Beaten

Some adorned the branches,

Some fell by the wayside.

Some still fragrant,

Some lay broken.

Some still fresh,

Some all beaten up.

Just like all of us.

But look closely- the ones that are beaten and broken,

Are still beautiful.

The wind ripped them apart,

But they are still colorful.

They haven’t lost their charm.

So whether you are complete,

Or you are broken;

Whether you are fresh,

Or all beaten up by life,

Know that you are beautiful;

Know that you are beautiful.

You don’t see me

You see my grays and decide that I’m old n faded

But you don’t see my light

You see my crinkled eyes

But don’t see the suns I’ve braved

You see the laugh lines

But you don’t see the tears I’ve laughed through

You see my hardened hands

But not the burden that they carried

If you see me but you don’t see me

Then you haven’t known me

You don’t know me.

 

Chihuly Glass Garden – Seattle

Chihuly Garden and Glass, Seattle, is a glass exhibit that opened in May 2012. Dale Chihuly is a glass sculptor who creates larger than life blown glass work. Other Chihuly Glass exhibits are located in Phoenix, Tavoma, New York City and Denver – to name a few.

I like to explore the places via internet before I make up my mind to visit but I was not prepared for the breathtaking beauty. The glasswork that spans indoor, outdoor and glasshouse settings is intricately woven together, a burst of colors and transports you to a different world.

The exhibit allows entry starting 10am. There is a yoga under the glass program that I didn’t know about. I read about it online later as I a saw a lot of people coming out with their yoga mats before I could enter the exhibit.

As you enter, you would come across the indoor part first. The dim lights and the pastel colors instantly steal your heart. This work of art is produced by pouring glass from a height allowing the long stems and heavy bases and also giving it a “gravity defying” look. The lights and the floor reflecting the artwork add soul to this work.

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As you move further, you would see artwork inspired by baskets. I did not really find it captivating, so I moved on.

Next one was intricate blue glass sculpture, as if sea creatures were entangled in the tentacles of a giant monster. The transitioning shades of blue and the bright yellow star fish made a beautiful site. All eyes on the tentacles and everyone moved around it, as if a part of a ritual. I left some part of me entangled in those tentacles rising far above the ground.

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And then it seemed that I had reached a passage until I looked up. The ceiling was full of most beautiful flowers in the deepest and most vivid colors. I couldn’t take my eyes off the ceiling. The flowers look almost fluid, as if they are going to melt and fall into your lap. You wish that time froze just there. I sat on the bench in the corner and allowed the colors to seep into me. I didn’t have my fill of it. I’m going back some day – I know it in my bones.

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I was walking in a dream but I wasn’t prepared for what came next – A Thousand Flowers. Perhaps, everyone that has someone to love, will want to see The Mille Fiori with them. All colors under the sun, all the love under the sun, all the feelings possible and all the emotions possible – this piece of art invokes a lot inside you. I quietly sat in the corner and breathed it in, till I couldn’t take it anymore.

And I quietly walked on to these beautiful, bubbly boats full of treasure galore. I could almost touch the gaiety coming at me. Colors as beautiful as the Mille Fiori but the emotion, vastly different.

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Some more intricately woven pieces, reminded me of stalagmites and stalactites – some rising from the ground and some hanging from the ceiling.

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The next room was inspired by baskets, from what I remember. The textures were beautiful, the shapes too. The contrast in the color  on the inside and outside added to the charm.

And then I walked into heaven. The humungous flowers suspended from the ceiling, oozing color are one of the biggest blown glass sculptures by Chihuly. Set in the glasshouse, they flowers are almost hanging from the sky. Eyes heavenwards, breath forgotten, you are rooted to the spot. I wanted to lay on the floor right in the middle of the glasshouse, just under the blooming flowers. My only complaint that all the benches line the walls which doesn’t give you the best view. But I made the best of it I could. I couldn’t sit here. I just lay there quietly.

 

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Then I stepped out into the garden. The outside failed to get through to me. Perhaps, because it was rainy, cold and broad daylight. I am a dim lights and color person. The blues were very vivid and the red very Christmas-y and the yellow very bristly.

I had to do the unthinkable. I retraced my steps back through the museum because I wanted to leave with dreams in my eyes and not harsh realities of broad daylight. I am going to go back one day, to relive and stretch the moments of beauty into eternity.

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If not for you.

When I had you – my little girl

You have been hard work,

All day and all night.

But you brought back many things that I forgot or never touched

You splashed water and giggled

and that brought out smiles unbeleaguered

You soaked in rain with your father

and asked me, too, till I gave in

And let it soak my soul

We made the bed into a trampoline

We walked in the crunchy snow

We held out our tongues to taste the snowflakes

We walked around with the wind and snow in our faces

And we watched Paw Patrol while I lifted weights

We swam together and I let go of my fear

We rocked your toy babies to bed

We fought like siblings

And then got along like a house on fire

We painted together

We danced to kids bop together

We touched a frozen lake together

We sang together and played tag together

I started singing again

I started running again

We watched Peppa together

And worked on American accent together

All of this in 5 years or so

And there is more to come I am sure.

 

I would not taste life again

If not for you.

 

 

My first recital

Call it mid-life crisis, or just plain living life, but I started taking vocal lessons at 38. I had just finished my Masters in Engg., had moved countries and worked from home. So I needed to challenge myself a little more than the usual chores and raising a 5 year old. I just needed more than a normal day to keep me going.

So, I looked up a music school in the vicinity, read the reviews and enrolled without thinking any more. I can get cold feet very quickly. Cut to the first class and I was a bundle of nerves. I asked my husband to drive me the 2 mile distance as I didn’t trust myself enough to be able to make it on my own.

I reached the class and had the instructor asking me why I decided to learn at this age. I wasn’t prepared to answer the question. Ummm, well, I did sing in school – though I have never been trained. But I gave it up as “life” took over and then I stopped singing completely until I started singing again to soothe my colicky daughter to bed.

But I always wanted to learn. Back home, when I was growing up, one was to pay attention to academics and nothing else. Everyone grew up to be a doctor or engineer, music and arts had no room. But I didn’t want that to be my forever story. So here I was.

The instructor got me warmed up and asked to match pitch to the piano – it was easy for me. She was delighted after the first 30min session and she started sharing her books from the next session. She said she was going to retire in a year and her goal was to ensure that I was independent and singing before she retired.

She gave me several songs to practice, the one that really caught my fancy was “Never Enough” from the “Greatest Showman”. And I could sing it – I had the range. And I practiced and improved with every attempt. Three months into the classes, the first recital came up. I just happened to ask if I could enroll and I was in!

Now I was back to being all nerves. Perhaps, it was too soon. I had missed three weeks’ classes, too. So, practically, I’d just been learning for two months. And my instructor said that she would not be my accompanist on the piano. Lord! And I had been singing to the melody and not the actual music. So the piano had been supporting my voice when I practiced but not at the recital. What had I done! I went for the rehearsal with the accompanist and lost my voice at the high notes. Then I found it again – I had exhausted my voice by rehearsing too much.

I was too close to the recital. Just two days away. I decided to rest my voice after the rehearsal – sang just twice the next day and just once on the day of the recital. But my chords were stuck. I was a mess. And I was home alone with my daughter which meant that she would stand with me on the stage when I’d sing. She refused to sit alone and watch me from a distance.

I reached the venue – I was number 17 in the recital and one of the two singing. Rest of the performances were drums, guitar and a lot of piano. We were called to get a group picture clicked. Oh my, they were all less than 8 years old and I stood amongst them – a 38 year old. I knew I would find a spot in the last row 😉

I sipped on hot water and prayed fervently. It was finally my turn. My name was called out and then all hell broke lose – my daughter refused to get up. I asked her to sit and watch me and she refused. She was neither willing to join me at the stage nor sit there and watch. So I dragged her along, literally. The announcer thought that my 5year old was the performer and tried handing over the mike to her, and of course, my daughter became even more clingy and refused to take the mike.  And I corrected the announcer and told her that I was the performer. Oh! Oh! Oh! Is all she could manage to say 😂

I had planned to leave the mike on the stand – there was no stand. So I held it. And I needed a music stand for my song – there was none. Oh this wasn’t going as I had planned. I signalled to the pianist – I knew the song by heart anyway. I sang the first line – all right notes, ok I can make it, I thought. And then another and then another, the first high notes are half way through the song and there came the first croak. I didn’t stop though, I kept rolling through, I may hit the next one – nopes! May be the next one – no! And then I hear my daughter (who was clinging to my leg) giggle. And that took away the last of my confidence. Ouch. It wasn’t her fault but my pride was injured. I’m glad that I sang till the end.

I didn’t look at anyone. I was glad that my instructor wasn’t there. We sat back in our seats again. But my daughter didn’t want to sit through the rest of the performances. I don’t know if I was relieved or not but we left. After sulking for hours, I tried singing the song again, and I could! All of it! Now I was really upset.

The next day I had to travel for work. I shut out all music for the next 5 days. I wanted never to sing again. How would I face my instructor. What would I tell her. And I dreaded the next class where I told her that I lost my voice. She said that she was sure that i was being overtly critical of myself.  I told her that wasn’t the case and was grateful that she didn’t witness it herself.  She got me warmed up and we sang. My voice range is 2.5 octaves – 4 notes higher than what I couldn’t hit in the recital. She was kind, she told me that nerves got me. She said that she herself couldn’t sing in public for a very long time. I had sung many a times in public before – my voice never failed me. Perhaps, I was tired. Perhaps, I didn’t want to fail in front of my daughter.

I told my instructor that I would like to sing the song again. We sang again, I did it again. May be the next time, I am going to give myself more time. I was nervous, I was too raw, the song was too tough but I should have done better. My instructor said that I could sing it for friends or family. So I recorded myself at home. No fancy equipment, I just wanted to sing. And get over it. I may already be over it, I’m going to enroll for the summer recital now – it is still 4 months away. And I know the song that I want to sing. Meanwhile, if you want to hear me, find me here.

I promise I will get better 🙂

 

“Grays”fully Yours

I wish one could wake up one fine morning – may be in their late 50s – and be beautifully silver. But it is not meant to be that way. Or, may be, some of us make it more difficult for ourselves. Perhaps, it is a women thing – refusing to go gray. No, I am not generalizing, before you take offence! I am just talking about some of us – like me. Going gray has more difficult phases than all of the life put together, doesn’t it? Let’s see how many phases could one decipher. If you have more to add, feel free to comment and critique.

  1. Dreaded Sparkle – the first or the first few grays. They have no right to be there. Especially if you are in your 20s! They ought to be snipped or clipped or plucked or somehow dealt with. Aaah, now there are none to be seen by the world. What a relief!
  2. Wiry and Tougher Sparkle (turning into a sprinkle) – You may be fortunate and may take ages to get from sparkle to sprinkle. Or you may worry yourself into a fast-forward mode. We don’t know what drives it, do we? Anyway, the snipped, cut or “whatevered” grays are now more stubborn. They stand up – as if they they don’t want their presence to be denied. And they are thicker, wiry – they want to be seen more than your darker hair. You can still clip ’em, tuck ’em and just ignore ’em.
  3. Temple Blazer – Oh darn! Now it is not a sprinkle here and there that can be cut or tucked. It is right there! Bangs!? Yeah, those bangs can hide the temples and make you look younger. Go for it! It is not as gray everywhere else, just a few strands here and there. Much lesser than the temples, anyway.
  4. Still Natural – The rosemary, the curry leaves, the Indian gooseberry, the walnut hull – all spring out at you from the pages that are searched to still keep it “natural”. Oh, it works for a while. But just a while. You are too far gone (or the smell puts you off or it is plain messy!). Now what?
  5. Streaks – Oh yeah! They look so fashionable and a clever hairdresser can just weave his magic through your grays and not touch the darker hair and still hide your grays. Of course, it comes at a price. (I never did this – it somehow did not occur to me. I was thick in my head back then, I guess)
  6. Solid Color – You are now resigned and give in to the “ammonia free” color. You are happy coloring once in 4-6 weeks. And then slowly and steadily the frequency keeps going up. (I started at 6 weeks and stayed at 4 weeks till I finally gave up. I did not care much by this time. Or may be I did. But I had flippant answers for anyone who hinted at my grays).
  7. “Grays”fully Gray – Tired of doing anything and everything. You just decide to stop. Just completely stop. And then you see the solid demarcation – like the much desired border between some countries – and you get cold feet. The urge to color again is strong. Or perhaps, use some root powder to make that solid line a little soft. Cut that long hair to a 1” ponytail? Color some and not color the rest? Highlights and Lowlights? Oh, and all those comments “not your age to gray”, “you have a lifetime to be gray”, “what are you doing?!” And then you finally get there. happy and free! (I just cut my hair and I do not have a solid line as I still have some dark hair left – not a solid silver yet. )

My hair (read “I”) did not go through all the steps in reality, but did so in my head. I would love to hear your stories of courage or battle with the dreaded but beautiful and graceful gray.

P.S. I do wish that I had not grayed in my 20s. And I so wish I was a guy with all that silver – reading romance spoiled me, you see!