Life Itself

A year of firsts. A year of lasts.  I am certain I am not the only one who will look back at this year with all kinds of contrarian emotions and crazy memories. But I have to capture it for myself. For Rumi. For everyone that has let me go so gracefully, and for everyone that has embraced the new me.  What started as a year on a vacation to Thailand with some of my favourite people in the world, ends as a year on vacation, waiting for my latest favourite to arrive in the world.  If I look back at my life and point out pivotal years, this one will definitely stand out and perhaps win number one position.  Back in March as I came back from visiting the husband in Vancouver, the world was quickly tumbling into a very scary place. Within a few days of being back at work I quickly transitioned the team to working from home. It struck me as odd that most people around weren’t taking Covid seriously. I remember writing to a few hundred people - entrepreneurs and those in places of influence,

Smudges of memories  Hidden in crevices A blue sofa, white bookcase Merging - our colored vices The drawer offers up a note If you look close enough  A perfumed letter, a sensual poem Memories casually stuffed Where the paint smudges  Where the door cracks  Each - a story bursting If you can see beyond the black From Bondi, Colombo, Vienna Each charm depicting stages, Can you hold that gentle breeze And feel it turn your pages? Fall in love with a story But only through a glimpse See us, as we see us In Kindle sepia and wine rims

But it took a while Didn't it? To hear your own silence To feel that which you had numbed And here you are Face to face With that which scares you With every pretense removed You spent all your reserves To hide your light You hid so well You forgot you were hiding Then suddenly, slowly All those cracks opened up The wounds were fresh again Breathe, breathe, breathe. Who are you now with all the roughness gone with all your defenses lost who are you now The questions knock endlessly as you stand right there Unable to move, unwilling to move swayed by nothing. Who told that tiny girl That pain was bad Who told her that hurt should be given away Who told her forever can't be had? You spent years thinking love was to be written up Unspoken, unfelt, unheard you didn't let love in or out And now what? Now where do you go? Who will you be now that you can be anything?

I started this tradition for the year 2010 ,  a whole decade ago. To take a moment to reflect on the year gone by and capture everything that touched me, moved me, made me. In 2014 , I wrote, "This is post number 4 in my series of year-end posts. 20 year old me would have never imagined that I could actually carry on a tradition for four years in a row. Turns out, I can." That was the last year I wrote a year-end post. Until today. Ironies. I love it when this happens. What happened in 2014, 2015, 2016? What did I not capture about meeting Lohit, our journey of deciding to get married, our marriage, setting up home, and all the other firsts and seconds and thirds that happened to us in those years?  In retrospect, I missed out on such profound opportunities of acknowledging growth, of recognizing limitations, of accepting things as they are.  But 2019 has flipped everything on its head. In some ways, where I am today is a culmination of what star

You asked me the other day, "When did you know that you wanted to marry me?". It was an innocent question, one among many others. You and I have always been able to seamlessly ask each other anything. In fact it was the simple act of conversation that brought us together. Before you, I always thought I would eventually get dulled by the same person. That over time, the magic would wear off and I would be left with regret. That the curiosity would wane. That I would run out off things to connect on. That cynicism would take over and I would give up. Then I met you. It was simple. You were the first person that showed me that conversations never get boring. That fights are okay. That communication breaks, but repairs. That a promise lasts longer than a lifetime. It was easy. You showed me how. 

I was only eight when that passport was collected from the locker, those bags were packed, and a painful separation was initiated. Even as a child, I could feel the intuitive ending as it drew near. I had known, without complete certainty, that the apparent stability in my life was slowly transiting into a monster I would have to live with for the next many years of my life. Children understand things in a way that adults never can. Children feel and perceive, without denying or analyzing. And in my case, the intuition was even stronger than most other kids. While other kids would often grow up in cheerful ignorance, I always sensed that unsettled remark, always understood the sideway glance, and always felt that double meaning. Do you ever forget the moment when things break? When families split? Does the feeling of incompleteness, of having a part of you missing, of a pain from a distant past, ever ease? Do separations ever end? Do you get over that need to have someone

For me, the only real way to get over something as significant as this, is to write about it. Write about it so much that it becomes almost like you are telling someone else’s tale, like you are blogging about something you watched as a by-stander.  What a week it was. What started off as a casual - I’ll go and charm her into giving me what I want - turned into the worst nightmare of my life. I stood and watched helplessly as I was told about a world that I barely knew existed, one that I definitely didn’t know the rules off. So I watched as the characters changed, the scripts got edited and re-edited, the director’s chair was swiftly occupied by a different character every few hours. And all along there was an underlying fear, suspicion and constant feeling of deception.  It is easy to rely on your intuition - you at least have a decision and either right or wrong, you deal with the consequences and move on. This was different. For the first time in my life the consequences