Finding Home

 I can now identify and name at least 9 bird species just flying around in the vicinity of our garden. Each time I see one, I cry out the name, cutting in conversations much to the annoyance of my partner or much to the fright of our long-time house help, but very much to my own delight. So I asked myself last night, "Why this delight? Why such pleasure?"  There is something to be said about naming. It somehow gives the object a concrete quality. Proof of life, if you will. In the practice of Mindfulness, there is an exercise where we are asked to name the particular emotion whether heavy or light, overriding the current state and then later on to name where it manifests in the body. To name something is to give a face to it, allowing one to finally, well, face it making the previously unnamed to be less fearsome, less cumbersome. Naming as well, allows for a deeper and greater appreciation of what transpires in the mind, body and heart.  Taken into the context of delight an

"Hokusai says look carefully. He says pay attention, notice. He says keep looking, stay curious. He says there is no end to seeing."      Yesterday morning a brown shrike perched on one of the branches of our Avocado tree, which was directly in my line of sight from my place at the breakfast table. The iron grills of our screened veranda perfectly framed the bird in diagonal parallel lines. It shivered and looked this way and that and pecked at its own body. And then it became completely still. I looked at the shrike for what seemed like quite a long time as it remained on that branch for what seemed like an eternity. The morning was quieter than usual and nothing else seemed to move nor make a sound. I could hear nothing save for the thumping of my heart and quickening and calming of my breath as I watched the movement and stillness of the bird.      I am inclined to believe that this is the same shrike that perches on our water tank staying longer than other birds, as if po

There are a few good moments in life. Most of them often take me by surprise such as the husband casually narrating how he found some secret nature spot unbeknownst to most people but popular to those who seek the simplicity of silence and privacy. And him taking me there not telling me there was a short steep hike of which I was relatively unprepared for before reaching the said beauty.  Or a discovery of genuine connection with a stranger now a friend, finding common ground despite the disparity of life experiences, upbringing, places of origin, profession and so many other elements. And realizing how these do not matter. Understanding that what matters more is at that point in time, the presence of reciprocity was apparent. Authentic, significant reciprocity. One I have been seeking for the last 18 years. I read somewhere how a woman over forty is said to be formidable mainly because the last of her superficial concerns fly out the window. Of course, the actual wording is more color

         A friend of ours recently moved abroad. After a few weeks of settling in, he shared a photo where he was standing on top of a mountain, his back turned away from the camera. He was facing the majestic sky, translucent blue, clouds glistening from the sun behind. And spread out in front of him was the landscape of earth, trees,  shadows and shapes of more magnificent mountains. I told him it looked like he had been there all his life.               Starting over. These two words have been running through my mind lately. What does it really mean? Is it carrying a huge luggage of a life to a different zip code? Is it ridding oneself of any material trappings reminding one of the old life? Is it cutting off ties that no longer serve you? Is it literally leaving to arrive at some place new? Is it a necessary severing of relationships in order to build, this time, more meaningful and authentic ones? My meditation teacher says constantly I can start fresh at any given moment in the p

  October 13, 2021 The sun came out today after days of relentless rain.   La Nina all throughout October, our weather bureau said. But of course, nature follows its own course. When the weather app says 100% chance of precipitation, the clouds decide to dissipate. So in these pockets of unexpected goodness, my feet are quick to rid of slippers and step onto still dewy grass, basking my body in delicious sunshine knowing it will not last for long. Nothing does, after all. Nothing ever does. Impermanence. Anitya in Sanskrit. Anicca in Pali. A lifelong practice consisting of many, many trials and errors. Ephemeral, fleeting, and transient are just few of words that shape this reality. My mother died last year. And even if after her stroke, my brother already prepared me for the worst, when it finally happened, her passing, it hit me like a tidal wave. I liken it to such because just like surfing, one is obviously well aware of how waves are ever present. Depending on the time of ye

     There is a silent rhythm to which my son moves. I see it in the way he flicks his empty bottles of juice, nuts or his portable square JBL speaker. I see it in the way he chooses his clothes from the dresser drawer or the way he returns his plate to the kitchen sink. One might say it takes a long time for him to get his chores done because of this. He moves to a rhythm, in a kind of choreography where he bounces with every step.  I would say my son dances to this rhythm, his own beautiful rhythm.     So  this  Saturday morning, when I ask him to help me clean up the room and he does his usual bit of choreography reveling as always to the beat inside his head, I realized how I as well, fell into a daily rhythm of my own as I deliberately transitioned into another phase in my life. Falling back into motherhood, housekeeping being a huge part of it and teaching Yoga on select days. While the circumstances that led to this were less than ideal, I would like to think that what is more i

"The time will come when, with elation you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror and each will smile at the other's welcome,"   As I wake earlier than the boys to prepare for the day's necessities, I find myself introspecting on Derek Walcott's words whose meaning have changed over the years in the various seasons that have come to pass in my life.  I prepare the rice and set it on the stove. Then I sit at the kitchen table with my cup of black relishing so much the silence and stillness in our home. It allows my body, mind and heart to ease into the various comings and goings of the day. Thoughts appear though not necessarily interconnected or perhaps they are: I am a mother first. Always. I chose this life. Every departure was, is a choice. Every coming home too. Letting go and forgiveness is a process I have to do many, many times. How do I imbue love, kindness and compassion in all the choices in my life when self-judgment is ever p