Dancing Cells, Shimmering Stars

and then, Life said to me:
"why do you
first build walls,
and then carve
doors and windows
to open and see?
step out for a moment
in the still of the night
under the shimmering stars,
feel me in your
wild dancing cells,
and you will know
all that you are,
and all that you can
and will ever be."

The Call of the Ocean

and when I am lost,
I seek you out
with my eyes,
for the salt
that courses
through your veins
and mine,
for all the mysteries
that cannot be solved
in a moment
which I call a lifetime,
for all the shores
that I can never walk,
for all the rocks
that I can never climb,
for all the waves
that I can never count
or hope to catch
with my blinded eyes,
for the wild, unyielding dream
of a world that is possible,
when I feel the tug
of your restful presence
calling out to me....
beyond me, within me,
is an ocean
waiting to be explored...

Song of the Wild

and as I sank
into your lap
and lowered myself
against your quivering skin,
I heard you sing -
not the song with words
and a pretty tune,
but the silent deep song
from the wilderness
of your wild heart.

Song of the Wild

The Eye of the Storm

the clouds are gathering
far away from
your sleepy eyes,
yet close,
they are closing in
over her unmoored heart,
that cannot be stilled -
no, not any more;
and then
from the eye of the storm,
rises a roll of thunder
and a lightning bolt,
that splits wide open
her encased heart;
and she roars -
her roar is a call
to all those wild hearts
that are tired
of locks and keys
and cozy walls;
those who are willing
to bleed with her,
to roar with her,
to feel the wind,
to touch the earth,
to soak in the rain, and
to smell the inner mystery;
to live untamed
and simply be
without an apology,
in the eye of the storm.

Listening to my Heart

when I want
to listen to my heart,
I go to the forest -
not on a safari
where I sit pretty
in a noisy jeep,
when every restful leaf
is rattled awake
by its rude passing,
but on a slow quiet walk
through the wild grass
and unkempt paths,
where every movement
is born of a stillness,
where the eyes
and the ears
and the mouth
and the skin,
drink in the glory
of the wildness
that I seek,
a precious wildness
that emerges slowly
from the silence
that lies hidden -
the roar of a lion
from within,
from the deep.

Rear Window

there are many windows
in the house;
but which one
do you look to open
on days when you want
to fill your soul
with a breath of fresh air?

will you open
the one in front
with its pretty facade
and charming tableau
of a life half-lived,
looking out into
a manicured garden
with dainty flowers,
dancing butterflies,
and a well-worn path
leading up to a door
that always opens
with a gentle push
or the sound of a bell?

or will you open
the one in the rear
with its termite-eaten frame
adorned with
sticky dark cobwebs
and well-settled dust,
undisturbed by
the constant chatter
and clutter
of frivolity,
looking out
into the untamed woods,
where there is space
for everything
both light and dark,
small and big,
ugly and beautiful;
where butterflies and moths
wander free,
where grass and clovers,
creepers and wildflowers,
burst open their hearts
with unbridled joy,
where you walk the path
forged by your eyes
up to the altar
where fear meets love
in a bitter-sweet union?

which window
will you open
today?

A Walk in the Wild

there's a nip in the air -
enough to perk up
a sore, taut body
hanging in limbo,
soothed by the warmth
of last night's stove.

a soft padding of footsteps,
infused with wild wattle
and lemony eucalyptus,
and towering pine trees
looking down like sentinels
upon the narrow trail

carpeted with quaint seeds
asking to be picked,
tiny pods ripped open,
bare their darkest secrets
to a rich dirt trail -
the keeper of all secrets of yore.

wild strawberries, dainty clovers,
chilli tomatoes, jungle ferns,
passion flowers, and cherry blossoms,
lace the rocky edge,
to capture a fickle heart,
that's grown wings in the wild.

old friends walking an old path -
an old man leads his dog,
a barbet calls from the bushes,
a millipede rolls along,
cicadas go full throttle,
even silence becomes a song;

a walk in the wild -

she beckons me,
every now and then,
a wild heart
thrives in rawness,
a free spirit finds her home. 

 

Wildflower

I don't want to be
a flashy sunflower
in a field of gold, 
a flowing orchid
or a sunset rose,
I want to be
a quiet wildflower
by a mountain trail,
who waits for eternity
for a heart with grace.

How to eat a Mango

How to Eat a Mango

Today I really enjoyed eating a mango after a long time! The reason is that I ate it whole, and not skinned and cut up into neat cubes, served in a bowl with a spoon....yeah...when you eat a mango, you must eat it "wild" It definitely tastes divine that way!

Many many years ago, when I was a little kid, I remember sitting down and watching my grandmother eat a mango, every single day, when mangoes were in season. It was a ritual of sorts with her. She would eat it whole and wild and that evoked a certain joy and mystery even for the little witness - me! I was fascinated to see how she would devour it whole, with a deftness that came with practice and enjoying the moment fully. She reminded me of a little squirrel enjoying a fruit from the tree.

She would keep one mango for dessert after every meal of the day. She would wash it thoroughly and keep it in a plate next to her, to eat after her meal. When she was ready, she would hold it in her hand, bite off a tiny part of the skin to make a hole in the fleshy fruit. She would then suck on the fruit through that hole, every now and then squeezing and pressing down the sides with the same hand, to get the juice and the flesh to move up slowly near the hole she had made. I still remember the joy on her face, and the enjoyment, almost a self-forgetting, when she ate a mango like this! She would often close her eyes, to probably get into the experience more completely. She would be totally lost to everything else around her. And that was how she patiently finished the entire fruit...just through that little hole. It was an amazing experience for me to watch her ! And she never got her hands messy after all that. If by chance some of the juice trickled down her palms and hand, she would gently lick it all up in one stroke of her tongue!

When she got down to the very end of the fruit, she would tear the skin open with her mouth, and get the seed out. She would then lick on the seed and strip it of all its flesh, until it was smooth and bald. Every part of the skin would be stripped of the tiniest bit of flesh, She would then wash the seed, dry it in the sun for a few days, and then plant it diligently, every single time, in the hope that one of those would become a tree. And that did happen! Two of the many seeds, sprouted and grew into two mango trees (Alphonso), that we had to leave behind for someone else to enjoy, as we had to move house

Today, as I ate a mango like she used to, I remembered her fondly. I also remembered how we were made to sit and eat mangoes as little kids, in our petticoats and sometimes even without that, simply because they didn't want us to get all messy and spoil our clothes!

Eating mangoes is fun when it is wild!
Wild= free = joy unlimited!
Try it and see for yourself

Stillness in the Wild

A wild forest slowly stirs -
birdsong and animal calls
stretch into the blanket of mist,
unwrapping the brown-green hearth;
you can hear a ripe leaf
float down to rest
on the moist, undisturbed floor
holding up all with love;
you can hear the old Mahua tree
breathe into the cold, wet air;
twisted, broken branches
stand poised to fall with grace,
in their own time;
yellow-brown leaves, past their prime,
lay strewn across the muddy floor,
whispering secrets to unhurried travellers,
holding countless, untold tales of yore;
a warm, soul-stirring stillness rules
in the quiet, dew-drenched wilderness;
a silent respect for all that is,
born from coming home to the wild.

Wild Thoughts

Waking up to birdsong and
sharp, persistent pecks
on an illusory window pane;
A nip in the air wakes up
the sleepy hair on my hide,
as I open the door
to soak in the beauty of the wild;
Earthy smells of old leaves
laid to rest on a moist floor,
3G that works
even in the back of beyond;
Missing hot rasam and rice
and home-cooked veggies;
Thinking about what we call home,
and how far away we were from it;
Feeling humbled by the magnitude
of our world and all that lives in it,
in forgotten nooks;
Soaking in the paradoxes
that rule our lives
is not easy;
Wild thoughts
consume me -
just like wild fire,
until I rest in the moment
and watch them dancing. ....

Wild

there is a magical beauty
in all things that are wild -
organic, tangled fronds,
with nothing left to hide;
there is an unseen pattern
in the untidy growth,
sunlight spangled labyrinths,
dewdrops of love,
for all to hold;
there is an unspoken rhythm,
as the wind carries truths of old,
the smell of wild forests
and warm, moist earth,
to nurture and behold.