Tag Archives: LIfe

The Age of Rude ?

She stared through my face as if she never saw me –  stunned, I waited. Maybe there was a mistake. Maybe I was expecting too much, but the woman wouldn’t look at me, wouldn’t acknowledge my presence. It was as if I did not exist.

The next day we met again, this time in an auditorium. She talked to everyone else, but not even a nodding good-morning hint at me, as if I weren’t there.  These were new family friends, not even distant relatives, no histories exchanged. No I hadn’t stolen her best dress at school, no I wasn’t an artist rival, nothing. She was a mom like me, a citizen of this same earth, but she wouldn’t look at me.

Its possible she was just tired, or thought I had nothing of use to say to her, or be. Is possible she was having a bad day, is possible she was ill, is possible she didn’t like my face, or hairstyle, or work.

But the question followed me all day and night, it stood there between my mirror and me the next morning, it sat in my toothpaste and hair brush, my shoes and sandwich.

 

This morning, I looked at images from around the world images of waiting….
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What made something as beautiful as a human heart, such a refugee

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Filed under ASIA, Disability, Discouraged, Habits, Healing, Homes, Hope, Humanities, Inspirational, Journals, LIFE, Love, Personal Reflections, Prayer, Reflections, Times, Writers

‘Have you ever interviewed yourself ?’Guest Post

Guest Post :  Scott N Loveall ofInnersongs.com

Innersongs.com

Hi,
Have you ever interviewed yourself?
That was the task given to me by our InnerDialect and Lyrix & Life blogger Rayla Noel – lazy that one, right? I mean how long could this take?
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So anyway, she asked me to talk about the inspiration and/or origin of my poem Summer Rains. I’ll do that shortly.
I’ve read over and over, heard it said by many, comments by those that they ‘love the rain’. And indeed we seem captivated by it as a species. We stare at it for hours, respond to its tempos and moods. It is of course a practical matter to be dealt with as well – our hair, clothing, soggy feet, being on time to appointments.
As well it can be a calamity – flooding, suffering, and death.  Water/rain is a force in our lives. Yet on an emotional level, maybe a metaphysical level, if we are safe from its wrath, we seem to have a cellular connection to rain. Is it just that we are instinctually inclined to look at the elements more closely. Is it a matter of cellular memory… our primitive roots when rain and fire were primal forces. A life changing foes?
But you don’t see dogs starring at the rain with any sort of reverence. I’m sure the birds could do without having to fly into it with such velocity. Most other mammals just cringe or go on about their mammalness. Humans, however, romanticize it, create movie dramas, and tell ‘myths of arks’. As well we fixate on the anti-rain that is drought. Rain / water is after all crucial to our existence. We must hydrate. The plants must thrive. Vegetable ‘Good’! Pestilence and desert ‘BAD’!
So we look at rain as danger, and nourishment, a sort of food, and a wonder of nature. A magical fluid that we drink, bathe in, rinse our dishes, and count on for hydration and life. In a way that is how Summer Rains got started.
Summer Rains began simply enough one middle June afternoon when a large thunderstorm came ashore. I live a few miles from the sea. A gust front had whipped the trees like marionettes into a frenzy, their canopies dancing with downdrafts, the wind shear strong. As it darkened from lilac to violet, the winds eased, and first drops began to fall in huge plops. Huge droplets hit the windows and the garden wall with muffled bangs. I wondered at their size in the air. Then curtains of rain began, those great walls of blinding silver and steamy mist. The roar of a summer storm.
The first drops reminded me of a song from a DVD and CD called Natural States, by the great Seattle, WA based pianist David Lanz and collaborator, guitarist Paul Speer. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=avAa5TA5jocDavid and Paul had done that collaboration and two other brilliant sets called Canyonlands and Dessert Vision during the late 80s.  A song on Natural States called Behind the Waterfall came to mind. It starts with a few simple drops and traces how those drops and a bit more rain, collect into a rivulet – to a stream, then to a small cascade to a racing stream to a river – to a larger river… culminating in a huge waterfall, and then to rapids. Their music builds and runs as the water grows with more and more power and dance. So my words hear are partly evoked by that musical and visual experience. I imagine chasing the water and eavesdropping on places it traveled. The rest as they say are ‘mysteries of the mind’.
..
Summer Rains
I don’t measure my heart by the harvests,
nor in the coming days
when the winds will grow bitter.
Not the days of first gloom,
nor the first days that follow,
the tender cries and whispers of bloom.
My heart comes to dance
when the skies start to argue.
When the summer rains fall,
sheet-rapping the glass,
tap-spattering the walk,
snapping plops on the awnings,
the urban grime
wetted down to a shiny sardonic smile.
The summer rains fall,
liquid grains through the sieve of the sky,
the sizzling city, hissing…
gossips in the sewers,
trickles running to torrents of chaos,
racing through the vale to the river.
The summer rains fall.
Wet sloppy kisses,
wanton advances to the countryside slopes,
the lush shadowed corners,
and mysterious fringes of meadow glades.
Their aftermath… are cryptic notes,
an organic staccato on the forest verdure.
They cross the heart of this poet.
Their passing, shadows subconsciously counted.
I don’t measure my heart by the harvests,
nor in the coming days
when the winds will grow bitter.
I wait for the summer rains
And admire them
one by one by one.
___________________________
If you have stayed with me this far, my thanks.
Dry stuff sometimes… that rain. 🙂
I’ll leave you with an older piece… After the Rain
..
After The Rain
After the rain
          when the air smells like copper
          and the greens in the trees
          seem bright like wet paint.
After the rain
          when grass wants to sparkle
          and the birds speak like bullies
          whose bravado has faltered.
After the rain
         when the winds sigh, exhausted
         and the puddles lie tranquil
         as mirrors for the clouds.
After the rain
        when the asphalt gathers steam
        and the sewers chat like
        housewives gathering to klatch.
After the rain
        when the wires string like pearls
        and the sorrows in my heart
        seem dim and washed from view.
All rights reserved and © Scott N. Loveall – InnerSongs.com, 2014
Please visit me on www.InnerSongs.com, or my FB page Scott N. Loveall – InnerSongs and pass along your comments and thoughts. Or post them here. Rayla will, I’m sure, pass them along.
Carpe Lumen
Scott

 

“.. reflective to liquid and delightfully double-e, you can taste the colours and listen to what his words are singing.  It is there you feel the reverence he has for the written word, and the careful respect he has for what he chooses to share.  Scott draws from the deep pool where we all go down to drink, further out where the wild and wonderful things are.  At times his intensity affects me so deeply my throat aches in sympathy. – B.M., Vancouver, BA
Scotts’ work provokes me to listen to each others’ voice, to reach past the dark.Thank you Innersongs for your honest   ‘muffled questions’. Ay I’ve since felt the  ‘Pressure of dawn’, have ‘looked for plots’ among ‘Dusks that fell like a hammer’. The imagery is 3 D ! One  ‘Dances with fireflies’ / stares at Silences, thru’ pain, thru’ survival; Scott writes with  a sensitivity so rare in these days of indifference….
Innerdialects :
RNoel
Orchid Tree Bloominnersongs.com

Orchid Photograph credit: Innersongs

 

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Little steps in the dark

In the auditorium at Jyoti Seva School for the Blind* (pre-highschool) there are 60 of us – 50 ? I take off my foot wear and search for words as one of the kids grins. They are eager, and cannot wait.

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I have worked with kids at a few levels, but this time it feels I am learning, in this place that is like a piece of heaven. Dearest Lord God Almighty, little butterflies fill my stomach and heart. Outside it is Venkateshpura, Bangalore at its’ busiest. Little lanes cartwheeling with vegetable vendors and bullocks, women in burkhas, men in welders’ shops. Every vehicle in Bangalore city seems to be here, and I find it hard to understand how the Polish Prime Minister found his way into these tiny lanes for that visit a few years ago. But then God can do anything.

Sis G (music teacher ) and I  try a few voice routines ; what footwork will work on stage ? This is the very first time for me, for Jyothi Seva, dance and music, even drama is no big deal. I have many ideas, and Sis G among other amazing Daughters of Love here, (Franciscan) are generous with my various plans :  some amount of fun- drama  show casing Daily Living Skills, Physiotherapy rings onto a mock street scene thick with cut out (thermocol/cardboard )auto rickshaws, city bus, a cow, a bullock cart, vendors, and two sighted artful pickpockets ) Am I nervous? Am terrified ! Sis G. the music teacher smiles at me.

These are not just any kids, these are 85 + blind kids, brilliant, some do stunning vocals, and oh they can dance!  They are sharp, quick-witted and don’t you arrive without a proper plan.

One tiny tot (aged 5?) thinks it is time to break the ice. She holds my hand and says, “Aunty Ray, first you clap!”  Her little face peers up at me thru’ a fringe, then with her small palm in mine she stands on toes and asks,  “You are Johann’s Mama, no?”

“Yes baby”, I nod feeling utterly speechless. How big is God’s university of Life. How infinite His love that we should all be called children of God. How little I deserve to see such beauty thru’ the eyes of little Angels.

We sit in a circle and chat till lunch break. It is boiled rice with potato/ carrot gravy, an omelette and steel mug with cool cool water; little aprons tied to their waist, around neck- later everyone stacks their plates, rinsing spoon at low sink with tiny taps shining in the noon light.

Am humbled by the talent in these kids, humbled by how little I know about their world though our own son is blind and though I’ve been here so many times doing what one can with Personality Development. Am startled that all our words that try to be  ‘be somebody’ are still so uniquely variant with each individual – and startled is a limp emotion next to this.

Aruna (9 years old) is an acrobatic. Am thinking, this one should do a cart-wheel right across stage – can we pull that off ? The 6 minute- choreography underlines Confidence; not something I had planned to think or say , but as we met again, the word came out firm and quiet. “Look kids, this is more than doing a step, you are all great dancers and actors, but we’re going to show the world the confidence with which you go out the front door, right ?”

They aren’t jumping for joy but they each nod in quiet as if  glad I’ve finally got it.

“Alright, before we break now, let’s run through some emotions, okay?”

“OHHHHHKAY !”  (phew)

“Right. JSSchool, can you show us some SAD ?”

The room is too happy to handle that. 2 seconds later they are rolling into each other with laughter. Not anything I could do or say to make them show me ‘SAD’.

As I wrap this, am uncertain how to end this Post.

Outside the gates of JSSchool for the Blind the world is thick with debate on politics, crime. Here we have to work hard at happy face-smile- lines, we have to work out routines that display Goodness, Honesty, Gentleness, Talents…

I’ve brought home a few lessons in those hours spent with kids who cannot see, some have been abandoned, some have parents that do not want them home, others go home on holidays…  what I’ve seen is a thirst for the world outside their gate ;  they love the feel of fabric, footwear, perfume and little things in my bag, my bangles and watch, the buttons in my shirt,dearest dearest Lord God what am I feeling but a huge sense of a Universe so vast I am gagging to grasp it all. How many more people are there in this world in dimensions we haven’t even begun to come near – and what kind of song could I choose to fit into Choreography to show their life – words that will match, tunes that are rhythms of their life… the reality of their life – what can I teach that I must first learn, live, inhale, digest.

They sang for me , “Bright Eyes,” “Tomorrow”, a few songs in Kannada that sounded like heaven – raw sweet voices without the sin of assumption. I just hope and pray the world they grow into will not be a place ridden with power games and disguised crime. That they, all our kids, will be able to cross the street unafraid, pay their own electricity bill and at least one other persons’, with the ability to make each other unafraid…

I have run out of words, but hope and pray oneday you too will find heaven in the lesser known lanes and homes where God’s own babies wait to tell us their story. I hope and pray this world will understand the language of the Father as He sings over our blinded senses. My words are not enough to describe the way I feel.

Thank you for reading this.

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What d’you mean ‘Defyd’ ?

Top Post on IndiBlogger

 

Give me more

Show me you care, that you are real,

that you walk

where angels fear to tread,

that thru these Times of hate and so much unsaid,

you care beyond the visible things ;maybe some place you broke, even just a bit, died inside and rose again, said what you might never have unless you were Defy’d

these are more than Songs …

/ more @ http://raeindia.wordpress.com/2014/01/31/def-yd-no-illusions/

https://soundcloud.com/def-yd/sets/defyd

 

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The way he loves

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He sent me flowers, songs, words and tune, silences and chord ; but not till he forgave me and loved me again as if I were the best one e’er born yet, not till then did I understand the height, the depth the width and endless expanse of Love that leaves no boundary

of a Love that covers every little wrong, as if nothing happened at all. I will not take that for granted ever again, nor forget, that’s the way He loves,

He loves…

..

http://raeindia.wordpress.com/2014/01/23/scarred-by-love/

..

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‘Yes, but don’t go.’

Last night, all plates and dishes put away, the lights low in the bedroom where our youngest son went into his blanket ; the girls were yet to fall asleep, I peeped in at Joh, and he lifted that dark head calling me for a second kiss, then a whisper –

“Ma,I feel lonely.”

My heart missed a few beats ; it had been a long two months, there had been illness, a trip, school year starting over, uniforms that did not fit, unfinished assignments, a lingering cough and so many unfinished things…

“Why son ? We’re all here aren’t we ?”

“When you ‘re all busy with other things, I feel lonely,sometimes. “

Speechless, I hugged him close, closer, a third a fourth kiss.“You feel good now ?” 

“Yes, but don’t go.” He said nothing after that just smiled and the room filled with feelings I have no words for.

Human touch. How abused, misunderstood those two words are : and so very easy to ignore in all our busy-ness. We sat there an hour, not just Joh and me, but all five of us, an hour in that quiet gentle dark as the little ones fell asleep.

Dearest Lord God, the worst disease on earth : ‘loneliness’ and such a simple cure right from the mouth of Babes.

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Wishing you the Best/ 2014

 

Wishing you a blessed beautiful Christmas and a peaceful fabulous New Year.

The attached Link is something  I did for a Christmas Play 2010, with Sunday Sch kids and me :  cover from The Bible Movie), followed by our daughter Vihan’s cover What child is This. What a season its been and is ; we wish to personally thank you for being here. May you be blessed…

RN

 

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My Precious …

My Precious Lord…

I fail to understand how You and I are one, at all : look at You, look at me, our differences span history, and yet here now, here like this after all this time I am still so startled by Your perfect Love…

What Child is this ? Sung by 

Andrea Angel Bocelli.jpgBocelli born 22 September 1958) is an Italian tenor, and singer-songwriter.[1][2]Born with poor eyesight, he became blind at the age of twelve following a football accident.

http://youtu.be/aZV53SuPMPU

Performed at the Olympics

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Heavens !

 

How little the dark is, next to Light.

 

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Innerdialects

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Visiblity

 

Un unutterable Peace ; speechless words : like buds and drops : like tears, or re-cycled

petals. Growing glowing, visible best in the dark. In the Dark.

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