This past weekend brought gifts of simple pleasures: laughter of little children, a warm amber fire, reading on a cozy couch and watching the falling white snow. We spent our days in a cabin in a remote forest where the loudest sound was the cadence of your own breath. As we drove toward our destination, our daughter noticed the falling snow and the patches of white that became more frequent as we got closer. “Momma, there is snow!” I can still recollect the purity of her excitement. On Saturday morning, she sled down patches of white hills, sipped some hot cocoa, and warmed up by the fireplace.

As I watched her, I looked outside the window and observed what looked like white icing falling from the sky. Because the temperatures weren’t cold enough, the snow didn’t stick. But there were intermittent snow showers and every time I caught myself looking at the white specks and I felt comforted by its presence. The feeling of peace that simmered with genuine joy. It wasn’t forced or contrived or coerced. I’ve detailed my struggles with meditation and how I can’t sit still or am unable to sit in a room Indian style and just meditate on my breath. Those exercises cause me to grip tighter to my own restlessness. What I’ve realized is my medium for meditation is nature, my observations and my interactions with it. A run in the morning with white rabbits prancing alongside of me or sitting in the comfort of the sun on a cold day or watching snow from my window.

I believe that meditation can be different for everyone. For too long, I held on to the belief that meditation can only happen sitting with your back straight and chanting to yourself in the quiet.  Because I couldn’t do this without feeling the tremors of restlessness, I denied myself meditation in other ways. What I’ve learned is there is freedom in meditation. You are the only person that can define it for yourself.

For me, the falling snow was a revelation. I find the most comfort in the glory of nature and its movement.

Image by JeffK

On Monday afternoon, my husband and I decided to surprise our little girl with a bouquet of balloons as an early Valentine’s Day present. It was an impromptu stop after a quick lunch. As we exited onto the road, I noticed the white tent filled with pink and red flowers, candy bouquets, and large balloons. As we drove over to the tent, I told my husband, “She will be so excited to see her balloon surprise after school. Especially because she isn’t expecting it.”

I walked across the parking lot, my steps moved toward the array of Valentine goodies. There were fresh roses in several intricate arrangements. My eyes noticed the baskets and pottery that provided refuge to all of the flowers. And then it hit me. When I least expected it.

Oh my goodness, Dad is not here anymore. 

My Dad, in the last twenty years before he passed, started and worked hard toward a business he loved. He provided wholesale baskets and pottery to many florists located in Texas. I remember how much he adored getting a new basket and entering its description in his catalog. Three-tier woven basket, rolled bamboo gallon, or willow fruit bowl were terms that weren’t uncommon words in our conversations with Dad.  Perusing the items underneath the white tent reminded me how Valentine’s Day provided the most lucrative business opportunity for my Father. He would often say, “Let’s hope it is a good Valentine’s season.” More often sales for February would start as soon as Christmas was over. Because he operated his business from their home, it was commonplace to see a variety of baskets everywhere. Sometimes my sister and I would ask him if we could take a couple home to decorate our own places. He would readily give them up and say, “No problem. I’ll just get another sample.”

Next month marks the three year anniversary of my father’s passing. In the last six months, I’ve noticed my need to be less vocal about my grief of losing my father. I am not certain if this means I’ve finally processed it. Or that I’ve learned to really cope with the reality of him not being here. Does it mean I’ve made peace with his passing? I  am not sure.

What I do know is that even after a lengthy amount of time, the grief can resurge again. And because it is unexpected, the gravity of it pierces you in a different way. Reminding you of what was and what is and how you are able to blend the two together.

Almost.

“It was a thirty foot cliff. And he dared me to the jump. I was nervous at first, but then this lean and lanky kid jumped. And without  hesitation, I jumped. Man, I just took the plunge and jumped.” The woman is sitting about five rows behind me in the airplane, but she has a megaphone voice and almost every person in a one mile vicinity can hear her private conversation.

This loud banter makes me nervous.

All I can think about is how the plane is swaying from one side to another. I see a man’s toupee slip a little, showing more of his bald head than, I assume, he probably likes. Behind me, the a flight attendant is collecting all the drink cups. When another passenger resists giving up her cocktail, in an even tone, the flight attendant says, “If you don’t give me that cup now, you will be wearing it.” The pilot’s voice hangs heavy over the intercom as he emphasizes “The seat belt sign is on. All persons should be wearing their seat belts. Flight attendants, please take your seats and buckle up. We will be hitting moderate amounts of turbulence as we approach Dallas.”

Outside the rain is making its own footsteps on the wings and the body of the plane. The stormy weather caused the plane to rattle. The pit in my stomach is growing outside of me. I hate the uncertainty of turbulence. You don’t know when it is going to happen. You don’t know when it is going to stop. When you are in the middle of it, you muddle through to calmer air.

Fifteen minutes later, I relax again, taking a sip of my water as I pat the hair on my daughter’s head. From the moment the turbulence began, she laid in my lap. The sudden jerking and dropping did little to danger her sleep. My breath is now more even and the palms of my hands are dry again. In those several minutes of turbulence, it felt as if I held my breath for the tumultous duration. I paralyzed and locked myself in the fear.

The words I overheard earlier rang in my ear again. I believe we intersect with various words and people for a reason. I could easily dismiss that woman’s conversation as obnoxious or irrelevant or annoying. But in it was a truth for me, “I took the plunge. I just jumped.”

We all resist taking a plunge. Much of it for me is driven by fear. Fear of failure or fear of wasted effort or fear of. . . I think we all our guilty of it, whether it is a professional plunge or a relationship risk. We plague ourselves with the uncertainty and sometimes, as a result, we do nothing.

We just stand still. When all we need to do is jump.

Image by woodleywonderworks

She sat silent in the corner. A black scarf covered the top of her head. Only a few words were exchanged. Her conversation came in the form of intricate designs on my sister’s hand. She traced the design on my sister’s skin with a henna cone and her free hand. There wasn’t a guidebook of henna templates or drawings that she copied. Instead, the fingers and her imagination created the detailed paving of lines on my sister’s palm.

I let this image linger in my mind, sensing a wave of hope inside of me. Much like the henna artist, we are all taking steps, making decisions, and yes, hoping that the actions we take now we lead to what we want our life to reflect. I thought about the designer and how she took careful steps not to smudge the henna on my sister’s hand. At certain points, a white tissue could wipe out the stray mark. At other times, it was too late to correct the imperfection because the henna had already taken color. Isn’t that what we do with our own lives? We try to remedy what we can. Sometimes it is too late. The blemish is permanent. And we readjust, trying to make the imperfection a part of our life.

We don’t often know, via individual decisions, how the arc of our life may turn out. Much like the composition of the henna on the hand. The details of the design didn’t take shape immediately. We couldn’t appreciate the intricacy until it was all completed. Ultimately, with the smudges and the sometimes too thick lines of henna, the result was a beautiful pattern of shapes, curls and yes, hope.

It reaffirmed something that I may have forgotten. Though underneath we may sometimes lose our footing and while the struggle sometimes feels constant, there is always that undercurrent of hope. It may be silent, but it is there, shaping our personal design.

This past Saturday night, we attended an engagement party for my little sister and her fiance. Since our daughter has learned that her aunt (affectionately called Masi in the Indian language) is getting married, she breaks down in raindrop size tears. She tells me, “Masi is getting married so she won’t be my Masi anymore.” I try to calm her down and tell her that her aunt will always be her aunt, but part of me knows that she will experience a new life with her fiance and his family.

When my daughter cries, my mom and I feel it. And I am certain that my father would feel it too. We are letting go. And it is a bittersweet feeling. Because my sister and I have a nine year age difference, my role is not only sister, but a sometimes mother.

So many of my memories of my childhood have my sister in them. I reminisce about dancing with her in Indian dance competitions, eating ice cream at Braums, and yelling at her when she wanted to hang out with me and my friends. I remember dancing with her to the New Kids on the Block and lip-synching to Celine Dion songs. She is my little sister and in the last five years, I’ve realized she is her own woman with a compassionate heart and free-spirit. We’ve shared celebrations and sadness. We tag teamed the care of my father when he was sick, and to this day, I believe she did far more for him with a grace that I don’t think she realizes. Her compassion is something I think she underestimates, but it is real and genuine.

We are all slowly letting go. Her time will be divided between her childhood family and  her new family. She is my kid sister, but she is all grown up. I hope that her life with her fiance is filled with good unexpected surprises.  I am raising my virtual glass to my sister. I love you and Congratulations on your engagement. xoxo Rudri

This past Saturday afternoon we spent time moving through ordinary tasks. Folding laundry, paying bills, and general clean-up took most of the day. This routine is something I usually cherish. As my husband and I finished our tasks, we talked about fixing a late afternoon snack.

Our daughter overheard our conversation. Within a span of a few minutes, we heard the rustle of the bag sheltering the bread and the refrigerator opening. I asked my daughter what she was doing in the kitchen, but she said, “I am just checking on something.” As soon as she finished her sentence, the clang of metal hits the sink. My husband and I both start to wonder what she was really doing, but neither one of us made any movement toward her direction.

The next sound we hear are the thump-thump of her feet. She hasn’t quite mastered inside voice or soft feet yet so we always know she is about the make an entry or exit. In her hands, she had a paper plate and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  She said, “I know you were both hungry, so I made a sandwich.” Her gap-filled grin and the echo of pride in her voice choked me up. The unprompted simple gesture caused me to turn my head away from her and wipe away some tears. “Thank you honey. That was so sweet of you.” We both swallowed her with hugs and kisses, while emphasizing that she “cooked” for us for the first time.

So uncomplicated. So simple. And yet so fulfilling. It made me think about how as adults we tend to overcomplicate areas of our own life. What happened to taking the simple approach? What changes as we “grow up”? I am not certain there is a satisfying answer to these questions. But I know there is no mistaking how I filled up inside by something so unlikely. There are, I am certain, so many of these moments in all of our lives. My daughter’s gesture reminded me that I need to be aware of the vastness and grandeur of simplicity.

Image by {N} Duran

I finished. This past Sunday I participated in my second half-marathon. A few days before, family and friends asked, “Are you ready?” It was difficult to answer this question because in all honesty I really never know whether I am ready to run 13.1 miles.

The first few miles are always inspiring. I always notice who runs with me. There were women in pink and yellow tutus, hula skirts, and ones who ran in honor of a loved one. Some ran with their kids, while others sported various shirts reflecting the charities that were dear to them. One man wore a Happy Birthday hat, the number 57 proudly screaming alongside the rim.  Running doesn’t discriminate. It appeals to the young and old, the physically fit and disabled, and all shapes and sizes.

As I hit the ten mile mark, my legs ached and the bottom of my feet began to burn. On the right, I noticed the mountains of Papago park. The curved and red formations were extraordinary, but my feet wobbled as I felt the incline under my feet. At that point, I wanted to stop. But I didn’t. I kept moving forward.

That’s what it is all about. Every single time when I run, I feel it. This need to keep moving forward because it is the best way to celebrate life. To embrace breath and acknowledge the ability to run. It’s that simple.

I run because I can.

There are two ways to live your life.

One is as though nothing is a miracle.

The other is as though everything is a miracle.  Albert Einstein

Two days ago, every single instance of inconvenience created a churning irritability in my gut. Each one of us has experienced days when we feel everything is a nuisance. Even though there is nothing really “wrong” we channel that energy into a negative mood. Part of me wallowed in this defeatist attitude. My actions replicated what itched in my mind. I admonished my daughter for spilling her milk, my tone in conversations over the phone reflected some speckles of annoyance, and the man who cut me off in traffic caused me to curse under my breath. Everything trivial. But all led to my general bad attitude.

In the midst of this negativity, I don’t know what prompted me to access my camera roll on my phone. As I thumbed through the pictures, I caught a glimpse of a picture that I took before a sandstorm in Phoenix. Even though I’ve viewed this picture a few times, the layer cake in the sky startled me. The raw look at nature jolted my conscience into thinking about gratitude. To truly be consistently grateful, there must be a call to look at everything as a miracle. The incidents that annoyed me earlier in the day could easily be viewed from another perspective. Yes, my daughter spilled her milk. But at least she has the capability of drinking milk from a cup, understanding and appreciating the need to clean it up, and also saying, “Sorry for the accident.”  There are children, because of mental or physical limitations, who can’t engage in the most basic of activities. Because my daughter can, that in itself is an ordinary miracle. As much as I was annoyed regarding my phone conversations, just a month ago, I lost my voice and found it particularly challenging to convey my thoughts. But how quickly I forget about those old challenges. I did what was easiest. I gave into the irritation. It is something that comes naturally to all of us. To give in and to forget about what is.

It takes a conscious effort to engage. To really synthesize what it is that surrounds you and what a privilege it is to breathe and sleep and laugh and cry. Even the irritation is an affirmation that you still have the capacity to experience. And that is what I think we miss everyday. The gift of living should startle us and raise our awareness, that yes, it is a miracle.

On January 8th, you turned six. This morning you told me, “I can’t be five forever. I am six. You turned six too, Momma. Do you remember?” I understand your six, but I am reluctant to accept it. Everytime we celebrate your birthday, a part of me realizes I need to let go.

There is so much of you that I love. Not a regular kind of love, but love that I feel in my marrow. Belly-laughs. Conversations about what you learned at school. Watching you grasp a monkey bar and letting go of another. Your love of anything crafts. I see so much of me in you. You love to read. You write long stories that fill up the blank page. You observe everything. And you are restless just like your Momma. I love it when I am in the middle of anything and you say, “I want to be just like you Momma.” It’s the one of the best compliments I’ve ever received.

You are six.  Now you have to use two hands to show that you are six. In four more years, you won’t be able to show your fingers to indicate your age. This realization is both startling and joyful to witness. You have definitely developed a personality. You love with intensity and with unconditional love. Both are palpable as soon as I receive a hug or kiss from you. Bold and sensitive, I worry about when you feel left out or an unkind word maybe dropped in your direction. I know though these are all curves that you must face. But I hope to equip you with the strength to face whatever adversity may come your way.

But for now, enjoy Six. I love you my dear sweet, lovable little girl. Happy Birthday. xoxo you forever. Momma

For the first time this year, I am dedicating the days of 2012 to one word: compassion. In the past I’ve written resolutions. By mid-February these goals are lost in the shuffle of life. Keeping a single word in mind will enforce a clarity that is new territory for me, but a plan that I am wholly enthusiastic about.

My need to embrace compassion came from an unexpected source. Last year I read  The Same Kind of Different As Me, by Ron Hall and Denver Moore. This story chronicles the friendship of two men, one a rich art collector and the other, a homeless man. What its taught me is something I can never forget. Everyone has a story. The homeless man. The prostitute. The thief. The banker. The doctor. Mothers. Fathers. Children. Sisters. Brothers. Every single one of us. And I think we all forget about the stories that people carry. I know I do. Many, myself included, may encounter the homeless man on the street and quickly assume, “He must have a drug or alcohol habit or he is mentally ill. Or he is lazy. He looks healthy enough, why isn’t he working?” In some cases, this may be the truth, but how often do we ask, “How did he get there?” Where is our compassion? I think  we are conditioned to believe the first thought that comes to mind. And that maybe a product of our upbringing, society, and how we carry ourselves in our own lives.

Compassion is an inclusive concept. It also means embracing compassion as a way of being gentle with yourself. I know that many times I’ve felt I am not enough. As a woman, wife, mother, daughter, sister and friend. What compassion does is allows you to feel a freedom that liberates you to not judge yourself or linger a little with your flaws. I think we don’t get lessons about compassion in our everyday lives. It happens in the context of some tragic event, like a shooting or weather catastrophe. I want to integrate compassion as a part of my day to day life. For me, I hope it becomes a better way to walk toward love.

If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.  - Dalai Lama

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What is your word of the year?