Along The Journey To Self Love

The journey to self love is a very mindful one. It happens when we are aware of ourselves & learn to love every part of ourselves passionately.

However it can happen that somewhere along our path we encounter people who love us for who we are & what we are, love us gently. That can be invigorating.

Unintentionally we get attached to that affection & attention & the softness of a warm relationship. In that softness we slowly slip into the “need” for that warmth & affection. We deeply desire that in our lives to keep us in an exhilarating space.

And then, somewhere in our solitary moments we feel daunted by that “need” of ours, the need for that unadulterated affection & daunted by the extension of our love for that someone who puts us in our happy space.

It’s inevitable that fear creeps in – fear of losing this space, this happy, comfortable zone. We begin to fear the brevity of it all, stirring up feelings of attachment, possessiveness, anxiety, toxicity, besides our feelings of affection & connection. We want to pull back before we lose ourselves to someone in a cauldron of unhealthy emotions-

For the truth is, we need to love ourselves first & reach the destination of self love before we drain ourselves of even that little bit of energy onto someone, anyone. We need to be comfortable within our selves in order to be comfortable in what another has to offer.

It’s only then that we are free of expectations, free of suffocating the other person, free of fear – fear of losing someone, of losing ourselves, of losing love. It’s only then that we understand that someone else’s love is just a bonus in our already fulfilled lives & that it doesn’t matter if that love disappears.

Yes, the truth is, only if we love ourselves implicitly can we make room for someone’s love.

#selflove #selfcare #selfcompassion #findyourself #selfawareness #relationships #love #eq #mindfulness #mindfulliving #mentalhealth

That Sunset Hour

I chase sunsets all the time. I’ve been chasing them for years.

Mountain sunsets are dramatic, a different spectacle each evening.

It never really occurred to me until now that some spectacles are real life people who imprint on our hearts before they’re gone forever. And when they leave us they’re like dramatic sunsets, taking over our entire horizon, tinting our hearts with grief and love.

A parent’s death is one of those life changing sunsets, leaving us gutted, lost and bereft. Leaving us softer yet stronger, braver, brighter.

My mother’s numbered days made me realise how much it would change me and how dramatically this sunset would alter my outlook towards life.

My mother was a spectacle and she was beautiful. She was a storm that stirred up the sky and splashed a palette of vibrant colours across my vision. And when the world got tired of her exuberance, it strapped her to a bed where she couldn’t move. But that didn’t dull her shine. She beamed out her light even in her confines and painted pretty pictures with her dazzling mind, vivid as they were. Her laughter was the breeze that lifted me up, floated me on bobbing clouds.

Now in her last days, I watch the fading sun with a sadness that leaves a pit inside me. I will never see her drama again. Never will the sky spin me around with those colours as vibrant as hers. And yet I find strength in it – that this very sunset is what will see me through my darkest days, long after she’s gone. And never will the night sky be meaningless, for I know she will perch herself there on the brightest star and shine her light on me.

I sit on a grassy patch alone every evening, at the top of a hill. I watch the sky turn pink to purple, sometimes pink to ochre . The sunset hour consumes me and I feel whole again.

Hope, a flower & me

I drive through the canopies of purple, down the winding hillsides.

I stop to watch the Jacaranda blooms sway in the breeze, some dropping gently on the road in front of me.

I wish that a solitary flower would randomly land on my windscreen, as if hoping for a message, a sign.

That flower that fluttered onto my windscreen

It’s weird how we long for wishes to come true – placing that hope on a random bloom that flutters on the spring breeze – for moments out of reach, for a friend to heal from an illness, a piece of good news, a phone call, a message, a hug, for love that’s hanging midair!

Believing that what’s meant to be will always drift in the breeze and find its way towards me…

Hope, a flower and me!

Lessons from the Jacaranda

In February each year, the Jacaranda trees get noticed. Not for their beauty, but for their shedding of leaves everywhere.

The dead leaves take over my lawn, my driveway, and everything looks a mess. The trees start to look bare and ugly.

Early March we see tiny purple buds struggling to appear on the bare branches, almost like a painful metamorphosis to come into their own.

Come April, and the Jacaranda trees are bursting with flowers. They stand there like stars in an otherwise dull pageant, stealing every bit of limelight. They throw up a riot of purple all over the hills.

Their time in the sun is short, but they outshine every tree in the Nilgiris during this season. The blooms fall from the branches like a merry dance in the light April breeze., turning the ground into a purple carpet. It’s one of the most spectacular sights each year.

As we tread into May, these beauties are done with their magical spell, having let go of their blooms, turning bare once again. They recede into the background and painfully grow back their leaves over the next couple of months – their time on the centre stage is over – a reminder that nothing lasts forever, neither the season of bloom nor the difficult period of being stripped bare.

I love sitting under my Jacarandas, surrounded by purple. It allows me to still my restless mind. A time to surrender to the universe, learning to let things take their course.

The pain of stripping ourselves, shedding our leaves. The patience to go through a period of pain before bursting into bloom. The optimism in believing that nothing lasts forever, not even the baring of our souls. For with the effort of growing those buds and nourishing them comes the immense pleasure of taking over a landscape and even the skyline. It makes me believe that its worth the downtimes, worth the wait, worth the heartbreaks and often tears when we emerge into our vibrant selves.

Acceptance comes to us in strange ways. For me it comes when I sit on my carpet of purple, in the stillness of a quiet corner of my garden.