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Finally

One goes away for a night and a day, in late March, say the 26th – 27th, and returns to wake to a world transformed.  The solid ice has given away to water, the gravel paths reappear, and the bulbs planted last fall send out their green tips.  With a winter like we have had on the Cape, everything in the garden is a gamble.  If bulbs bloom, a blessing.  one can let go of control until the weeds come out. It will snow again, astounding us.

My eyesight no longer what it was, and tired this morning, as well, provides me with a view of ducklings I think on the water, though they could be crows.  The insistence of bird call from the trees is loud this morning, competing with the hum of the refrigerator; appliances, too, must make an adjustment for the season.

In our world, a plane is crashed.  The Dalai Lama, bless him, says he might not reincarnate.  War continues.

I return to a favorite poem:

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow…

                                                     —TS Eliot, The Wasteland

It ends, you remember, shantih, shantih, shantih.

“The peace which passeth understanding,” was one way of translating the word, he wrote.

The poem in its entirety, here.

Emergence







The Trees

Last night the trees were covered in such white snow, that it felt like I chanced upon a fantasy, a world like Narnia, say.

 It is Neptune’s blizzard now, shaking yesterday’s snow off the limbs, scattering the snow sideways.

My neighbor’s shingled wall looks like it’s dusted with powdered sugar.  The power comes and goes, like the women

and Michelangelo, and the wind howls and howls.  Blizzards in the daytime are of course easier to take than at night,

when the snow offers serenity in moments of quiet.  The cats are curled up, asleep, in separate corners; they have

been antsy with

each other, picking fights, and I blame the lack of fresh air ( drafts don’t count.)

But of course, drafts do count, and my novel is a mess, as I rethink so much of the dialogue ( needed?) and action

( necessary?).  Piles of essays and stories and other work wait for my attention.  I am dreaming of winter vacation

( December? January?) but Bird by Bird, these too will get done.

Another blizzard, 2015

Another blizzard, 2015

The pots outside are capped like muffin-tops with snow. The walks are smooth.  It really is beautiful.

Reading, Freedom, Snow, Wind

image

Snow fell and vanished.  Wind came and blew.  In the midst of it all, my Aunt Janaki passed away at 83 years of age.  I have known her all my life, in all of the important stages.  She was a great believer in civil and individual rights. She worked tirelessly with an orphanage in Pondicherry, wrote plays performed on the radio, and played Carnatic violin.  She carried her violin to the States and to Europe where she traveled by herself, and with a friend.  She was the middle sister, and now only my mother and her brother, my beloved uncle remain.  I loved my Aunt very much, and relied on her presence.  She once told me I needed to be more generous to others, and she is right.  Her generosity overflowed, which doesn’t mean she didn’t get annoyed or hurt or bothered.  My mother’s family as my father’s family experienced loss too early and too unnecessarily.  One thing that resulted on both sides was a sense of equanimity about the world, a sense of flexibility.  I am still learning to be more generous, to others and to myself.  I think it is an ongoing process.  My Aunt gives me courage in this.She died peacefully, unexpectedly after getting over a recent illness.   My beloved Elder-Uncle Subbaiah was napping with her after they had finished dinner, and my beloved Aunt died in her sleep, holding onto his hand.

Mom, Matisse, MoMA, and More

Indira Ganesan. Mom at MoMa, 2014

Indira Ganesan. Mom at MoMa, 2014 (Painting: Andy Warhol, Cambell’s Soup Cans, 1962, courtesy of MoMA)

Matisse, Blue Nude, Creative Commons

Matisse, Blue Nude, Creative CommonsHenri Matisse: The Cut-Outs

MATISSE: THE CUT-OUTS

THE MUSEUM OF MODERN ART, NYC

October 12, 2014–February 10, 2015

Today, December 31, 2014, Matisse would have been 145 years old!

Last Saturday, a balmy day in the fifties, my sister-in-law shepherded our family to New York City, to see the Matisse exhibit at MoMa.  Color, shape, and transformation in room after room.  If you can, run to see!

The other floors offered treasures as well. Run and see these too, and best wishes for a healthy, happy New Year.

Dianna Molzan, Untitled 2010

Dianna Molzan, Untitled 2010

Detail, Charline von Heyl, Concetto Spaziale 2009 Hunting Collecection, MoMA

Detail, Charline von Heyl, Concetto Spaziale 2009
Hunting Collecection, MoMA

Charline von Heyl Concetto Spaziale 2009 MoMA

Charline von Heyl
Concetto Spaziale 2009
Museum of Modern Art

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