When the world paints its faces, we remember in silence
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Only this truth:
Your baby lived.
Your baby is loved.
Your baby is remembered.
Seasons of grief: Autumn
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it’s just this time of year
when everything seems to be taunting me
or warning me
or consoling me
a conversation
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i asked God for a sign --
something to assure me
that her spirit was not shoved
under the ground with her tiny body --
Pilgrimage
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After my son died, as the cold grip of shock receded, the magnitude of this loss began to make itself understood. Ah, this right here is the what the poets and artists of the ages have been speaking of all this time. I wanted a quest, a battle to return order to my world. Where to go now, with this unbounded and hungry grief?
Read MoreThe wheel and the windmill
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From afar, and recently, on my trip to India, in person, my Hindu family, friends, neighbors, well-wishers from every sphere of my past, have been swearing on the karmic cycle, the soul, the wheel. Many of them have referred to Raahi as a “liberated soul,” one who has attained moksha or nirvana. I am grateful. It should be enough. The compassion, a heavy sigh, wordlessness. But few people stop at that.
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