My life’s journey over the last three or four months was inward bound and so, most words from the time went into the black moleskin that held my hands through some sad, dark days. I haven’t had the courage to write or do much in the manner of sharing since the loss of my boy Yogi, and since his illness for that matter. Death and illness of a dear one sap energy in a way that is very depleting at a physical level even though acceptance does come in emotionally. I miss him so, so much that, on the other hand, I wonder what it means really, this emotional acceptance. It’s a funny thing, and I want to share that whole process here when I am ready to. So while I still cannot articulate his loss, just as yet at least, I have been getting myself together – getting back to my routine and perusing the beloved projects that I had left to marinate in the subconscious. The thing about losing continuity in the arts is that it is hard to get back to that precious creative flow. The confusion, the anxiety of picking up threads and so on. A bit more pronounced in my case given my predisposition to long-ish, dark-ish cycles of depression. I am glad for this spell of the wonderful north east monsoon, for the tropical rains always, always lift my spirits as do clouds and grey skies.
For now, here I am breaking a silence, and here I am at ambivalent crossroads of the creative life yet again. But these windows before me promise the most beautiful possibilities, new leaves and the sparkle of spring in my steps.