Barking with the dog, bending with the irises

The snow has stopped falling. I am arguably the only person on this coast who will miss it.

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“I never really understood

what he said

but every now and then

I find myself

barking with the dog

or bending with the irises

or helping out

in other little ways”

– Leonard Cohen, “Roshi” (Book Of Longing)

*

Yo soy yo y mi circunstancia.

– Ortega y Gasset

I am I and what is around me.

–translated by Gregory Rabassa

In my life I may not have earned a lot or understood a lot, but there is one thing that I have learnt: the world is divided into two kinds of people– those who help others (and in doing so seek to be “happy”– however you define that word) and those who don’t (i.e. who only help themselves and seek happiness in that). Racism, sexism and all that is used to signify the “other” (that which is not like me) are born out of these two conflicting impulses. And all such distinctions fall to the wayside when the former impulse overcomes the latter– maybe not yet on the “global” scale, but definitely, undeniably on the individual scale– the scale on which life is lived. Of course, choice plays a role and even individuals sway between the two impulses depending upon their circumstances.

There are few constants regarding human life– humans making the best of their circumstances is one of them. The more people I meet from more countries (arbitrary boundaries created by the later human impulse), the more I realize that each and everyone is a result of their circumstances, yet, united in the search for the same thing. Elmore Leonard made a thought-provoking statement that will endure for long:

"I never see my bad guys as simply bad. They want pretty much the same thing that you and I want: they want to be happy."

Perhaps I do not understand. Maybe tomorrow I will learn something new. Till then I choose to postpone all judgments.

*

The male Robin is spotted again on that stretch of the High Line Park. Yes, winter is over for now. And I must be the only person on this coast who will miss the snow– not the wind chill, not the slippery sidewalk, not the after-slush, the brown puddles or the yellow patches– just the falling snow; the silence it commands and the white blanket it spreads so effortlessly and indiscriminately (on the animate and the inanimate), nullifying all differences, forcing me to concentrate on that which is essential: to help in little ways.

January: Winter Silence

At around 2:45 PM the sun makes a comeback after its early morning visitation, and continuing the gradual ascent that began on 21^st December climbs a little bit further and pours down like honey, once again. And winter silence engulfs me; even in a city like New York; even on a Friday; even with the three towers under construction in the neighbourhood. All is calm and all is quiet.

Once again, I realize why, despite the bleakness bestowed on it by popular imagination, winter is the perfect time to be still. To listen. 

“I wake up–a winter silence fills my apartment

With the mystery of life–

               why here, why now, why me:   

               I wonder what birds are nesting at this cold hour

               in bushes by the river, hibernating in their feathers.

               I imagine they

              do not dream about war,

              each breath for them is a cleansing baptism of a constantly occurring miracle,

              each feather tucked snugly to contain warmth

              purifies each heart

              that beats to be what it is.

I must tell you I seek their wisdom

each day

casually study them as I walk the ditch bank–

they seem to understand there is no death in life,

their serene poise on water

beneath the leafless overhanging branches

is movement toward the center of love.”

– from ‘Winter Poems along the Rio Grande’ by Jimmy Santiago Baca 

An historic storm was always a possibility, not a promise. That possibility skipped our door. It visited some miles further away.

Most people left work by 5:00 PM. On a Monday! At the grocery store there were smiles and a few laughs as we picked up bread and milk and extra batteries. By 9:00 PM the city that never sleeps was preparing to get some rest. Except of course the first responders and the road crews, whose long working hours had only just begun.

Late in the night, I woke to joyous laughter. It was 2:30 AM. Some people were making snow angels on the powdered sidewalk.

“Well, you know that I love to live with you

But you make me forget so very much I forget to pray for the Angel 
And then the Angels forget to pray for us”

(“So Long Marianne” by Leonard Cohen)

I watched till they did their penguin walk deep into the haze. And then slept undisturbed till 8:00 AM. The city was so quiet that you could have heard the rats scurrying in their underground chambers. (What a difference the absence of motor vehicles makes.)

Braving the blustery conditions, we meet for coffee. There is nothing to say. Time and space fill even the most contentious of subjects with silence. And ours wasn’t even an argument. We have always erred on the side of silence.

Holding our tiny cups of ‘single origin pour over espressos’ we are standing by the window. The gallery crowds are walking, pausing, peering in and then opening the door and stepping in– in an endless loop­– considering that almost every second door is a door to another gallery. The deliverymen on their bicycles are rushing by with sushi and pad thai lunches. The dog walker waiting at the stoplight is adjusting her gloves, while the dogs are sniffing the snow on the sidewalk. A man in a long black coat is muttering to himself (probably talking on the phone). After much aimless pecking a pigeon has found a pizza piece. The shop assistant is taking a cigarette break. 

The city has organized a pantomime. On the other side of the glass standing in silence, we are listening intently– to the sound of silence. And the snow begins to fall.

This silence

remembers in its deep dark chords and drums

a life beyond this life,

a beauty beyond this beauty.

– Jimmy Santiago Baca

Lately

A few days back I revived my Instagram account. Do look it up if you are around: http://instagram.com/anvita_lakhera
                                                       *
Remember a post I did on reading and how publishing is "whitest white and male dominated". Well, if you've followed recent events then you'd have come across this (among many articles regarding the same on the 'watermelon joke'):
Why is American book publishing so white: http://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2014/dec/02/american-publishing-white

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In other news, they are back in town. Migrant gulls in large numbers come flying over the city rivers in winter, be it the Hudson or the Thames. White darts swooshing past my windows, carrying sunlight on their wings. 

*

While the resident house sparrows seem much satisfied with the bounty offered by grasses going to seed. Thank you very much.

*

At some point in time autumn without a word to anyone, adhering to a well-clocked schedule, peaked. All before the rains came in.

*

Sleet on Thanksgiving brought to mind what it would be like in the coming months. Autumn is a far-away dream. Already.

“Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon's gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.”
– Mark Strand, “Lines for Winter”  (RIP elegant, beautiful poet.)

Winter Chrysanthemums

When the winter chrysanthemums go,
there's nothing to write about
but radishes.
- Matsuo Basho

The White Monk

There is a time of the day in winter,
When the sky sags beneath bulging dark clouds
And the sun tussles to penetrate the shroud.
When all at once it breaks out
Shining like the jewel in a burnt black crown
Its rays illuminating this one particular column of windows
Hollowed into coarsely stacked green and concrete
Home to migrants and other flotsam that globalization excretes
Suddenly everything they touch turns golden
The houses ablaze in grandeur worthy of their inhabitants’ dreams
The tip of each bare branch glistens red and gold
The grass, the reed, the water all gold to behold
And then you float into the picture
A white flag ruffling gently in the breeze
A drop of dew as if the fire had burnt only to release,
Adorning a simple white habit, your mouth pale with the season
A monk drifting past, untouched by pageantry
The gilt flakes and shatters,
The clouds start settling in for a long dark night
The golden glow quietly withdraws, signaling a retreat of light
But there is still that fleeting moment when all elements concede
The simple, tranquil intensity bestowed in white.

On winter

Winter has come. The woods turned pink and then brown as the hills undressed behind Emily’s town. Sending all her birds away she contemplates living and dying- the common right of Toads and Men. Even as steely brooms of snow and wind sweep the empty streets.

Haunting the wintry streets of London Virginia retrieves an adventure. And a lead pencil. Even as she leaves behind footprints into the heart of the forest that is the mind of fellow beasts called men.

On a cold December morning Leonard writes an elegy, whispers a final hallelujah and leaves without signing his masterpiece. Even before one can ask who is calling.

While John sets out into the winter of our discontent as the fog closes Salinas valley from the rest of the world. Even as half obscured visions of Sweet Thursday with Mack and the boys persist.

And all the while I stand here, on this side of the Arno watching Primavera scatter flowers across the Tuscan hills. And they say winter has just begun.