Yielding to Inspiration

I know there is a writer somewhere inside me (possibly even a prolific one). Coaxing her out is often akin to pulling out a loose tooth—uncomfortable and tinged with fear at first, but in the end, greatly rewarding (more in the sense of accomplishment than a quarter under the pillow; although I would not mind profiting from my wordsmithery).

Last night as I anxiety-balled up on my sofa (okay really it was my bed, which doubles as my sofa, which doubles as my bed…) wondering if there was any chance that I could produce a blog entry that wasn't: a.) completely vanity plate or b.) completely Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret, I decided to stop chasing my oh-my-god-I'm-never-going-to-be-able-to-do-this-what-was-I-thinking tail and surrender to inspiration. If there was something I was supposed to write, then let it find me. In short, to borrow a phrase, I "let go and let God."

As I lay on my multi-functional living room furniture in a slightly more relaxed anxiety ball, ideas began to flow, ideas that I plan to develop and share (watch this space!). Riding the creativity wave, my anxiety was replaced by excitement (read: I have new, exiting things to be anxious about).

I often beat myself up over not being a fast-thinking, super-sharp, always-on-the-ball-and-ahead-of-the-curve creative. Last night, however, when I accepted my natural, shall we say, "contempative" pace, getting out of my own way and yieldeding to inspiration, I was rewarded with long-term writing ideas that should entertain and pay off. Hopefully more than a quarter under my pillow.

Finding truth

Lazer Eyes is not Wrong from Dog Hates ME by Sam Brown

Finding my truth is hard. Finding my truth and living it is even harder. I am confronted daily with choices and am often paralyzed by indecision, convinced that a decision in any direction will be the wrong one.

Until recently, I didn't really understand the phrase "speak truth to power." People I knew seemed to find strength and inspiration in that phrase, while I was merely baffled by it.

About a week ago, I came to the realization that it doesn't matter what unfortunate (or even painful) things happen to me as long as I am true to myself. In that moment, I understood the phrase.

To me, speaking truth to power means that so long as I am true to myself—and make decisions that are in line with my core beliefs—everything else will sort itself out, usually for the better.

I too am now inspired by the notion of speaking truth to power. I am learning to critically ask myself, "What do I want?" "Are my actions in line with my core beliefs and desires?" "What needs to change in order to bring myself in line with my core beliefs?"

I do still struggle with the daily grind of human incarnation. At least now when I am faced with downward spiraling indecision, I have an internal gyrocompass—personal truth—that will help righten and straighten my course.

Cronus conundrum

It seems to me that time more than anything else conspires against me. It is the one thing that I never seem to have enough of. I imagine that I am not unique here. However, on a day when I have only a few minutes to soak in one of Nature's fleeting exquisite moments before rushing off to fulfill obligations, the reality of circumstance is bittersweetly acute. Because if I do not rush off this morning, I may be faced with harboring the regret of "what if." What if I had been prudent about my business that day, would I be longing for its rewards today?

There she 'fros

When India and The Afro meet, it can be an endearing, annoying and amusing encounter.

"Oh soft!" and "Nice!" have been the responses of sweet spa employees upon tactile introduction to my noggin. Stymied security guards stare helplessly at the 'fro. To frisk or not to frisk? Only one airport guard gave my locks and their attendant scarf a furtive pat, and then only after I volunteered my head for the once over.

My neighbor Carl warned me that my wooly coif would be a curiosity. Apparently, his travels on the subcontinent included a fair amount of offering his cranium for inspection. That said, I'm pretty sure his closely cropped do did not endanger the lives of innocent, unsuspecting commuters.

My adventures in Varanasi run like a cautionary tale cum comedy of errors. Much like driving while talking on a mobile phone, my hair should be banned from the roadways of the City of Light. It is sheer negligence on my part of allow my hair to be out and about during rush hour. The 'fro nearly caused several traffic accidents as rickshaw drivers (and their passengers), cyclists and pedestrians stopped watching the road to take a very long double take at the sight of my fluffy head making its way down the street. (Minimal traffic does not require the double take as doubling back for a second look is as easy as making a U-turn in the middle of an empty street). The Varanasi traffic police would have made a mint if they had found a way of charging me with reckless DNA.

One elderly denizen of Varanasi's Old City stopped dead in her tracks, mouth gaping, as I approached, passed and ascended a flight of stairs. She might still be standing there. I'm sure I owe her family some compensation as no doubt she will eventually have to be treated for shock.

Kolkata has given the 'fro a less than heart-warming reception.

Staring, snickering boys (the type that would laugh at someone with a speech impediment or physical handicap) seem not uncommon. I am normally in the habit of returning shy, curious glances with an open smile. In return, I usually receive an equally warm expression, and instantly, where once there was a cultural boundary stands a bridge. Not with these delinquents.

Perhaps I am being too harsh, but these juveniles' unchecked behavior makes me want to abandon my normally pacific nature and scare the, well, you know, out of them by turning on their punk asses with a vicious shriek like the terrible, black-skinned goddess Kali, eyes wide, tongue lolling and dripping with blood. My desire to be a respectful guest in this country and not be ejected from the restaurant before finishing my sweet lassi does not quell, but at least curbs this impulse.

Lest it seem like the 'fro has brought nothing but frustration, rest assured that it has given me at least one great advantage: easy entree into the delicate matter of Indian social etiquette. While reading over my shoulder as I write in my journal, demanding that I share my magazines during a train ride (then trying to take off with one) and prying into my personal finances is not considered rude or an invasion of my privacy, inquiry into whether my hair really does grow out of my head like that is always preceded by a quiet and respectful, "May I ask you a personal question?" Apparently grooming and genetics are not subjects to be broached lightly.

I realize that I must take at least partial responsibility the difficulties caused by the 'fro. To the city of Varanasi, I am truly sorry, and will do my best to limit bad hair days in the future. As for the snickering boys of Kolkata, watch out. Kali is coming!

Fire alarm?

An open fire, no matter how small, inside a jewelry shop should at least give someone pause. Not in India.

While purchasing a pair of earrings for my mom-in-law, I turned to notice a small fire burning under the showroom stairs. I was the only one who seemed remotely alarmed by our ability to make s'mores while perusing fine jewelry.

Having been here a few weeks, I have learned to go with the flow. So, rather than make a mountain out of a briskly burning molehill, I turned my attention to my purchase.

The clasp on one of the earrings needed adjustment. The resident goldsmith was summoned, retrieved the earrings and disappeared to make the repair. A few moments later he reappeared to say that the adjustment needed to be made offsite. I agreed to pick-up the earrings the next day.

As I left, I was startled to see the goldsmith comfortably squatting beneath the stairs. What I had thought was an errant flame was in fact a rudimentary forge. Of course. Silly me.