A mound of clay transforms into pots in hours. Each pot looks identical. But I wonder—does the potter feel the same shaping every one? Is there joy in the rhythm, or is it just routine?
Each curve of the clay carries a trace of his hand, maybe even his mood. A fleeting emotion, frozen in form. What stories would he share if asked about the pots?
Or perhaps, like the clay, he’s shaped by the act of creating—silent, steady, and a little mysterious.
A potter’s world is one of quiet emotion, moulded into shape.
Choices rule our world. Life every minute is a matter of choice. We are where are because of the choices we made then. We will be where we will be because of the choices we make now. Choose well!
The fruits of good choosing helps secure the health of our futures!
#choice #health #fruits #stories #culture #life #ordinary #traveller #instatravel #instapassport #blogger #travelblogger #blogging #traveladdict #traveltheworld #wanderlust #play #lessons #india #metaphor #love #reflection #purpose
#season #future (at Gurgaon, Haryana)
Life keeps throwing balls at us. Which ones do we catch?
It often depends on how ready we are for anything that life throws at us. We can’t expect the ball to come to us at a speed, angle and height of our choosing!
The only choice that’s good to exercise is to be ready for whatever life throws at us in the moment. And catch it with all our mind!
Between stimulus and response there is ‘choice’. Viktor Frankl’s famous and profound work consumes me today.
There is always a mountain of stuff to be done, people to be met, convincing to happen, arguments to be closed. There is always more to do. In more ways than one thats good.
It gives purpose to the day. It gives energy and a reason to summon every ounce of energy and then go after what the day presents.
With joy and abandon.
Afterall, between what the day throws at you and how you respond to it, there is choice.
Its the ‘wee hours’. As they call it. I sit still staring emptily into my computer screen. A side glance brings alive the dark sky that lies beyond the open window. The chill breeze and the lone star in the dark sky that seems to twinkle its way to attention, without much fuss.
The desktop screen has a to-do list with a heap of items that when described as ‘turn-off’s, would struggle to convey the depth of the emotion associated with it. I struggle. My eye catches a piece of paper held aloft by a butterfly magnet. The daughter loves butterflies. And magnets. That two disjoint pieces can suddenly cling on to each other fascinates her. It still does fascinate me.
The Sun makes his preparations to shine a new light into the dark night. I continue to look at this piece of paper. A weak smile emerges thinking of the daughter. I tear my eye from the butterfly and double click on the minimised calendar. The computer obeys with a precision that I wish, was bestowed on my will to take on the to-do list.
“February”. Screams the calendar. Its the most silent scream I have heard in a while. January has been consumed by a relentless march of every day. One full month seems to have sneaked out. Tirelessly consumed by trifles, while starting with a promises and possibilities bordering on the momentous. Sometimes I feel its still the first of Jan. Of 2014! My mom says the last fifty years of her life have rushed off in this manner. Sometimes when memory of another moment from another time and circumstance visit me, I wonder whatever happened to the intervening years. The comfort in continuity, washing way any guilt that a possible stagnation can fester.
The monotonous clang of every passing moment speeds off with what seems to be a desperate lunge of an athlete who hedged his life on winning the Olympic Gold! The star on the horizon seems to flicker as though wanting to tell me something. I stare at the flicker and see a raw beauty in it. A colour and sparkle that is so brilliant, against the backdrop of what seems to be a hesitant dawn.
I pick up a pen and write. As is wont, when the urge to say something to myself is immediate. Every passing monochrome moment has a colour to it. In fact every moment has colour. It isn’t the moment’s fault if a monochrome lens envelops the eye. I write, ‘ Myriad hues of monochrome moments ‘.
I think of something I stumbled into sometime back. “This is Water” said its title. Do give it a read. Below is an excerpt of the full piece on video. Pretty good, I must say. Here is the full speech. Perhaps it would provide you with insights beyond what emerged for me. Maybe we should talk.
I look into the night sky, which seems to seamlessly give way to light. Without a fight. The bright brilliance of the star on the horizon seems to have taken a different hue, settling behind the haze. I notice the time again. The date sneaks out from behind the curtain.
