My words give me wings

I feel like a young kid again, tipsy and ridiculously in love. You know how everything looks less unnerving, more poetic, and most exhilarating? Yes, that feeling. That is exactly what’s going on in my over-cooked, writer brain. It’s my love for words, yet again. It’s my love for a profession I dare say is mine. All mine.

Sitting with family today, I realized how everyone has an interesting story to tell. I realized how consciously aware I had become the past year or so. I wake up each day in a living, breathing story. It’s never simple and it’s never not simple. And that’s the beauty of being a writer. It’s all in front of me, I just have to look deeper. From the way a person nods his head when pretending to listen, to the way a person twitches her mouth while watching television. From a crunchy leaf silently gliding in autumn, to the rhythmic breathing of my children sleeping at night. From an ecstatic mother with worried eyes, to a callous murderer with a soft corner. The world beneath the cracks. The universe beyond the light. It’s all magic.  Everything has more meaning than before. Every action tells a tale in someone else’s book, on some distant paper; a  spoken word, an unspoken thought, an imagined act, a lived dream. How can you not fall in love with life all over again?

I have gushing respect for people who love sharing stories and quirky anecdotes from their own lives and from others. We all know such people. A grandparent, a favourite uncle, a friend or a colleague. I could never do that. Not by speaking out anyway. So I took to written words as my LEGO blocks. I committed to a lifelong adventure.

Because you know what, my words give me wings. And if you can fly, you can do anything.


 

National Blog Posting Month - November 2014
I am participating in the National Blog Posting Month (NaBloPoMo) – November 2014. This is an awesome venture of Blogher.com. In their own words:

“Every November, thousands of bloggers commit to posting daily. But it’s about much more than getting that post up—it’s about community and connection. It’s also about honing your craft, challenging yourself, and taking your blog to the next level.”

I will write every day of November. This is my seventh post.

#NaBloPoMo – Day 7

Wednesday Wiseness: What makes perfect sense

What a wonderful feeling it would be not to rush through our story. To pay homage to each fleeting tick-tock of the madness we call life. To wake up in the morning with nothing but a reminder that this day is perfect. It is perfect not because I can do the impossible. But because I can do everything possible to make it perfect.

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I can’t find perfection in the monumental happenings. I try to, but it never makes enough sense. Be it scientific breakthroughs or mind-numbing tragedies, nothing adds up.

What makes perfect sense is the way plants in my backyard fill with green blood when spring touches their wintery pulse.

What makes perfect sense is the way my children love me for no reason.

What makes perfect sense is the way my parents can forgive me for all the reasons.

What makes perfect sense is that my wrinkly version doesn’t sound horrifying when I imagine it with my wrinkly husband.

What makes perfect sense is how I can pull off gut-hurting-tear-spurting  laughter with no other but my brother.

What makes perfect sense is that I met certain people because they carried an invisible message only I was meant to read.

What makes perfect sense is how blood relations do not always mean we share the same blood; it could mean that we share the same energy and dimension.

What makes perfect sense is how my dreams may not always come true, but that they give me reasons for doing and not just being.

What makes perfect sense is how petty life is when all you think of is yourself. And how magnanimous each breath can be if you tell your heart to just scoot over.

What makes perfect sense for you?

Topsy turvy, Torvy Tupsy

This is my inspiration. The topsy turvy life of a mother of two lovelies. My inspiration every day:). 

 

Topsy turvy, Torvy tupsy,

Its all a chaotic harmony, in this sundry.

The grey in my mind just doesn’t matter,

My children control my life, my time, did I mention the latter?

Just when I think this roller coaster will not stop,

They take a nap and I’m rescued from the drop.

And what I am left with is more precious than gold,

My time, time for me, if I may be so bold.

I quickly clean up, from the dishes to my hair,

Set right the crooked pillow, dust an odd speck here and there

I hungrily eye my laptop from afar, and daydream of my fingers caressing its body,

This is surely my chance at glory, so I must hurry.

I walk towards my treasure to open my verbal urn,

My mouth runs dry,  so I make a left turn.

As I put my hands on the tap, the word tea pops up,

I quickly take my beverage, gulp gulp gulp.

I can almost hear my blog,

Whispering to me through bytes of  a complex log.

I am in near proximity,

It seems I am out of breath already.

I feel my heart flutter, as I sit holding my laptop,

I am too scared to smile, on fear of awakening those snoozing up top.

I begin to hum, almost giddy and eyes lit,

I enter my password and there you have it.

Just as the humbled worker  clicks on the ‘Add New’ post page,

Prince and Princess, unleash their slumberous rage.