Wishing for a Halt


I wish today I were a tree
A tall and green one

Standing patiently
Examining passers by
Sighing at their futile years
Bemoaning their hurried breath
Wishing they could wait like me

The sweetness in waiting
The wonders of watching
The marvels of introspection
O how I wish I could teach them

How
Standing on a million feet
I do not care to run
How
Moving a billion hands
I do not worry to prove
And how
Unlocking a thousand lips
I do not bother to speak

The same rain that drives you under
Polishes my memories of yore
The sun that scorches your parchment skin
Only expands my heart and soul

My trembling leaves
Enact a hundred sagas
That I wish you would stop to see
For they dance the eternal breath of life
That you lunge to grab for free

My secrets are open to one and all
But you rush by with eyes closed
The giver in me stands to serve
But you never arrive with a bowl

Stop by one day
And I will tell you
There is no need to run
What you seek is right under your feet
There are many lives not one.


I sat on the carpet gingerly pulling out boxes and suitcases from the closet lest I sprain my back again. But it cannot be avoided. I have to do this and do this soon. I have no time. No time to see no time to spare. W.H Davies. Leisure. Read this long time back in school. It made sense then. It makes sense now. So I sit down to open those boxes to take a quick look at their innards. What have they carried all these years? Shunted from house to house, apartment to apartment, why have I never deserted them? I know the answer to my question but even so, I sat down to “stand beneath the boughs, And stare as long as sheep and cows”.

And I kept staring at them. Elementary school papers. Scribbles and doodles. Files and folders, letters to beloved teachers, paintings and cartoons, poems and spelling tests, report cards and purple notes. Angry letters written to me, spewing out frustration on not getting the much wanted birthday gift or not making it to a friend’s party. Beautiful cards that said “you are the best mom” or hand written Sorry post-its about a forgotten episode. Many projects on Native Americans, many missions on school science, many certificates won and lost. Scores of disfigured ceramic pots that were made some day when they were being taught baking and pottery. Little smooth pebbles that were once my only birthday gifts. Parched leaves of our first fall here in the US, collected with the children, lie pressed within folds of papers. I picked up one to smell. I remembered how windy it was that day. I was picking acorns and pine cloves with the children to prevent myself from remembering the recent umbilical severance with India. How the kids and I used to cry thinking about what we left behind back home. How many times we moved from house to house since then to find that lost home again. The saga that hasn’t stopped yet. I have left behind beloved friends and family sure that I could never exist a day without them. But I have survived. Like a tree. Against thunder and rain and storms and tempests.

My intention to reduce the number of boxes to carry to Utah is thrown to the wind. Reminisces are all I have. They are weightless. I place the precious papers inside the boxes and label them “Fragile. Handle with Care. This side Up: Recollections”.