The North Shore

There’s an old Frank Sinatra classic playing overhead, while a large Royal turkey sits nearby, perched on a rail, hiding its head, and a pair of swans groom themselves quietly. On this starry night, ocean waves lap against rocky outcroppings before reaching the sandy beach and the Spanish colonialist edifice. Among the cacophony of coquis, macaws and a variety of water fowl, I am here enjoying a pan-Latin dinner on a cool night (75 degrees F), along the north shore of Puerto Rico.

In an odd turn of events, I arrived here in Puerto Rico for a work project a few days ago. Not a bad time of year to be here – post-Hurricane season. The luscious green mountainous island is regularly bathed in warm “winter” rains every afternoon. There are rainforests throughout the island and beaches around the perimeter. Although Puerto Rico is a territory of the United States, in many ways it feels like a different country altogether. The main spoken and written language is Spanish. The street signs are in Spanish, the restaurant menus are in Spanish. There are some local delicacies – many that include variations of fried plantains, red snapper and pina colada. While I try to practice Spanish others want to practice English and it becomes a collaborative exercise in Spanglish!

Traveling on my own always becomes a soul-searching experience. Observing a culture from the outside, and then trying to immerse oneself in it. This territory is still young and somewhat underdeveloped. Even on this small island, people drive long distances to work. While the roadways are pretty current (including the potholes), there are supposedly three cars to each household – making for a heavily burdened infrastructure. In spite of being connected to the United States, the locals carry significant national pride. Some would prefer that Puerto Rico be its own independent country, while others see value in Puerto Rico residing as a territory of the United States. It’s a hopping ground for both businessmen and tourists alike; companies flock to the cheaper labor and tourists island hop. One upside of the setup is that locals do not have to pay federal income tax. There are also many remnants of the Spanish colonialist past, including a fortress, cathedrals, a convent and many other buildings. And the Latin-based culture imparts a certain warmth that is palpable.

My drive to work takes me through a few rainforests. I drive along switchbacks and pass small stray dogs,  and a man on a horse, to reach our office at the top of a mountain. The vistas are breathtaking. Driving between the most majestic giants, who like all things in nature, remain resilient. On the way back, the waves of low clouds first resemble fog, but then give way to thunderous rain showers. The roads are given shelter by the tree canopy above, extending from the over-indulgent trees. I stop momentarily to gaze at the view.  The setting sun peers through towering cumulus clouds, illuminating the sky in shades of crimson, peach and pink. The mountains touch the sky, silhouetted. With just enough lingering sunlight to catch a glimpse of the incredible diversity of plant and bird life, I continue back to my hotel, with my window cracked open, listening to the sounds of the rainforest.

Don’t Mind the Irritating Stuff

Growing up, I carried out activities with a certain focus, a certain intensity. If I was reading a book, nothing but the book would exist. I would be present physically, but my attention would be submerged deep within the realm of the book. If I was doing math, everything else would vanish from my thoughts but the problem in front of me. If I was painting, nothing but the canvas existed. It was a pattern that I loved. It worked well for a while.

Then it started – in fourth grade, I recall being interrupted while doing classwork and being told to take my seat. Not just for one day, for two, or three. It happened repeatedly and it was irritating. The teacher, Mr. Falaradeau, couldn’t understand why I continued to stand at my desk when doing schoolwork. He was a very patient teacher and asked me plausible questions – is your chair uncomfortable? are your neighbors making you uncomfortable? Why don’t you sit? The answer was simple. Though, it was ridiculous, I think he sort of believed me. If I happened to start reading or writing something as I was returning  my desk, I became so lost in it, that I completely forgot to take a seat. It was really irritating to break my concentration, simply to sit. Yes, it sounds silly. And somehow my behavior morphed over time but it didn’t vanish.

Fast forward twenty-some years to a time when I was at work, focused on a computer analysis that had me completely engrossed. I was in a state where one gets nothing but pure satisfaction from being completely submerged within the material. But then it started happening again. Those irritating interruptions – Oh, can you check this? Did you hear about that? It did not happen when I was sitting idle. It happened when I was in the midst of some “serious” work. What did I do? I broke my concentration to answer their questions, all the while, thinking about how this person was wasting my time or even more, that this person was irritating me.

In the last few years, I started paying more attention to the irritating stuff.  Possibly because it has been a recurring theme in my life.  Or possibly because it was irritating enough that it kept my attention. This was no accident. There was a reason. I think everything happens for a reason. So I started ruminating about it.

It started with a dear old teacher of ours, that taught us about the concept that people (especially the ones that irritate you the most) are really reflecting qualities within yourself that you have yet to come to terms with, or that those individuals are instruments, trying to get you to see something that you’re completely missing.

Eckhart Tolle, in “The Power of Now”, writes, “To test their degree of presence, some Zen masters have been known to creep up on their students from behind and suddenly hit them with a stick. Quite a shock! If the student had been fully present and in a state of alertness, [...], he would have noticed the master coming up from behind and stopped him or stepped aside. But if he were hit, that would mean he was immersed in thought, which is to say absent, unconscious.”

In my mind, those pesky interruptions were nothing more than proverbial sticks, trying to help me be completely present. I think of those lessons today. Any given day. As soon as I become impatient, I think back to this assessment. Many people interact with young kids. Kids only live in the present, and will always make sure that you’re there with them. Their constant “interruptions” can be irritating if you’re trying to do something else. But that’s the point exactly. It’s not about what you’re doing – it has absolutely nothing to do with that. If one was completely present in whatever one was doing, then nothing would appear to be an interruption. So, I don’t mind the irritating stuff. I view it as a reminder to be fully present.

Finding Stillness

I awake at 5am. Unsettled. Waves of sleep still washing over me. I snooze until my second alarm goes off and finally open my eyes. “TRAINING” flashes across the internal running motion picture, interrupting my dream of sandy white beaches and eye candy. Oh yeah, I remember, I need to get to work in time for training. I launch myself out of bed, and stop for just a moment, before the mad hustle to get ready for work. Even though it’s overcast and drizzling, I step on my bedside mat, close my eyes and find the sun. I try to find some stillness. Nothing. I open my eyes and dart around – shower, food, clothes, shoes, umbrella, laptop and one Inspector Gadget raincoat. Run. Well, no…walk. The ground is wet.

On my drive to work, I alternate listening to the local jazz stations, a contemporary ‘pop’ Spanish channel, NPR and Spanish language CDs while navigating traffic. Then, I try radio silence. Nada. Nothing comes of it. My mind remains unsettled. I pass the last section of small roadways to reach the in-the-middle-of-nowhere location for my job, blast past the security guard while flashing my badge and park. The air is a bit too blustery and wind a bit too strong for a spring morning, so I wrap myself even tighter and bolt into the office.

The day is lost in mandatory training or “mind-numbing” training as I call it. Repetition of things I’ve already learned. Maybe there’s something else to learn. I consider this point and refocus. This particular class is almost ascetic, though – no coffee, no food, few breaks between the non-stop lecturing. People ask questions that digress. I think of sandy white beaches and…to keep myself from falling asleep. Then discover that pinching myself works. The space between my thoughts gets smaller and smaller. On my feedback form, I write, “relevance?” and “add value”. I make a small doodle of a withering stick figure and turn it in.

I manage to avoid running into an overbearing and nothing-short-of-obnoxious person near my “dilbert” cubicle.  I busy myself with some work to make my day “productive”, glancing at the view of dark overcast and slowly clearing skies.  I notice the company smokers, sitting in their cars across the street from the non-smoking campus. Bass pumping, fingers lit.

The games people play. The games we play. Then I think, what’s this game I’ve been playing all day? Enough. This day has been a waste. Time to return home. I click my heels three times, but nothing happens. My neighbor gives me a puzzled look. Oh well, I’ll try another day.

The ride home feels like the day in reverse. I pass gigantic puddles that have become proper lakes, while munching on an organic Braeburn apple. The song, “Don’t You Evah” catches my ear. I bop to the music in my car. It’s got good rhythm. It’s catchy and fresh. The band reminds me of another band, reminds me of another time. I successfully distract myself.

Finally, I reach my area some 40 minutes later. Stuck at a long red light, I observe the traffic flow, the pedestrians. I happen to glance up at the trees. Still bare, still transitioning from winter. Only at the top, at the very top, at the very tips of the smallest branches, can I see movement, against the shades of grayish-blue sky. It catches my breath. The light changes. Nudged by the traffic, I take a right turn to park.

What did I just see? Now walking to my apartment, I pause at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. Again, I study the tree tips. I feel a sudden grandness and everything vanishes but the movement of the tree tips. The soft breeze embraces me and for a moment I become self-conscious. I feel goosebumps. The light changes and I start my walk across. At the next light, I glance up at the sky, this time, against the trees. This time, the trees stand still and the sky moves. Everything falls out of my view as I observe the sky moving so subtly against the earth. I am lost in it. It has a timeless quality. I become conscious, then consciously unconscious. Then I smile. I can’t stop smiling. The day has served it’s purpose.

Finally… I find stillness.

I am nowhere.

I am nowhere.

I am not sky nor earth.
I am not ether.
I am not sunrise nor sunset.
I am not the waxing moon nor shadow.
I am not dusk nor twighlight.
I am not of this world nor am I of any other.
I am not anywhere, but here in this moment.

I am not clouds nor rain.
I am not the rivers nor the sea, the tides nor the bay waters.
I am not the ice waters of the Himalayan range nor glaciers of eternity.
I am not heat nor cold.
I am not sound nor silence.
I am not this mind nor ego.
I am not anywhere, but here in this moment.

I am not a baby’s cry nor child’s wail.
I am not patient nor impatient.
I am not love nor dislike.
I am not fortune nor poverty.
I am not friend nor foe.
I am not thought nor space.
I am not infinitesimal nor infinite.
I am not anywhere, but here in this moment.

I am not this woman nor this man.
I am not this lover nor this beloved.
I am not this heartbeat nor this body.
I am not these clothes, nor this shoe.
I am not this hand nor this pen.
I am not this writer nor this philosopher.
I am not this thought nor this letter.
I am not anywhere, but here in this moment.

Crossing dimensions of space and time.
I exist everywhere at once.
In the blink of an eye, I am there and back.
I am here and there.
I bounce back and forth.
My world’s cross, until
I am not anywhere,
but here in this moment.
I am now here.

 

-Neeta

Snow and Sunshine

Snow and sunshine. My first month here has been a tug-of-war between the two. It’s no surprise to find snow in the vocabulary of a Chicagoan in February. It’s winter, it’s cold. In fact it’s been so cold that a colleague conveyed a story of icicles forming on his goatee while shoveling. The image makes me chuckle. I envision this sort of preserved ice age man, freshly plucked out of a glacier.

Maybe this isn’t a novelty for the locals, but it is for this recently departed Californian. The benefit of living in an apartment is that I don’t have to partake in the seasonal shoveling ritual. The “blizzaster” as it was called, the storm that dumped more snow in Chicagoland than most people can remember, was the storm that stopped a city cold. In an attempt to outsmart the storm, the day the full storm was about to hit, I drove to a nearby train station and took the train to work. But all the shoveling and snow clearing couldn’t stop the impact of the blizzard. The early evening trains were stopped dead in their tracks with too much snow on the tracks and signals not working; we made some progress, heading south out of the rural areas north of Chicago. But then we were left at another train station to wait for a train. The storm picked up even more momentum. The wind gusts were so strong that the term “windy” city should have been replaced with something that conveyed the uncompromising and unrelenting fierceness of the air. Amazingly, the Chicagoans that were stuck on the same route as me were tolerant and understanding. They helped each other out. They maintained a sense of humor.

Finally a train arrived. I reached my destination to find my car partially buried. Fortunately, my car agreed to start. The drive home was a bit like driving on an ice skating rink. (I’m not saying I’ve ever done that but that’s simply the best way to explain it.) The roads were empty. It was dark. The orange glow of the street lights looked almost ominous with the limited visibility. The stores were all shut. There wasn’t a living element to be seen anywhere. To top it off, the air raid sirens were going off to signal a snow emergency. It really felt like armageddon.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I made it home. The next day the storm waged on. The upside: we had the equivalent of a “snow day”. That’s a great thing, even if you’re not a kid anymore. I worked from home. I listened to my neighbors play their instruments (I live in a building that appears to house the marching, jazz or orchestral band at Northwestern). The trumpeter, the trombonist and the saxophonist filled the building with mostly soothing musical tunes. The operatic soloist sang an aria and filled the air with emotion. Somehow it all worked – music with snow falling outside, a cozy sort of comfort.

But the sun always shines. The next day, the sun was out. It was beautiful. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such blue skies – my exception being the sky viewed from the Himalayan mountain range! The climate reminded me of ski destinations and mountainous elevations, but we were at sea level. The trees were dusted with snow – much like powdered sugar tapped on a pastry. The endless fields of white snow in every direction were almost laughable. A nearby homeowner shoveled enough snow out of a roadside parking space and reserved it with his kid’s toy car. Another homeowner near my apartment building attempted to shovel a small path to a nearby tree, to give his dog a place to go.  Haha….and then I laughed. At the end of all of it, I laughed.

In the middle of my drive home during the storm, I asked myself rhetorically, “Did I make the right decision?” I think of the morning sun, I think of the icicle man, I think of the snow path for a dog, I think of the parking spot being reserved by a toy car and I think of the kids making snow angels. I think about the good nature of the people of Chicago who maintained their compassion in the midst of a bitter storm. There is much I think about and then so much more to experience. There is much here for me to learn. So, I think I’ll stay for some more snow and sunshine.

Courage

Courage appears in that moment
that one looks into oneself for strength
that one finds when one takes a leap
that one feels before opening one’s heart.

An unopened rose peddling it’s fragrance
at the touch of sunlight
A sprout emerging from the confines
of the seed, the dark soil
A baby speaking precious words,
first words
A soul following a thorny path
that twists and turns.

Courage carries a sense of dignity
a quiet calm
a promise to the courageous
be bold and you will prosper
courage appears in that moment.

-Neeta

Farewell

In a bittersweet moment, I bid farewell to my beloved California today and look forward to Chicago! I thought of writing a poem, called Ode to California, but decided to share this E.E. Cummings poem, In Time of Daffodils, instead:

 

In Time of Daffodils by E.E. Cummings

in time of daffodils (who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why, remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so (forgetting seem)

in time of roses (who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if, remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek (forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me, remember me