch )to return to the writing life – not that I had much of one, but, sigh, one can be inventive.

Incidentally, I found this portion of a lengthy article entitled “The best advice for writers?” , quite amusing. It should make your dinner in your contented tummy do acrobatic tricks of sorts:
“Once a commitment to writing is made it can be a long time before a person starts writing anything of quality and, as a consequence, young writers often spend years escaping into other people’s fiction in lieu of writing themselves. Then, magically, they might develop a talent for expressing their ideas in language; their ideas might not be any good, but the practice of constructing sentences around those ideas becomes far less painful. At this point, a writer might start writing more and more each day, and reading a little less.”

Painful is THE word to describe my efforts at writing – book reviews, movie reviews, THIS blog- for the past few years. I suppose this is what they call “writers’  block”.  Or “writers’ edifice” in my case.

For instance, at this very moment I am supposed to finish a book review of a wonderful book, and send it to my editor before the end of next week, and here I am – here, doing this, and not focusing on what I should be doing. In short, I am distracted. In approximately 1 hour and 27 minutes , my whole lot of happiness will come chugging home joyfully in the car, thinking that mom has completed her work and will be free to enjoy the week end with her beloveds.

I think I just reminded myself to stay on task. Well, read the rest of the advice to writers here:

http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2010/mar/02/best-advice-writers-read#start-of-comments

Ta. da.

A sheaf of wind. The Waterhorse Suite. Children’s voices playing. Quiet.

I live for such days!!

We’re done with the pre-Christmas flurry of carolling, gatherings, performances and gifts. Is Christmas ever complete without these? I suppose so. Several Christmases back, all we could manage were home-made gifts for each other and a Christmas tree the size of an upturned shoe-box. And snippets of carols from here and there.
It was a very quiet Christmas at home then.

This year was another thing altogether. It’s interesting how the same tradition, celebrated differently at different times, can be as profoundly meaningful. This year, we’ve been carolling -twice- and gone for two parties, attended a ballet performance (in which Dd8 danced) , drank endless rounds of non-alcoholic beverages at two mini-school reunions and picnicked at a park with a handful of little kids and their moms. We’ve not had much time to reflect on the meaning of Christmas, I’m afraid, or rather, I’ve not spent the Advent season guiding my kids in daily slotted meditative thoughts of why we celebrate Christmas.
Should I feel guilty? I do, a little. However, I wouldn’t have done it differently though. So have I become shallow and callous in my treatment of Christmas?

I’d like to think that the frenzied rounds of meeting various people who have affected my life at various stages, have been good for my family. It’s as if to say, ” Look, here are my friends and people I’ve met along the way. Sure, we’ve disagreed and made up, left for faraway shores and reunited, bumped into each other here and there. Here they are. Isn’t it wonderful how diverse God has made us. What do you think?” Laughter. Belch, belch, sing, dance- “Hark the Herald angels sing”.

Now we’re getting ready to go home to see the folks. Dad-in-law all alone in his house with his orchard of cili-padi, curry leaves and lime plants. Grandaunts all alone in their once-was-homes with their tv sets and blue-red plastic stringed lazy-chairs. Mom and dad growing old with brother who’s not little any more. All that is Christmas.

We treat the remembering of God’s Word made flesh callously when we ascribe it the religious paegentry of self-righteous pious works be it grand shows of good deeds, mega-productions to “save souls” and the closetting of ourselves from those closest to us. If we forget those whose love we have received, whose lives moved us to try to be better people, then, we have forgotten how He gave up the crowd for the individual- Peter’s sick mother, the woman with the alabaster jar, the lady by the well, the children impatient to sit on his lap. We have forgotten how quietly He came.

And so, we are going home. Blessed Christmas everyone.

We live in interesting times. We also live in anxious times where promises are glibly made and broken. We huddle for warmth around the illusion of a better government and a fairer society that is marked by clasped hands instead of clenched fists. As time passes, we find that instead of healing there is distortion- words have become merely tools for the furtherance of greed, bigotry and dishonesty. The fire burns but it is cold and those who need it most are left to contrive their own flames, their own means of being clothed and warmed.

And contrive we must in times like these. In darkness, what is needed most is light ; not electric speeches and high-octane rhetoric. Light for the one next to you, light for the one before and behind you. Light that warms because it is fueled by mercy and understanding. Light that burns but does not destroy because its source is beyond you. Light that won’t go out because of He who gave Him a long, long time ago, and still gives to all who come near to its tender flame. Light that won’t go out when its wick flickers. Light that considers the bruised reed and leans gently upon its bent back.