This just came to me in a blink, as I was pottering through my blog, tidying up old posts. I caught a glimpse of a picture I'd posted (see label "gardens") and ..
What is a graveyard
but just another garden
nurturing new life?
Sometimes I think that, whether or not it is true (there's only one way to find out if it is - but I'm not ready to die just yet), it's a good thing to believe in life after death. Of course, many of the world's religions, mine included (I'm a Muslim, in case you're wondering) believe that our death from this world we know, is not the end. But I am beginning to think, given the state of the world today, that it might be a good idea to believe in reincarnation. How else will we get ourselves to take responsibility for the terrible things we do to this planet and to ourselves?
Perhaps we need to give ourselves these fears: that what goes around, comes around - that the mess we leave behind today will be there abundantly for us to struggle through as the children we'd be reborn as - that the lessons we take the time to learn here, will be the bonus points that give us a head start in our next game - and that, in the end, it will be okay to die.
Showing posts with label gardens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label gardens. Show all posts
Sunday, 19 October 2008
Sunday, 7 September 2008
ONCE UPON The Count of Ten
Once upon the count of ten, I found out what I was here for. I was on the edge of a new millennium, and I was searching. When I heard that a hypnotherapist was visiting Bahrain, and would be holding past-life regression workshops, I felt the need to see him.
I find that odd now, looking back, because at that point of my life, I had never before turned to the past for answers. The past, for me, had always been a collection of anecdotes and photographs given to me by others, and the collage I pieced together had created a pleasant enough picture, of a past I could not actually remember. Besides this, I did not - and am still unsure if I do - believe in past lives. I told myself I was going for fun. For a lark, and to be able to say that I had done that. To add a quirky anecdote to the old collage.
Now I know that some part of me knew I needed to take this step, that dominoed into step after step, little painful falls towards healing. That first hypnosis session was followed by five or six more, each one opening a fictional and yet more real past than I had ever known. But that first session - well, it was the first. Every step I've taken ever since has been a result of that first visit into my subconscious.
And so, with a count of ten, I was standing before a tower, on my way to meet an inner guide. The gentleman who had hypnotised me, Lee Stone, told me that this inner guide would answer questions, show me ways, and take me on journeys.
"Ask him," Lee said. "Ask him what your role here is."
So I asked, "What is my role here?"
And I got the answer: Just to be.
Just to be. What kind of role is that? In my mind, “to be” meant “nothing”. I defined life by doing, not being. If I am to be, rather than to do, then I am wasted, inanimate, useless, pointless. Actions, accomplishments, awards. Roles, diplomas, milestones, items ticked off on a list of errands. You don’t get gold stars for doing nothing.
Just to be. Those three words still waft about me today. For a very long time, I found them hard to accept, or even understand. I am only just beginning to understand. What kind of things just “be”? The answer took seven years to come to me: nature. Nature just is. There is no conscious will or decision-making. Nature just is, and somehow by its being, exerts its influence on those of us who think we are the masters of this planet.
We, the people, "do". We do lots of things. Lots and lots. We always have done, and will continue to do. And searching for answers is just one little thing in all those thousands of millions of things that we do. We do, we die, we search, we go on trying, year into century into aeon and we are still searching and doing and dying.
I will never know if those past lives I saw under hypnosis all those years ago were real, or beautifully creative visualisations. But now, knowing what little I do know, I think I have an idea of whose example to follow, and what to aspire to, should there be a life after this one I'm living now. Trees.
When you look at them, they don’t seem to be doing anything. They’re not visibly active, although in some passive unseen way, they are wildly and widely awake. There is photosynthesis, and osmosis, and all sorts of interestingly-named processes going on. They’re producing oxygen, carbon dioxide. They’re filtering toxins. They’re cooling the air. They’re housing birds and insects and animals. They’re sheltering smaller plants. They’re even growing anthuriums at their feet, in the rotting mulch that was once branches or fruit or bark or leaves. And under it all, their roots are holding the earth together. Effortlessly. Just by being.
I find that odd now, looking back, because at that point of my life, I had never before turned to the past for answers. The past, for me, had always been a collection of anecdotes and photographs given to me by others, and the collage I pieced together had created a pleasant enough picture, of a past I could not actually remember. Besides this, I did not - and am still unsure if I do - believe in past lives. I told myself I was going for fun. For a lark, and to be able to say that I had done that. To add a quirky anecdote to the old collage.
Now I know that some part of me knew I needed to take this step, that dominoed into step after step, little painful falls towards healing. That first hypnosis session was followed by five or six more, each one opening a fictional and yet more real past than I had ever known. But that first session - well, it was the first. Every step I've taken ever since has been a result of that first visit into my subconscious.
And so, with a count of ten, I was standing before a tower, on my way to meet an inner guide. The gentleman who had hypnotised me, Lee Stone, told me that this inner guide would answer questions, show me ways, and take me on journeys.
"Ask him," Lee said. "Ask him what your role here is."
So I asked, "What is my role here?"
And I got the answer: Just to be.
Just to be. What kind of role is that? In my mind, “to be” meant “nothing”. I defined life by doing, not being. If I am to be, rather than to do, then I am wasted, inanimate, useless, pointless. Actions, accomplishments, awards. Roles, diplomas, milestones, items ticked off on a list of errands. You don’t get gold stars for doing nothing.
Just to be. Those three words still waft about me today. For a very long time, I found them hard to accept, or even understand. I am only just beginning to understand. What kind of things just “be”? The answer took seven years to come to me: nature. Nature just is. There is no conscious will or decision-making. Nature just is, and somehow by its being, exerts its influence on those of us who think we are the masters of this planet.
We, the people, "do". We do lots of things. Lots and lots. We always have done, and will continue to do. And searching for answers is just one little thing in all those thousands of millions of things that we do. We do, we die, we search, we go on trying, year into century into aeon and we are still searching and doing and dying.
I will never know if those past lives I saw under hypnosis all those years ago were real, or beautifully creative visualisations. But now, knowing what little I do know, I think I have an idea of whose example to follow, and what to aspire to, should there be a life after this one I'm living now. Trees.
When you look at them, they don’t seem to be doing anything. They’re not visibly active, although in some passive unseen way, they are wildly and widely awake. There is photosynthesis, and osmosis, and all sorts of interestingly-named processes going on. They’re producing oxygen, carbon dioxide. They’re filtering toxins. They’re cooling the air. They’re housing birds and insects and animals. They’re sheltering smaller plants. They’re even growing anthuriums at their feet, in the rotting mulch that was once branches or fruit or bark or leaves. And under it all, their roots are holding the earth together. Effortlessly. Just by being.
Saturday, 7 June 2008
Last week I rescued a drowning lizard.
This week it was a hungry dog. A mournful stray mongrel with wonderful tan fur, who has now overcome his perfectly understandable fear of the human race, at least as far as I am concerned. He lets me pat him, listens happily when I talk endlessly (gosh, it's so nice to have someone who really LISTENS!! Ever since my therapist dumped me, I've missed that!) and he's now waiting at the front gate several times a day to see if I've got any spare food or love. I'm not sure what this dog's name is. He wags at almost every name I throw at him. Except Lancelot. He was definitely pained by that one.
The lizard story, meanwhile, is not as noble as it sounds, because I was responsible (accidentally, of course) for the lizard falling into the water tank in the first place. However, I can still take credit for scooping her out and placing her in a sunny spot to revive.
Soon after, I also nearly drowned - no, drenched - a little toad who happened to have taken up residence in a flower pot I decided to water.
A few days ago, our wonderful drumstick tree broke in half during a gale, and I spent almost an entire day dismantling the broken branches. I felt I owed the tree this much; the sapling was a gift from a family friend Mr. Nellamuthu, who died the following year. We remember him every time we bring in a harvest of drumsticks - and what wonderful harvests there have been over these years.
It was amazing just how much use even a fallen tree can be. There were branches and twigs that will dry and become someone's firewood. There were huge amounts of leaves and buds rich in iron and other minerals that we were able to distribute to so many people (to cook into a veggie dish); there were a few very tender drumsticks not yet at their prime: green tendrils that we will cook into a sambar; there were random green bits that all got collected for the compost heap. I worked the whole day up on the roof, and ended up with a ghastly headache that evening. But it was worth it. I felt it was the least I could do for this tree that had given us so much.
The following day we called in two gardeners to cut the remainder of the tree down, down to the roots. I noticed a gummy substance easing out of some of the hacks. It looked like melted candle wax, and in some places it was deep red, like blood.
I felt sad for the bees who loved this tree -- I would find them even past sunset, drinking their fill of nectar from its white flowers; also the little bee-eaters (that I've never seen eating bees) who are little flittery brown-and-white birds with longish beaks and yellow bums and a "too-whit-too-whit-too-whit" song. The squirrels will have one less tree to leap about and nibble on. The neighbours' ugly walls and immodest windows will no longer be hidden by greenery. We are all going to miss that tree.
The lizard story, meanwhile, is not as noble as it sounds, because I was responsible (accidentally, of course) for the lizard falling into the water tank in the first place. However, I can still take credit for scooping her out and placing her in a sunny spot to revive.
Soon after, I also nearly drowned - no, drenched - a little toad who happened to have taken up residence in a flower pot I decided to water.
A few days ago, our wonderful drumstick tree broke in half during a gale, and I spent almost an entire day dismantling the broken branches. I felt I owed the tree this much; the sapling was a gift from a family friend Mr. Nellamuthu, who died the following year. We remember him every time we bring in a harvest of drumsticks - and what wonderful harvests there have been over these years.
It was amazing just how much use even a fallen tree can be. There were branches and twigs that will dry and become someone's firewood. There were huge amounts of leaves and buds rich in iron and other minerals that we were able to distribute to so many people (to cook into a veggie dish); there were a few very tender drumsticks not yet at their prime: green tendrils that we will cook into a sambar; there were random green bits that all got collected for the compost heap. I worked the whole day up on the roof, and ended up with a ghastly headache that evening. But it was worth it. I felt it was the least I could do for this tree that had given us so much.
The following day we called in two gardeners to cut the remainder of the tree down, down to the roots. I noticed a gummy substance easing out of some of the hacks. It looked like melted candle wax, and in some places it was deep red, like blood.
I felt sad for the bees who loved this tree -- I would find them even past sunset, drinking their fill of nectar from its white flowers; also the little bee-eaters (that I've never seen eating bees) who are little flittery brown-and-white birds with longish beaks and yellow bums and a "too-whit-too-whit-too-whit" song. The squirrels will have one less tree to leap about and nibble on. The neighbours' ugly walls and immodest windows will no longer be hidden by greenery. We are all going to miss that tree.
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