Sunday, August 25, 2013

Its all about completion

My dear student, Priya, is not the one to give up. She has been literally pestering me to write. She even went to the extent of saying that a lot of things I write motivate her ,and at least for folks of her ilk I should put pen to paper. I owe this alliteration to her.

I was wondering about my reluctance to write, though I always wanted to.  I noticed this resistance, and I understood one cannot create anything if one continued with resistance. That needed an effort to accept the fact that I am resisting, and then overcome it by action. Yes, whatever one resists, persists. I needed to restore integrity in this area and accept responsibility. I needed to complete with myself and move forward. Once integrity got restored and completion happened, the ink flowed.

Completion has always helped me. Take the case of  misunderstanding with a friend. Somehow or the other, this misunderstanding has culminated in avoidance of communication with this friend. This friend is dear and is missed. But unless one picks up the phone and completes with the friend and talks about the misunderstanding, the relationship continues to fester. Completion with this friend ensures getting back the relationship that we cherish. Most of us don’t and hold on, suffering in silence. Whether it is saying sorry, speaking your mind, or telling the friend that he/she is missed, makes all the difference. Taking the crap out of our system every day before we go to bed, especially with those who matter to us, is most important. I have always completed with my wife, children, parents and dear ones before I hit the bed and have always had a sound sleep. After all, at the end of the day, it’s all about a good night’s sleep. And there is no guarantee that you will wake up the next morning.

Complete each day and restore balance. “The king and the pawn go to the same box.” Then why not live like the king.

Sunday, August 11, 2013

The path of the calf

One  day  through  the  primeval wood a  calf  walked  home  as  good  calves  should;
but made  a  trail  all  bent  askew, a  crooked  trail  as  calves  all  do.
Since  then  three  hundred  years  have  fled, and  I  infer  the  calf  is  dead;
but  still  he  left  behind  his  trail, and thereby  hangs my moral  tale.
The  trail was  taken  up  next  day,  by  a  lone  dog  that  passed  that way;
and  then  a  wise  bellwether  sheep pursued  the  trail  over  vale,
and  steep and  drew  the  flock  behind  him  too, as  good  bellwethers  always  do.
And  from  that  day over hill and  glade, through  these old woods a  path  was made;
and many men  wound  in  and  out, and  dodged  and  turned  and  bent  about;
and  uttered  words  of  righteous  wrath because  it was  such  a  crooked  path.
But  still  they  followed, do  not  laugh the  first migrations  of  that  calf.
This  forest  path  became  a  lane that  bent  and  turned  and  turned again.
This  crooked  lane  became  a  road, where many  a  poor  horse  with  his  load,
toiled  on  beneath  the  burning  sun and  traveled  some  three miles  in  one.
And  thus  a  century  and  a  half,  they  trod  the  footsteps  of  that  calf.
The  years  passed  on  in  swiftness  fleet,  the  road  became  a  village  street;
and  this,  before men  were  aware, a  city’s  crowded  thoroughfare.
And  soon  the  central  street  was  this, the  hub  of  a  renowned metropolis.
And men  two  centuries  and  a  half trod  in  the  footsteps  of  that  calf.
A  hundred  thousand men  were  led by  one  calf  near  three  centuries  dead.
For  we  are  prone  to  go  it  blind along  the  calf-paths  of  the mind,
and  work  away  from  sun  to  sun to  do  what  other  folks  have  done.
We  follow  in  the  beaten  track, and  out  and  in,  and  forth  and  back;
and  still  our  devious  course  pursue, to  keep  the  path  that  others  do.
We  keep  the  path  a  sacred  groove along  which  all  our  lives  we move,
But  how  the  wise  old  wood  gods  laugh who  saw  that  first  primeval  calf!
Sam  Walter  Foss