Brownness

Holiday Meaning

HDR Guru Gobind Singh procession
HDR Guru Gobind Singh procession (Photo credit: NightFall404)

I am not sure what it is about the Holidays that seems to bring out the best and worst in people. What I really mean is Desis since we actually don’t celebrate Christmas. Oh sure, we can pretend Diwali is a big deal, and we also throw in their Guru Gobind Singh‘s ji celebration, but really I still don’t get what is about the holidays that gets us so emotional.   Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe everyone is going on as they should, and I am the one that is calling out motivations that are there. Confused? Good.  So am I.

I am still on a high about some of my family doing the Thanksgiving Trot with me, and making Tiramisu and cream cheese bites for that gathering.  Yes, it’s these little things that get me excited because, let’s face it, I am not getting any younger. I may still feel like I am 21, but the fact is, I am not up on the music, the culture, or really anything to do with being 21 (well maybe, the drinking) including going out or wearing the right clothes (according to my wife, I dress like a 45-year-old which I take to be a compliment).   Yet each day, I am thankful for the life I have. I am  grateful that I can get out of bed, take my dog for a walk, enjoy the slightly  chilly morning, and then do a few other set things like meditating and praying to get my day going.

I am still struggling though. There isn’t a day that I don’t get a reminder that I am not 100% or the person I used to be prior to my surgery. But you know what, that’s OK. I know I am doing my best, and some days that’s all that matters. So this Holiday has a special meaning for me because there was a chance I couldn’t be here to celebrate them. There are some in my life who I wish had stayed, and there are others that are drifting (and that’s OK).  So I wake up each morning, and take a few minutes just to be thankful for all that I have. And that’s enough for now.

Brownness, Myself, Writing

No Words

English: Man with a turban, Bhopal, India. Fra...
English: Man with a turban, Bhopal, India. Français : Homme avec un turban, Bhopal, Inde. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

.

The music fills the room and my soul. Silence is my best friend while I pray for the music to enter me. I wait for inspiration. Nothing. Silence. I keep waiting.

No words come to mind.  I am blank.  The heart is too full of hurt and regret to allow anything out to anyone.  Time passes. The coffee cools.  Outside, I see a few old couples power walking.  Usually one is ahead of the other.  What is it about doing things as a race?  But that’s not true either. I know that’s my perception. My need to compete with anything. Always me. The “I” never lets go.  Me. Me. Me.

I notice the old man.  I have been seeing him for years. He is an old turbaned Indian, clean shaven, riding a bicycle.  Slowly. Methodically. Sometimes he is a carrying a child but mostly he is alone, chugging along. I often wonder who he is,  but really the main question I have for him is: Why the turban?  I want to ask “Are you from a village” or “Are you a Sikh who does not believe in keeping the hair?”  Where are you going, my friend?  Do you realize you have become a staple in my life?  A quiet one.  Someone who seems to ride by me whenever I am struggling with who I am.  You are a sign, but I just don’t know about what.  I watch you slowly go by me, and I am tempted to run out and stop you and ask “who are you, my friend?”  Yet, I know how crazy that is. s

So I sit here, watching you go by while the coffee has gone cold, and the words still seem to be eluding me.  Silence. The music keeps playing…