All The Light That I Want to See
despite the ethereal fog that surrounds my shores, I once again stand on the limits of my longing for light....
Several browsers, each hosting a multitude of tabs, run begrudgingly on my laptop. I glance across the browser with only the first two alphabets visible to my tired eyes. I try to scramble to the right tab. Ninety per cent of the tabs are related to the project I am currently immersed in, and the remaining filled with poems, essays, and the song ‘Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again,’ playing in the background. This mega carnival of tabs is a testament to my state of mind. I normally have a few open, but not to this extent.
The song by Simon & Garfunkel reminded me that darkness is indeed an old friend. Sometimes, there is a sadness that’s a subtle kind, elusive and hard to pinpoint or smooth out. It’s precisely that unexplainable form that has shown up for me.
It’s suddenly dark and stormy in my emotional atmosphere. I am usually the first to put up the Christmas tree at home or act like a looney fool, dancing away joyously to Jingle Bell Rock. There is no tree or carols for my rescue. I find myself at a loss for words. There’s a quietude that feels spiritual yet filled with unfathomable emotions. It’s not a “my life is over kind of emotion” but something that has warranted a conversation on my unusual silence at home :)
There is a tiny part within me that is fearful of a relapse of the utterly dark phases, the ones where sleep was the only refuge. This I know, something has changed. Unlike the earlier phases, I am not spiralling down the abyss of helplessness. This discomforting ambivalence has evoked a few questions in me. I woke up wondering when Tiny Me experienced her first encounter with these sorts of emotions.
I recall this feeling when I travelled on the bus a few months back. I love sitting on the top deck of the bus, watching the world pass by me. On a bright, sunny day, I stepped onto the bus in an upbeat mood. After a few stops, a man in his forties joined the nearby seat. His appearance was tattered. He looked distraught. He held onto a bag and a newspaper. A few people moved back as soon as he boarded, possibly because of the strong odour that emanated from him. I continued to sit there. The stale odour was uncomfortable, but I remembered my parents. I have seen both show up for people in invisible ways, even when inconvenient. This was my invisible way of conveying my solidarity with him to soldier on in life. He was reading a newspaper. I sat there wondering, At what point do people cross the threshold of being saved or revived?
I’m sure that the gentleman and many others may have reached the point where either the individual or the people around gave up on them. It disturbs me greatly when it’s a well-known fact that the chances of saving people are far greater in this day and age. I understand the role psychology and individuals need to play in this healing. Healing is a communal effort.
My other favourite author, Bell Hooks, a notable writer and social activist, wrote that :
“rarely, if ever, are any of us healed in isolation. Healing is an act of communion.”
That is a hard truth. If I could give one book from Bell Hooks to my friends, it would be All About Love , a beautiful meditation on love.
I prayed for the stranger on the bus, smiled when our eyes met briefly, and left the bus. When these visitations of darkness knock on my door, I scramble to re-map the territories of my darkness. I feel like a cartographer, perplexed with the recurring and disappearing contours in my well-charted emotional landscape. I am blessed with privilege and an acute awareness that help me map the latitude and longitude of my sadness most of the time. At this moment, I feel a bit lost. I can even meme myself out of this :D, but I want to sit with this feeling until it fades away.
Like the poet Rainer, Maria Rilke would say, sit with the unsolved questions. I am sitting with these feelings. They don’t look as scary as they would have in the past years. Journaling has been an outlet for writing and understanding my feelings in recent years. I’m grateful that my art remains a faithful ally to me. I let my feelings run amok when I create art.
On this wintery evening, when most of the Northern Hemisphere gets dark by the afternoon, I showed up here unsure of what I wanted to convey. I perceive these essays as personal quests to answer my lingering questions. The universe, or rather the synchrony of everyday probabilities computed by mathematics, led me to watch this beautiful series over the weekend based on a Pulitzer prize-winning novel by Anthony Doerr set in World War II. The title of this post was inspired by it. When I was watching it, my mind didn’t process it as much as it does now, but as I write this, the series offers itself as an answer to a part of the larger puzzle in my mind. I feel language is sometimes insufficient to convey the essence of the here and now, yet I am trying to make sense of the mind’s jamboree. I have written about the creative spoils of darkness. I have experienced it in my life through my creation. I have never thought about how this darkness is indeed filled with light, the light that I want to see :)
Coming back to the series, the professor, a character in the story, shares the below quote in a radio broadcast to young children,
“The brain is locked in total darkness, of course, children, says the voice. It floats in a clear liquid inside the skull, never in the light. And yet the world it constructs in the mind is full of light. It brims with color and movement. So how, children, does the brain, which lives without a spark of light, build for us a world full of light?”
Isn’t it amazing to imagine how our brains float in this dark cosmos and are a saviour often? In the series, this stranger steps in to save the other stranger connected through a twist of fate. Since time immemorial, while humans have fought for survival, they have also saved each other.
Watching these stories or observing people save the souls and lives of others makes me believe that there is a light that I cannot see now, but it exists.
“A human being could only be saved by another human being. I am aware that we do not save each other very often. But I am also aware that we save each other some of the time,” wrote James Baldwin, a renowned novelist and social critic.
I truly believe that we have the magical ability to save each other with love and kindness. We can save ourselves, too.
I know this light I struggle to see now is all around me. I am an experienced miner of hope and optimism. I know I will find my energy back sooner or later; until then, I let myself bask in the aethers of this fog. My personal struggles of the past few years have helped me become a springboard of resilience. I believe this is the gift that an immigrant receives when he/she moves out of known territories. The self-deconstruction and reconstruction are almost complete for this stage of life. I am in a suspended liminal phase between the old and new adventures that await me. I will persist and hope the same for people in a similar phase. We are surrounded by all the light that we cannot see :) Only love and grit can help us sail through these phases.
Today happens to be the birthday of one of my favourite authors, Rainer Maria Rilke. I had to share a poem of his and another for this edition.
Go to the Limits of Your Longing by Rainer Maria Rilke ( translated by Joanna Macy) God speaks to each of us as he makes us, then walks with us silently out of the night. These are the words we dimly hear: You, sent out beyond your recall, go to the limits of your longing. Embody me. Flare up like a flame and make big shadows I can move in. Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final. Don’t let yourself lose me. Nearby is the country they call life. You will know it by its seriousness. Give me your hand. Book of Hours, I 59 Do Not Go Gentle Into That Night by Dylan Thomas Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know dark is right, Because their words had forked no lightning they Do not go gentle into that good night. Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, Do not go gentle into that good night. Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, Rage, rage against the dying of the light. And you, my father, there on the sad height, Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray. Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
I must stroll in this phase of darkness for “What is to give light must endure burning. -wrote Frankl in his most famous work, a highly recommended read. I am sharing some glimpses of my art that is a faithful ally. As the year draws to a close, I hope the remaining weeks of this year for you are filled with meaningful moments spent in joy and surrounded by light. I hope to write to you with more joy before the year ends. A reflection for this edition is,
"How has your journey through the darker phases of this year shaped your perspectives ?"
Some glimpses from my art creations. I am fascinated with combining technology with my art. I can envision myself creating some immersive pieces in the future :
I named this as “Edge of Melancholy”
This week’s find :
I had to share this tweet thread that sums up love in its purest form. It’s messy and imperfect, yet there :) No wonder it went viral.
Until next time,
Much love and light
Love & light to you too!