Class is at Ten...

With due credit to Robert Browning's Pippa Passes...

The year's at the spring
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
My classes start at ten -
All's right with the world!

And that's how it's been since I woke up 7:30 this morning! Ridiculous, n'est pas?

Mother Teresa said...

A blog post, to mark the birth centenary of this remarkable woman. 

"If you judge people, you have no time to love them."

How true it is! You love someone not because they are good, kind, and generous (even if they are), but because they are themselves. And there's no need to complicate that love with judgement.

“Smiling Faces Do Not Mean That There Is Absence Of Sorrow!
But It Means That They Have The Ability To Deal With It”
- Anonymous.

Rafa Says...

Right now I don't think if I am No. 1 or I am No. 5.... I am Rafa, and I go to every tournament to try to play well and to try to be competitive and win as many matches as I can.  For me, important thing is that I feel that I play well, feel that I am competitive to try to win everybody.  And when we finish the season, we will see where I gonna be, no?

-Rafael Nadal

Substitute tennis with life, and it's the best philosophy you can find. Actually attempt to do so, finding exact parallels and all that, and you'll end with up with something that could be out of a crappy self-help book. And most self-help books are crappy, with tall claims, threadbare philosophies, rhetoric, and vague instructions of how to live your life that you wouldn't know how to translate into your day.

This, however... you see, it ain't a morsel thrown to us mortals from someone who has achieved inner peace, or what ever said book is preaching. It is a very real struggle, of a very real person, to try to play well, to give his all to his tennis, to each match, to each game, each point. To find satisfaction, to find life in that struggle. 

To me, Rafa is proof, that it can be done: that you can enjoy what you are doing, that every day deserves your best and that you can give that best every single day, even when it is not your day. That you can keep fighting when you are down, that a struggle need not be tedious, that you can win said struggle, if you persevere. 

That it doesn't matter, what the world labels you. You are yourself (oh, 'I am Rafa' sooo sounds better), and you decide what is truly important to you. You define your own victories and defeats, and you can be happy, as you go about reaching said victories.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
No, it doesn't come easy to me, this living by the day. My mind is clouded by fear of the future, by spectres of the past. But as my Rafa battles the hard-court season, I shall fight my own battle: to live my life, to push aside my demons--fear and guilt and laziness, to do what I love, to enjoy what I do.

'And when I finish this semester, we will see where I gonna be, no?'

Parding your beggon

Digs up happy, fun memories, this one. Enjoy!

The Muddle head from Petushkee

-Ogden Nash

I knew a man from Petushkee
As muddleheaded as could be.

He always got mixed up with clothes;
He wore his mittens on his toes,
Forgot his collar in his haste,
And tied his tie around his waist.

What a muddle head was he,
That man who lived in Petushkee!

They told him as he went about:
“You’ve got u’r coat on inside out!”
And when they saw his hat, they said:
“You’ve put a saucepan on your head!”

What a muddle head was he,
That man who lived in Petushkee!

At lunch he scratched a piece of bread,
And spread some butter on his head.
He put his walking stick to bed,
And he stood in the rack instead.

What a muddle head was he,
That man who lived in Petushkee!

He walked upto a tram one day
And climbed in very sprightly;
Conductor thought that he would pay,
Instead he said politely:

“Parding your beggon,
Kister Monductor,
I’m off for a week’s vacation;
I stop you to beg your cramway tar
As soon as we reach the station.”
Conductor got a fright
And didn’t sleep that nite.

What a muddle head was he,
That man who lived in Petushkee!

He rushed into the first café:
“A railway ticket please, One way.”
And at the ticket office said:
“A slice of tea and a cup of bread.”

What a muddle head was he,
That man who lived in Petushkee!

He passed the man collecting the fares,
And entered a carriage awaiting repairs,
That stood on a siding, all by itself.
Half of his luggage, he put on a shelf,
The rest on the floor, his coat on his lap
And settled himself for a bit of a nap.

All at once he raised his head,
“I must have been asleep”- he said.
“Hey, what stop is this?” he cried
“Petushkee,” a voice replied.

Once again he closed his eyes
And dreamt he was in Paradise.
When he woke, he looked about,
Raised the window and leaned out.

“I’ve seen this place before, I believe,
Is it Kharkov or is it Kiev?
Tell me where I am,” he cried.
“In Petushkee”, a voice replied.

And so again he settled down
And dreamt the world was upside down
When he woke, he looked about,
Raised the window and looked out.

“I seem to know this station too,
Is it Nalchik or Baku?
Tell me what its called,” he cried.
“Petushkee’ a voice replied.

Up he jumped: “It’s a crime!
I’ve been riding all this time,
And here I am where I began!
That’s no way to treat a man!’

What a muddle head was he,
That man who lived in Petushkee!

PS: Will find a fun pic to go with it, one day. For now, me off to sleep.

#tilts head#

Why do I insist on spelling 'em busses?

And I've had no practice at all...

"There is no use trying," said Alice; "one can't believe impossible things." "I dare say you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

 - Lewis Carrol                                           

Break, Break, Break

Break, break, break

 -Alfred, Lord Tennyson                                    

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.



I will not dare to explain the poem; no, I'll only repeat:

 'But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
 And the sound of a voice that is still! '

mmm...

“Finish every day and be done with it. You have done what you could; some blunders and absurdities crept in; forget them as soon as you can. Tomorrow is a new day; you shall begin it serenely and with too high a spirit to be encumbered with your old nonsense.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

How comforting a feeling it is, when I am so ordered to take care of myself, to be happy!

#hugs#

http://pois-rouge.blogspot.com/2010/07/meeting-your-quota.html:


“We need 4 hugs a
day for survival. We need 8 hugs a day for maintenance. We need 12 hugs
a day for growth.”

I don't think I'm meeting my quota.




Me neither.

Stumbling upon

I found this via http://www.stumbleupon.com/home/. Its a lil fantastic, but here goes. Your Thoughts Program Your Cells | High Existence su.pr/1BGjpL Some “Basic” Cellular Biology There are thousands upon thousands of receptors on each cell in our body. Each receptor is specific to one peptide, or protein. When we have feelings of anger, sadness, guilt, excitement, happiness or nervousness, each separate emotion releases its own flurry of neuropeptides. Those peptides surge through the body and connect with those receptors which change the structure of each cell as a whole. Where this gets interesting is when the cells actually divide. If a cell has been exposed to a certain peptide more than others, the new cell that is produced through its division will have more of the receptor that matches with that specific peptide. Likewise, the cell will also have less receptors for peptides that its mother/sister cell was not exposed to as often. Thus if you have been bombarding your cells with peptides from a negative attitude, you are literally programming your cells to receive more of those peptides in the future. Even worse, you are lessening the number of receptors of positive-attitude peptides, making yourself inclined towards negativity. This is why it takes more than a few days of positive thinking to make a significant impact on your long-term attitude patterns. Every cell in your body is replaced every 2 months. So if you have a history of negative thinking, depression, pessimism or perpetual frustration, plan on working on yourself for longer than a few days before you see more permanent results. Start today. Start reshaping the biological structure of your cells and become inclined to happiness and optimism instead of whatever emotion your are physically addicted to right now.

Sindhara

सिंधारा, celebrated on the second day of the Shukla Paksha (waxing phase of moon) of Shravan, is essentially a women's festival. I know not, exactly, the rituals and ceremonies that go with it- mehendi, new clothes, swinging on झूला s, and gifts of fruit and corn and a token amount of money.


To me and jiji, it brings back memories of... oh, when we were little girls, the evening of the festival, दादीमा would sit us on the rocking chair ('twas a difficult task, to be sure, getting us both to sit still), sing us a lovely song--we couldn't make out the words, but she had a beautiful voice, and the song wrapped itself around us, notes hanging in the air in perfect pitch and no melody at all, just rhythm of her breathing... oh, I do believe I make no sense at all--while rocking the chair back and forth, and give us a rupee (or two, or five, as the years went by) each. We'd run off to the shop as soon as she was done to buy eclairs. 


We did not realize it then, but, you see, this was our world- mine, jiji's and dadima's: free spirits, indulgence, and a beautiful song. 'tis sindhara tomorrow: to me, it is simply another reason to go back to that little world, for a while... to feel my dadi's presence- warm, rich, and loving- wrapping itself around me.  

Writing, Briefly. By Paul Graham

http://www.paulgraham.com/writing44.html


(In the process of answering an email, I accidentally wrote a tiny essay about writing. I usually spend weeks on an essay. This one took 67 minutes—23 of writing, and 44 of rewriting.)

I think it's far more important to write well than most people realize. Writing doesn't just communicate ideas; it generates them. If you're bad at writing and don't like to do it, you'll miss out on most of the ideas writing would have generated.

As for how to write well, here's the short version: Write a bad version 1 as fast as you can; rewrite it over and over; cut outeverything unnecessary; write in a conversational tone; develop a nose for bad writing, so you can see and fix it in yours; imitate writers you like; if you can't get started, tell someone what you plan to write about, then write down what you said; expect 80% of the ideas in an essay to happen after you start writing it, and 50% of those you start with to be wrong; be confident enough to cut; have friends you trust read your stuff and tell you which bits are confusing or drag; don't (always) make detailed outlines; mull ideas over for a few days before writing; carry a small notebook or scrap paper with you; start writing when you think of the first sentence; if a deadline forces you to start before that, just say the most important sentence first; write about stuff you like; don't try to sound impressive; don't hesitate to change the topic on the fly; use footnotes to contain digressions; use anaphora to knit sentences together; read your essays out loud to see (a) where you stumble over awkward phrases and (b) which bits are boring (the paragraphs you dread reading); try to tell the reader something new and useful; work in fairly big quanta of time; when you restart, begin by rereading what you have so far; when you finish, leave yourself something easy to start with; accumulate notes for topics you plan to cover at the bottom of the file; don't feel obliged to cover any of them; write for a reader who won't read the essay as carefully as you do, just as pop songs are designed to sound ok on crappy car radios; if you say anything mistaken, fix it immediately; ask friends which sentence you'll regret most; go back and tone down harsh remarks; publish stuff online, because an audience makes you write more, and thus generate more ideas; print out drafts instead of just looking at them on the screen; use simple, germanic words; learn to distinguish surprises from digressions; learn to recognize the approach of an ending, and when one appears, grab it.

The sense of touch: Part 2/2

Nature is not always a gentle goddess. Sometimes, she is cold, sweeps us all in her apathy. When it rains, the raindrops, so gentle on tender leaves, sometimes turn traitors. They pound the earth, like drumsticks, only infinitely sharper, as he who has ventured out would tell. I am drenched, soaked, and strong gusts of wind bring chills. It is the worst, when she is angry, and scorching hot. The expanse before me is now covered in gloom, and what binds me to it are the sun rays that sear all in their path, and the hot wind that imprisons my spirits.

- *- * -

 People can be cold too, and their tongues sharp. How easy it is, to forget to be kind, to snap at others! Oh! None of this is touch, is it? Touch is, forgive me the paradox, intangible here. And yet it is there, somewhere. In the shards of sarcasm that hit you with so much force, in the waves of humiliation that wash over you. In the steady, unrelenting hold of regret, in the dead weight of boredom. It is the worst, that stab of fear, it goes away, soon enough, but leaves behind gripping anxiety and dread to imprison my spirits.

Dickinson, again.

I know not, but I felt that I must post this today.

It's All I Have to Bring Today

by Emily Dickinson

It's all I have to bring today –
This, and my heart beside –
This, and my heart, and all the fields –
And all the meadows wide –
Be sure you count – should I forget
Some one the sum could tell –
This, and my heart, and all the Bees
Which in the Clover dwell.

 It is a darling little poem, ain't it? I feel all warm and fuzzy when I read it.

This afternoon

Here's my attempt at a novel topic, some three years ago. I never got round to writing it properly.

This afternoon, as I walked home from school
- I passed a bicycle repair shop, a lad poked his tongue out at the owner in triumph, and danced a victory jig. I wondered what had happened.
- I caught the eye of the man, he looked at me strangely.


This afternoon, as I walked home from school
- I turned into the little shortcut, a bullock cart approached from the opp. direction. The bell tinkled, and as it approached, I also heard the rhythmic toc toc toc of the wheels of the rustic blue cart. The driver hit his whip lazily.
- I caught the eye of the man, he looked at me strangely.

This afternoon, as I walked home from school
- a man was painting a little statuette (plaster of paris) of Mother India, by him were several more: some prettily coloured and other figurines equally graceful waiting for their turn.
- He caught me staring, and as he looked askance at me. I shrugged and continued my way


This afternoon, as I walked home from school
- A little warbler began a song, I stared at it. Beak parted, throat swelling, creating little notes woven together with joy.
- It caught me at it, no, it did not look at me strangely. Merely tossed its golden head and flew off.

This afternoon, as I walked home from school
- My own soft melody was interrupted by more jovial tunes, they were quickly established as from a loudspeaker on a little cart. I got no glimpse of its driver; I was distracted by the girl who rode it. Her faded ‘lehenga’ sharply in contrast with the bright flower in her hair, indeed, the bright smile on her face.
- She looked at me that instant. I beamed and quickly averted my face. When I looked up again, there seemed to be a problem, the cart wouldn’t move. She got down, pushed it over the pothole, then with the same effortless grace, swung herself back up into the cart.
- I stared until it took a turn, then continued my way

This afternoon, as I walked home from school
- I saw three girls grouped over a book, under the freckled shade of the old pepal tree. They were struggling over it, probably a piece of homework, the pencil moved uncertainly from one line to another.
- I felt an urge to approach them, to help them with it. Then ruefully wondered what they would think of my attempts- I was not very good with their language.
- I walked on. 

The sense of touch: Part 1/2

Written in Jan 2010

There's beauty, in what we see, and hear, and smell, and taste. Yet, without touch, I wouldn't be a part of any of it. I hardly know how to put it in words... I'm not talking about the ground under my feet. Rather, it is the air wrapping 'round me, like one would a present, that keeps me connected to my surroundings. Only, the gift is not me. The gift is happiness, and it is for me. Where there is a pretty sight, a cheerful song, a fragrant flower, I find a gentle wind that lifts me off the ground, and my spirit soars.

- * - * -

I found beauty indoors, as well. In the laughter, the companionship, the love of those dear to me. If it is the cool breeze that connects me to nature, it is warmth that I find with my family and friends. This instinctive comfort is often described as intangible, but to me, it is as tangible as any of the hugs and kisses I steal from dad, and ma, and every one whom I love. Oh, and I steal 'em at every opportunity I find.