Showing posts with label heartmade. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heartmade. Show all posts
moonless nights
moonless nights
many moonless nights have passed
since i last let my fingers
leak thoughts on blank pages.
my words have been mute; lingering inside,
quietly carrying the gravity of my days.
sometimes i rain
others, remain gray and heavy.
janamashtami
janamashtami
don't forget love
it will bring all the madness you need
to unfurl yourself across the universe.
mirabai
.
happy janamashtami
sāttvika moving into a new house
home. it means so many things to all of us.
for those who call one place home all their life, what a deeply rooted epic manifests. and for us others making home in many places, life becomes a story written by the same heart, sown over many chapters.
after moving house over half a dozen times throughout my life, to me home is inside myself, in the breath between my loved ones and me, and wherever life plants me outside of myself. having said that, I crave white walls, light, wind and a scene of nature outside my window. anything and everything else I hope to learn my way around. when we moved into this house, we were delighted to receive so much through it. and strived to accept a few others. it's taken me years of moving and growing to come to a place in me, where I've learnt to respect what a house can offer instead of lamenting on what it cannot.
my wishes and needs for my home may not be the same as yours, but whatever they are, some of them will remain unfulfilled. as in a relationship, with a house too, move in and make home slowly. allow what isn't to take you more closer to what is. don't rush to fill up its walls and corners. live in it a while and let its bare-ness give you a chance to understand it. don't be lured into recreating someone else’s home in yours, even if its tempting to. in a time overborne with interior trends and designer products, its fine to bring home the same furniture, intention and wildflowers as others but making home, by only being inspired and not imitative, distinguishes our story and makes it our own.
every time we begin to live in a new house or continue to grow within the age-old walls of a forever home, seeking its soul leads to finding ours.
one shaft of a late afternoon sun,
one flying curtain,
one feather gift found in the balcony,
at a time.
for those who call one place home all their life, what a deeply rooted epic manifests. and for us others making home in many places, life becomes a story written by the same heart, sown over many chapters.
after moving house over half a dozen times throughout my life, to me home is inside myself, in the breath between my loved ones and me, and wherever life plants me outside of myself. having said that, I crave white walls, light, wind and a scene of nature outside my window. anything and everything else I hope to learn my way around. when we moved into this house, we were delighted to receive so much through it. and strived to accept a few others. it's taken me years of moving and growing to come to a place in me, where I've learnt to respect what a house can offer instead of lamenting on what it cannot.
my wishes and needs for my home may not be the same as yours, but whatever they are, some of them will remain unfulfilled. as in a relationship, with a house too, move in and make home slowly. allow what isn't to take you more closer to what is. don't rush to fill up its walls and corners. live in it a while and let its bare-ness give you a chance to understand it. don't be lured into recreating someone else’s home in yours, even if its tempting to. in a time overborne with interior trends and designer products, its fine to bring home the same furniture, intention and wildflowers as others but making home, by only being inspired and not imitative, distinguishes our story and makes it our own.
every time we begin to live in a new house or continue to grow within the age-old walls of a forever home, seeking its soul leads to finding ours.
one shaft of a late afternoon sun,
one flying curtain,
one feather gift found in the balcony,
at a time.
. . .
homemade skin balm
homemade skin balm
virgin coconut oil
lavendar essential oil
tea tree essential oil
and beewax
the coming together of scent, salve and skin.
. . .
saturday evening
the twenty third
āṣāḍha
a sunday morning memory
a sunday morning memory
sunday morning was sunshiny
a perfect invitation we'd been hoping for all week long
to take a wander into the hills.
we walked unhurried with a umbrella in hand, just in case
the hillside was laden with wildflowers bloomed by recent rains
akk, lantana, keekar, babool, khair, bougainvillea
and others we didn't know names of.
one beaming flower-bush after the other.
we paused repeatedly to watch rain worms. Many of them.
scurrying away speedily and sometimes contracting from our presence.
to observe algae forming in puddles,
tiny mushrooms growing on sidewalks.
and say hello to a white dog, a mynah and a baby snail.
we picked stones and gathered a few branches
and returned home when the humidity felt too much to bear.
saanjh relished an ice cream and went to nap.
papa watched a movie, while muma went around the house
floating bougainvillea flowers in an enamel bowl,
arranging lantana in glass jars,
hanging a babool branch on the wall
and stringing together it's mustard blooms.
a sweet mood swept into our home and my heart
while the wind, ever present in this house, continued to softly make love to our curtains.
. . .
tuesday noontide
the twenty eighth
jyeṣṭha
little songs that make home
little songs that make home
ghongroo curtains
that sing with the breeze
.
i have discovered that it is enough
when a single note is beautifully played.
this one note, or a silent beat,
or a moment of silence, comforts me.
arvo pärt
. . .
saturday, nightfall
the sixteenth
chaitra
making. feeling.
making. feeling.
a little apron for our daughter
between sewing curtains.
. . .
tuesday, noontide
the twelfth
chaitra
these days
these days
i sit on a garden step,
and watch a freshly bathed saanjh
blissfully dust sand all over herself.
a swallow tatse a ripe jamaican cherry
and flit over the garden hedge.
we bring home a basketfull of fallen butterfly-wing leaves
to weave along our dried mogra festoon.
in the kitchen,
i prayerfully stir milk to make kulfi (traditional indian frozen dessert)
and find domestic poetry
in the drying of melon seeds and curry leaves.
between doing and sleep,
i meet these kindred words
and preserve them in my mind.
relearn a forgotten lesson of love
and slowly begin to gather
my thoughts and our things;
for far from here,
a new house, a new city and a new chapter await.
. . .
friday, noontide
the eleventh
māgha
crescent moon giving
crescent moon giving
gifts from our two year old to her dear papa for his birthday
soft, rounded black pebbles and seashells carefully gathered from ‘our seashore’ (garden sandpit).
precious art by tiny hands, composed into a booklet.
natural. thoughtful. handmade
little ways and simple essentials to initiate her into the heart of giving
. . .
monday, nightfall
the seventh
māgha
lesson in subtlety
lesson in subtlety
śiśira, like a distant song
that slowly draws you into its music,
beckons me from my work
to let in and listen.
i hear it's light murmur into our room
a little early, each morning.
in the jubilant wind that flits
between fallen and newborn leaves.
in the richly fragrant mango blooms on the street.
and the altered tune of the chirping birds.
at home, we spend most of our days and evenings
by the window, with curtains pulled aside,
watching outside, reading, bird or sky gazing.
weaving freshly blossomed mogras
and hanging them by the window, to perfume the air.
this season, between the stark winter and the promising spring,
offers its unpretentious magic quietly.
like a benign lesson in subtlety.
. . .
monday noontide
the first
phālguna