In the part of this universe that we know there is great injustice, and often the good suffer, and often the wicked prosper, and one hardly knows which of those is the more annoying - a quote that winked at me some seconds ago from a blog that I just revisited.
Sometimes, when all hope has simmered out of myself (and I have no illusions nor delusisons about my goodness) - I've been given some little string to look at and say "it's all right." I remember one afternoon from more than five years ago when a friend (Beth) had dragged me out of my dorm room and told me to come to a bookshop with her. We could take our books (or whatever I wanted to take) and sit in the coffee-shop, which was inside the bookshop or else I could browse around the bookstore. I didn't want to go but I don't remmeber any longer how she managed to convince me. So we drove there (she drove while I smoked and looked out of the window), and once there we got ourselves a small table near a window and got ourselves some coffee too. I had been reading a book by Feynman I remember - a collection of medium length philosophical essays by him. In the middle of reading something which made me sigh, I got up and started wandering around the bookstore - and somewhat aimlessly. I was in the section which carried diaries with inspirational quotes of all things. I was flipping through something or the other when suddenly there was a loud whomp and a diary had leapt out of the bookshelf and was lying on the floor (well it had at least fallen out of its space on the shelf and had therefore made me walk towards it). I walked to it, picked it up, and there on its front cover I saw the old Irish poem that I have loved ever since one human being sent it over to me along with some other poems:
I have often smiled wryly on reading about this or that person who has been able to live a "normal" life when he should not have been able to do thus. One of the most recent examples came in the form of a man, now in his late 50s who had a lobotomy, when he was 11 years old (this was some time in the 1960s). After going through a very troubled adolescence, he stabilised himself and then got some jobs before getting a permanent job driving a bus and he has been driving around for some time now. He also has normal levels of intelligence, is socially adjusted, and has a wife and a couple of kids. I have seen documentaries and read books about similar such people. People who were able to lead "normal" lives; when being normal becomes something of a miracle.
That's all well and good. Fine and dandy. Yet on some rare occasions in my life I have yelled out to God saying, "Blast it. What exactly do You want?...How much do You expect a person to put up with and still keep walking along? And why do You then bless us in some ways and seem to handicap us in some bizarre ways?!" Indeed, if truth be told there have been some rare occasions that I have yelled at God out of sheer frustration - certainly not hate. I can count the number of times - but I have. Over the years though I realised and knew that there was no point in yelling at God or being frustrated with Him. One can't really. It makes no sense. And I had stopped. No matter how grotty things got some years ago...I had stopped getting frustrated with God for my own shortcomings or for the bumps that I faced along the life that I had in some ways at least chosen or for the mix of my shortcomings and my karma. In any case as I always reminded myself - I had my limbs and all my other physical faculties in place.
Yet now I almost feel at my wits ends again and have been feeling this way close to a year now (which isn't a very long time at all I know), and some minutes ago just as I was about to say with absolute exasperation and desperation "...but it's not for myself this time around, God. You know that. What more can a human being do?Can't You do something..." - I stopped myself short. What am I trying to do exactly - fool both myself and God? Technically speaking I'm not praying for myself nor am I getting frustrated for myself - but when I pray for this other, I pray for myself....and when I do get frustrated with God (of all things) - it's because sometimes I can't see a way out.
If it weren't for the presence of a couple of other precious, significant and splendid beings in this world as well, I would most likely in a sudden moment have prayed to God begging Him to whisk this specific human being up and away and right next to Himself. How much can a human being take, I wonder. I've prayed for lots of people to meet with painless deaths - yet the only other human being, I have (in the same or at least similar spirit) ever wished dead, is myself - although I had made no plans of seeing or being with God. And I had not taken a millionth of what I had imagined in my batty head.
And as I wonder about this human being, I know that inspite of all the tales of horror and sadness, grottiness and terrible agony that I've read and come across I have wondered in a similar vein and with a similar consistency about only one other human being - maybe not with the same intensity, depth, and feeling though it may be - and no, it's certainly not myself that I'm talking about, but for some reason it's Tagore. Maybe it's because Tagore inspite of all his heartache, his agony, his acute sensitivity, and his repeated losses carried on and gave so much of himself. I don't know how he managed to do thus or what gave him the strength. I don't know what made him write, compose, share, and create, and keep thinking, reflecting, doing and acting with such boundless love, compassion, kindness, energy, and wisdom - but there it is. He did. And I don't know whether he did it all for himself or for others or whether it was one of those rare instances when doing for one's self and for others merges into one. And it amazes me. For amidst the depths of suffering and haunting loneliness - there is such brilliant splendour and grace that I - standing on the sidelines - cannot but weep, smile, and feel at the same time. From the very little bit that I know about Tagore and of him through his writings - that's how I feel. So maybe in some fundamental ways Tagore reminds me of this other so terribly unusual and precious human being just as this one unusual human being reminds me of Tagore in some ways, and means more to me than I can possibly say.
And so I pray and love (for as the unusual human being reminded me a week or so ago, we poor human beings can only love...the rest is up to God), and do what I can do - which is so woefully little that I can only grimace and like my younger self from close to two decades ago make deals with God or insist that a deal was made in the past, and I can but simmer and wait in my own pot.
May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand....
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,
may God hold you in the palm of His hand....
....And that had been my string for the evening and the next....
Even if things didn't look all right at all and I haven't found any string - I've been able to say not much but just be, because I didn't see what else I could do. And if things haven't turned for the better overnight (and they hardly do - if ever) - something has given me some baseline courage to just be for a bit before I walked along.
I have often smiled wryly on reading about this or that person who has been able to live a "normal" life when he should not have been able to do thus. One of the most recent examples came in the form of a man, now in his late 50s who had a lobotomy, when he was 11 years old (this was some time in the 1960s). After going through a very troubled adolescence, he stabilised himself and then got some jobs before getting a permanent job driving a bus and he has been driving around for some time now. He also has normal levels of intelligence, is socially adjusted, and has a wife and a couple of kids. I have seen documentaries and read books about similar such people. People who were able to lead "normal" lives; when being normal becomes something of a miracle.
That's all well and good. Fine and dandy. Yet on some rare occasions in my life I have yelled out to God saying, "Blast it. What exactly do You want?...How much do You expect a person to put up with and still keep walking along? And why do You then bless us in some ways and seem to handicap us in some bizarre ways?!" Indeed, if truth be told there have been some rare occasions that I have yelled at God out of sheer frustration - certainly not hate. I can count the number of times - but I have. Over the years though I realised and knew that there was no point in yelling at God or being frustrated with Him. One can't really. It makes no sense. And I had stopped. No matter how grotty things got some years ago...I had stopped getting frustrated with God for my own shortcomings or for the bumps that I faced along the life that I had in some ways at least chosen or for the mix of my shortcomings and my karma. In any case as I always reminded myself - I had my limbs and all my other physical faculties in place.
Yet now I almost feel at my wits ends again and have been feeling this way close to a year now (which isn't a very long time at all I know), and some minutes ago just as I was about to say with absolute exasperation and desperation "...but it's not for myself this time around, God. You know that. What more can a human being do?Can't You do something..." - I stopped myself short. What am I trying to do exactly - fool both myself and God? Technically speaking I'm not praying for myself nor am I getting frustrated for myself - but when I pray for this other, I pray for myself....and when I do get frustrated with God (of all things) - it's because sometimes I can't see a way out.
If it weren't for the presence of a couple of other precious, significant and splendid beings in this world as well, I would most likely in a sudden moment have prayed to God begging Him to whisk this specific human being up and away and right next to Himself. How much can a human being take, I wonder. I've prayed for lots of people to meet with painless deaths - yet the only other human being, I have (in the same or at least similar spirit) ever wished dead, is myself - although I had made no plans of seeing or being with God. And I had not taken a millionth of what I had imagined in my batty head.
And as I wonder about this human being, I know that inspite of all the tales of horror and sadness, grottiness and terrible agony that I've read and come across I have wondered in a similar vein and with a similar consistency about only one other human being - maybe not with the same intensity, depth, and feeling though it may be - and no, it's certainly not myself that I'm talking about, but for some reason it's Tagore. Maybe it's because Tagore inspite of all his heartache, his agony, his acute sensitivity, and his repeated losses carried on and gave so much of himself. I don't know how he managed to do thus or what gave him the strength. I don't know what made him write, compose, share, and create, and keep thinking, reflecting, doing and acting with such boundless love, compassion, kindness, energy, and wisdom - but there it is. He did. And I don't know whether he did it all for himself or for others or whether it was one of those rare instances when doing for one's self and for others merges into one. And it amazes me. For amidst the depths of suffering and haunting loneliness - there is such brilliant splendour and grace that I - standing on the sidelines - cannot but weep, smile, and feel at the same time. From the very little bit that I know about Tagore and of him through his writings - that's how I feel. So maybe in some fundamental ways Tagore reminds me of this other so terribly unusual and precious human being just as this one unusual human being reminds me of Tagore in some ways, and means more to me than I can possibly say.
And so I pray and love (for as the unusual human being reminded me a week or so ago, we poor human beings can only love...the rest is up to God), and do what I can do - which is so woefully little that I can only grimace and like my younger self from close to two decades ago make deals with God or insist that a deal was made in the past, and I can but simmer and wait in my own pot.
With all my soul I love and pray that God be there, that God give strength and God bless.
Beyond that... what else?
Beyond that... what else?
1 comment:
Amen.
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