SIMPLY BEING

Tag: self (page 1 of 2)

I am not your …

Watched this film last year, and I am in total awe of James Baldwin’s clarity, insight, and articulateness.

“I have always been struck in America by an emotional poverty so bottomless and a terror of human life, of human touch, so deep that virtually no American appears able to achieve any viable organic connection between his public stance and his private life. The failure of the private life has always had the most devastating effect on American public conduct and on black-white relations. If Americans were not so terrified of their private self, it would never have become so dependent on what they call ‘the n**** problem’.”

“What white people have to do is try and find out in their own hearts why it is necessary to have a ‘n*****’ in the first place, because I’m not a n*****. I’m a man. If I’m not the n***** here, and if you invented him, you the white people invented him, then you have to find out why. And the future of the country depends on that. Whether or not it is able to ask that question.”

(To me, this speaks of a kind of “fractured self.” When you feel broken on the inside, or you have a deep sense of conflict between who you are (or perceive yourself to be) and how you present to the world, and/or you experience a kind of disgust/hate toward yourself that you are unable to accept or contain, and you have little understanding on how to digest or neutralize this experience… all of that is close to spilling on to the outside, and now you need to find an object/recipient for that emotion.)

(Each one of us needs to find objects for the negativity within. We have to offload it someplace else, or we’d suffocate and die.)

(I love this title because what it signifies to me is Baldwin’s refusal to be anyone’s N****. No, I refuse to be the recipient of your angst and self-hate and dread and demons. They are yours to deal with, not mine to carry.)

Video: Yoga & Authenticity

As part of the takeover of the Instagram profile of abcdyogi, I made this video.

I feel that Yoga helps us lead a whole, integrated, and authentic life. If there is a point to the path of Yoga, this must be it. And whatever emerges from that state of wholeness is truth — plain, simple, beautiful. (Also, is Yoga even a “path?” Is anyone not on it?)

#Thisis40

It is Day 1, and we have no ideas. Day 2, week 3, month 4, year 5, 6, 10, 13… the ideas come on, slow in the beginning, increasing in speed as the years go by.

I am a talker. Oh, I have no friends. Am I popular? I am intelligent. Am I a snob? Teachers like me! I am nice looking. Am I too smart? I am cheeky! I am a stick — no curves on my body, no curves in my hair — it is all straight! I think I might be attractive. Oh, guys like me! Am I intelligent, or plain lucky? Ooh, I am a sexual being. I hate this attention. I hate the spotlight. Maybe I am a shy person? Clearly, I am not a logical person. Wow, was I missing the signals ALL THESE YEARS? Such a misfit! Aargh, am I a tease? Do I believe in loyalty at all? I am so cold, so asexual. Ooh, I love people! I am a butterfly, flitting from person to person, place to place, one social scene to another! I am doomed to be forever cute, girl-child. Clearly, I am too darned open for my own good. Oh, I have zero social savvy, no sense of strategy at all, clearly a social misfit. Oh, people love me, kids love me, old aunties love me! I don’t want to work another job, not ever again. I am the original chamathu ponnu*, all over again, damn. I don’t want to talk to a soul! I need a couch and a warm blanket. God, give me absolute independence. Oh, I just crave silence! Ooh, I am sexy and attractive again? Me, a businesswoman? Perhaps. Maybe I like people, after all.

And so on, it continues. If I have a birthday resolution to make, it is this.

Stop The Labeling.

Time and again, I have surprised myself. Life is constantly ripping labels off me, so why do I bother affixing them?

Perhaps this is the point — Relax, Chill, Just Be. #Thisis40

*Can provide an explanation of the term, if required.

Turning 38

And that’s it… I am firmly ensconced in the late 30s.

How did it come to this so darned soon? When Mummy was 38, she had a 9-year-old and a 7-year-old. Two bright-eyed girls, straight black hair, serious and sincere and shy and outspoken (if that is even a legit combination). One of them is a successful professional, skilled and charming, cute and capable. She wins the hearts of almost everyone she meets.

The other? She is still wondering what she wants to be when she grows up.

Well, I have grown old without growing up. Or so it seems.

Wisdom doesn’t exactly announce its arrival. It kinda creeps into your life, hiding beneath silent conversations, endless ruminations, failed projects and relationships and tears and triumphs. You focus on the fireworks, not noticing that there is a solid line of grey developing within your core. Ahh, there it is.

Sometimes I feel like I am running (or walking) with a million things hanging off me. And it is a struggle, holding them all in, explaining their presence to others — half-emabarassed, half-proud.

Perhaps, 38 will be the age when I own all my belongings, no explanations or justifications needed.

This is it, this is me. Equal parts lost and found, curious and detached, imaginative and shy and introverted.

Happy and grateful for health, hair, bones, fire, hunger, love, food and everything else.