Bursting with life, happy, opening up to the promise of a new day – those lovely lotuses float casually in the morning breeze, life’s philosophy shining amidst its dew.
Become best friends with your subconscious side
Our subconscious mind is living with us every day. Every moment. How do we change the dialogue and program our subconscious towards happiness and success? How do we take care of our subconscious mind? How do we utilize the power of the subconscious mind?
Chew on this: Little nuggets that changed my relationship with food
Diary of someone who has a sometimes-love-sometimes-hate relationship with food. Firstly, all is good with my world. No problem. Yes, I am passionately in love. Yet my love is equally ambivalent. If you don’t know the meaning of the ‘a’ word, I would suggest you look it up. It’s important. Every time I see my…
A chance drive past a beautiful field…one fine day. The memory lingers…even while it gets washed with time.
Scenes from life
Some stand tall, Others wait in the shadows. Everything changes, As time can swiftly show, The colors are right in front of you. It’s doesn’t really matter – stand tall, sit small, Tomorrow the colors will change for you too. (picture courtesy: Darshana Mathur)
‘And I made a rural pen…’
I have loved William Blake’s poem many times over – over the years, especially the last few lines: “And I made a rural pen, And I stain’d the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.”
The lines run into each other, the ink is musty in some places.
Some places make you smile and the others, heave a sigh of regret.
The pages that you read are of your own creation.
Two trees, time and tide
Praying quietly, we hoped. It was a little uncomfortable in the dark. And it was so moist. But we needed to be in that space – and so allowed it. I couldn’t see my friend – though I tried hard to squint through the darkness.
And as I looked over my shoulder – hoping it didn’t attract any attention – I saw the familiar sight that my heart longed to see everyday.
‘What are my grey hairs for?’
Sometimes as I stare into the heart of the lamp, I remember old times – a memory pops up out of nowhere. And just as the burnt ciders of a match stick fall at the end of its life – the shadow of the memory leaves me.