The Wisdom of Trees

I was thinking about the group consciousness of animals and how one needs to show an animal love in order for its consciousness to individualise. I wondered what was the point. Since the group consciousness of a soul has to individualise and then connect to the I AM Presence where it eventually becomes a Group Consciousness "WE ARE" again. And then it connects to God eventually to realise that I is WE and WE are I. 

That I am the tree in front of me, the crow building a nest on top of the tree, the vegetable seller walking from building to building, trying to sell groceries on a rainy day. I AM THAT I AM. I look at my friend, the Tree in front of me and ask it, "What is the point? Just different perspectives. You look at me and I look at you. We are essentially experiencing the same reality from different perspectives. I wonder what you think when you look at me. Gublu, my mother's dog can stare into space for hours without thinking anything. What do you think?" 

"Just existence", Tree replies. 

 Existence.

Aah, I remember now, "I think therefore I am (exist)". So Descartes, the old chap was wrong. You exist even if you do not think. Just look at nature.

How did a whole line of Western philosophers convince humankind that you have to overuse your mental body in order to exist? And look at us now, all we do is 'think'. But my friend, the Tree can look at me and think nothing. What a gift!

(I realise this is also a think-piece but consider it an outlet to untangle my mental thoughts.)

A tree can look at anything and not judge. Recently, I saw a video that said trees have more photoreceptors in their entire being while we only have it in our eyes (will link below). Apparently, a tree can see the colour of your shirt if you are near it, feel your thoughts and hear you sing. That is why, when high vibrational music is played in front of plants, they grow well.

Most trees also connect with God Source directly for food ( through chlorophyll etc) and don't need any other form of nutrition. Trees are 5D beings that exist on multiple dimensions. Another video channelling Trees (By Allison Coe, linked below) found that Trees were the original Builder Race. Here, humanity in its supreme ego is researching which alien race was the builder race and here we have trees, silently standing right next to us, as they always have, waiting for us, to look at them with the same love as they have for us.

"We are related. You are like my sibling, you are me. Because if you weren't me, I would not be able to connect with you and see reality through your eyes." I tell Tree.

(Note: Yes, Prof. Charles Xavier was right. You can connect with the entire Earth / Universe / all living beings and see their truth. Imagine if more of us did this. There would be no strife, no intolerance, no war.)

This connection is only possible because we are made of the same original organic fabric. And it is so fluid, so interchangeable that I can choose to be a tree in next life just like Tree can choose to be a human. Of course, there are stages and soul goals. When we die / awaken spiritually, we realise that we have woken up from this dream and that we are in a bigger dream: God's dream

(Refer: Amanda Lorence's video on God's dreaming states on Youtube / FB talks about this: linked below)

All realities / dimensions are just different dreams for us to experience different perspectives. The bad, the good, the light, the dark are just that: Perspectives. Truth, then, the Whole Truth, that is, can only be found when you look at something from all perspectives: higher and lower dimensions and multiple points of view.

My friend the Tree, the Crow, Gublu and I, can experience a storm and have wildly different perspectives. I love the sound of thunder, Gublu is afraid, the Crow gets drenched and looks for a place of shelter, Tree only observes. The storm itself is neutral. How ironic that physical immobility (that we would consider a barrier) affords Tree with such a beautiful perspective. Rain or Shine, the Tree continues to stand still and observe instead of drowning in mental thoughts.

May we all learn from their wisdom and reconnect with them.

#treeconsciousness #tree #trees

References:

1.

https://youtu.be/szFNOMPoCE8

Allison Coe: A Message from Trees

2.

https://www.instagram.com/reel/Ctf0w4BAVrL/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link&igshid=MzRlODBiNWFlZA==

Trees are Sentient

3.

https://youtu.be/8nRgclDgy-U

Amanda Lorence: God's Dreaming States

Qala - A Spiritual Review

Just watched Qala and I'm still here, sitting on my chair marveling at how unhealed mother wounds can drive one to the point of insanity. Perhaps, it was the film's beautiful and haunting cinematography that is a poignant visual description of mental illness, perhaps it is the subject - a disturbing relationship between mother and daughter.

But much like the central protagonist, the viewer also feels suffocated. Suffocated by the fame, prosperity, light. That difference between the external (light) and internal (darkness) is scary as it is the most silent. Every time Qala takes one more step into darkness to achieve her mother's dreams, a part of her soul is quietly chipped away. The most grotesque of scenes in the movie are the most silent, thus showing that child abuse, sexual abuse, murder always happens in darkness and silence. So why does Qala not stop? Because, sometimes, our desire for love and acceptance from our closest ones can also act as blinders and blind us to our own intuition. Our own well-being. Watching the film from a spiritual lens, I cannot help but wonder what would have happened if Jagan hadn't died. He seemed like the only character who sings because music is his life. Unlike Qala who sings for her mother's approval, unlike her mother for whom music is a matter of family prestige or the likes of Sumant Kumar or Mr. Sanyal for whom music is a source of power. In the death of the only person who genuinely cares for music, the film shows how creativity and lifeforce dies in a patriarchal capitalist industry. Qala is not a film that can be forgotten. It is a feverish art piece, like Edvard Munch's Scream, that needs to be processed. I wish more people realise the importance of working on mother wounds instead of giving in to darkness as Qala does. I hope this film makes people look at their life and see how they have allowed their parents to dictate even the most subconscious of their habits. And I hope they are able to work through them. #Qala #TriptiDimri

Wave

It comes in waves

A tsunami, 100 feet tall 

Making landfall 

On the parched shore of my heart.

Filling it with love 

Slowly, steadily 

Enriching it, then drowning it 

Whirlwind of emotions

Swallowing everything in its wake

A distant memory, a happily-ever-after dream 

Reduced to rubble. 

Blinded, bruised, battered

Must have been my fault.

Again?

Again.

As the second wave gets ready,

I close my eyes

And face it all over, again. 

RIP Anthony

Another day ends.

And with that another life.

We gasp, choke, sigh and post our tributes.

And then get on with the day.

And the next.

And the day after.

Until the next person dies.

A suicide isn’t a normal death.

A suicide goes against the natural human desire to survive. To exist.

A suicide is born out of pain and despair. And the feeling that there is no other way.

It’s the final step in a series of unrelenting steps that pleaded for help, screamed to be heard.

Did no one hear Anthony Bourdain? Or Kate Spade?

Or Chester Bennington?

                                                                                                                    Courtesy: Fortune

Not even their families, their loved ones?

Did we have the wrong idea about their personal lives?

Or perhaps, no matter how happy a person looks, one can never be sure what’s eating them inside.

How hollow do you have to feel, how hopeless to take such a drastic step?

I can’t imagine.

But tonight, my heart cries for Bourdain, Spade, Bennington and those millions of lives we have lost early. And those that we will continue to lose if we don’t do something about it.

Depression is real. Suicides are happening every day. You might not like it; you might think people should be stronger. But you can’t change reality.

What you can change is the way you are with people. Even a few kind words can mean the world to someone.

Empathy is a gift. You don’t know what someone is going through. You might not even understand at first. But be kind. Be patient.  Be persistent. Don’t do it for that person to thank you but because it is the right thing to do.

And if we all try and be a little kinder to each other, perhaps, we can make a small dent in this harsh world.

And that’s a start.

When you start performing outside, do your words stop performing?

Dear words,

It's been a while since I have written. Really written. 

And I don't mean the pathetic excuse of ads. Writing ads is not writing.

Sure, you can write good ads. But how many good ads have I written in a while? Sure, we have had some good times.

I can still dig out some of the ads I'm proud of, from the treasure chest of my folio. 

Or rummage through my memory palace for the gems that made me who I am.

But mostly, I just take a peek in my blog.

I gaze at the worlds I created with you, my words. Where you became characters, happy, sad, angry, magical elves, talking parrots, Robert de Niroesque camels, sallow old men, abused vampires, even the timeless Night. A stranger in the world I created, I gaze in wonder, wanting to read more. What happens next? I ask.

But there are no more pages.

No more stories.

No more characters.

.

.

Because I stopped writing.

.

And just like that, this world turns bleak. You look at me in disdain. Like I betrayed you, abandoned you. Left you out to die.

.

But I didn't, I swear. 

I just... got consumed... by other words.

.

Glamorous and boring and shallow and self-centered but worth a lot. They are paying my bills, you know. What are you worth, anyway? What could you give me?

.

.

Except my entire being.

.

What were you ever worth...except my soul?

What were you...except my reason to live?

.

.

And what am I now, without you?

Is this how it feels to live an empty existence? To roam like a ghost through the halls of success? To be famous without any identity? 

Does this mean I have nothing left to say?

.

.

Far from that.

I feel I have grown up.

I think I have become funnier. Other humans attest to that.

I think I have become more patient, more understanding...braver even. 

I think I understand humans a bit better now. I will not say I understand everything about them or even like them but I think they like me a little better than they used to. 

Why does it matter? 

Because that has been one of my constant struggles. To understand human beings better. To get my point across. To see them. For what they are and what they can be. And to make them see me.

I daresay I might even have a following.

Human beings are not completely repulsed by the thought of me. How on earth did I pull off this feat? I'm sure you would be proud of me, dear words. You would be proud of how much I have achieved, how far I have come. I think humans find me funny too. 

.

But is it because I started performing for them that I stopped writing for you? I wonder. 

.

Perhaps, I was getting fulfilment outside so I didn't need to release words to feel at peace. 

.

But just like a drug, this fulfilment is temporary. Human contact and appreciation is no match for the warmth and comfort of your creation, and your company.

.

Am I making up for the years of little human contact with rampant popularity?

Should I wait for the tipping point or find a balance now?

.

I suppose, humans will always be there. With their frivolous nature and their shallowness, their worship-or-criticise attitude, their shiny trinkets that lose value the moment they buy them, and their arrogance. I daresay I enjoyed being worshipped, I enjoyed being criticized but more often than not, I liked manipulating their view at will. 

.

But you, my dear words have been with me through thick and thin. Through the darkness and abyss, the rise and popularity and success, you have been my one constant. You never asked for anything much like the quiet mother who makes way for her daughter's rise. She was the furious mother who wouldn't let mean kids make her daughter cry. Mean kids still exist. But the mother now believes she has created a strong woman who is ready to face whatever life throws at her and instead prefers to retire to the shadows. That, however, doesn't mean she is not ready to defend her daughter at the drop of a hat. 

.

Just like that mother, I need you today, dear words.

Please come back.

Sincerely

The writer who terribly misses you

Instagram Whispers

I miss the days when Facebook used to be a park where words came
to play. When the empty noise of real life drove you crazy, you could
come and sit on a bench in this playground, watching the words
do their thing. Occasionally, you could engage with them,
but only if you wanted to. And even when you did, these words
were shy, respectful, sometimes, filled with a little mischief,
like the smile of a child who throws a snowball at you.

These words are now grown up in an evolved Facebook world.
Likewise, they are all brash and bragging, screaming and begging
for attention in an exclamation party. Shallow anecdotes make out
with 90-character trivia in a one-night-stand. Opposing worldviews
punch each other in heady bar brawls until the other bleeds
into oblivion. Meaningless, hankering for more meaninglessness.
Just like life.

Perhaps, that's why I like Instagram now. I guess, if a picture is worth
a million words, then a million pictures say a lot, without speaking
anything. That kind of quiet warmth that you get when you are inside
a tent wrapped under a dense canopy. The kind of peaceful murmuring
only trees can do. And nestled inside my tent, I can experience what
the words originally set out to be, what they were always meant to be:
comfortable solitude.

Men Don't Understand

Men don't understand that long after they leave you, they are still with you.

Men don't understand that even though you might win the world, they will always
be your world.

Men don't understand that you don't have to sleep with them to fall in love with
them.

Men don't understand that even though you are the most articulate person
in the world, you are at a loss of words when it comes to them.

Men don't understand that you would do anything, just anything to make them
happy, even if it means losing a part of yourself.
Even though, you would hate yourself for it.

And they would hate that you have changed.

Men don't understand that you spend nights crying for small things.
And the weekends too.

And you dare not tell them that you care so.

Men don't understand that it doesn't matter if it's been 5 or 10 years,
you never stop thinking about them.

Men don't understand that you cherish the smallest of their stories long after
they have ceased to remember it.

Men don't understand that you will never listen to a song that reminds you
of them, after they are gone.

And that you will hate them for ruining a perfectly good song.

They don't understand that you might not like the red roses or chocolates
or even the day of love, but your mushy heart will be bubbling with love
when they do the smallest of things for you.

They don't understand that for better or worse, your life
will never be the same again.

It’s true that they never understand, but you do, don't you?

Yet, you let this happen.

Every.single.time.

Ideas

Ideas are like poop. Sometimes, they flow like a carefree  waterfall. Sometimes, they are a gigantic roadblock. But do you know what makes them the most exciting? When they rumble and pant like a dormant volcano, about to burst in the pits of your gut, but never quite.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
So, you see, ideating is just like pooping.

Things People Say

'Oh you are so negative.'
'Oh you are always pissed.'
'Oh you are so depressive.'
'Oh you are so boring.'

'Oh yes, Neanderthals like you make me lose my faith in mankind.'
'Oh yes darling, because I suffered through an overdose of moronity, courtesy, you.'
'Oh you need to not use that word so lightly, it offends the actual depressed people.'
'Oh you need to start hanging around with 'your' kind of 'fun' people. What does it include, btw, half baked fb rants and selfie postures?'

Don't expect respect if you cannot show it. :-)

No Rhyme Or Reason

I don't know what I'm feeling.
I don't know how I'm still feeling.
Writing used to be the balm of sore life, the medicine that nursed me through days and nights of cold love and longing.
The only area of my life uncontaminated by petty competition.

It was never about writing 'better', it was just about writing.
Because that was the only way I could express myself.

So when did it become 'If you cannot write better than 'X' or 'Z', you shouldn't write at all?'
The only area uncontaminated by petty competition is now infected.

I miss those days.
When the voices crowded my head and I released them on paper.
No therapy could compare to it.
The voices still crowd my head but instead of releasing them, I sweep them under the rug.

Truth be told, I feel like a Stepford Wife.
Writing honey-coated lines for sugar sweet brands.
Superficial.
I want to sink my teeth into those words, bite them apart, just so the little bitches realise how full of crap they are.
Shallow. Kinda like the girls that the men I like go for.
Words without depth, words without me.
Where's me?
Where's the rawness, the passion?
The honesty that punches your heart and rips your guts out?
Aren't words the last hope of mankind?
The last shelter where mankind can cry, love, hate with a fierceness it can only dream of in real life?
When did I start pimping words to make a quick buck?
When did I stop loving them?
They are the only ones who ever loved me.
Without rhyme or reason.
How did I forget the times they rescued me?
Narrowly pulled me away from the edge.
Provided an outlet so I wouldn't cross the line of insanity.
Gone are the days when I used to fill pages and pages with words, big and small, thick and thin, happy, fat, sad, grumpy. No judgment.
Now, every word I write is questionable, changeable. By every random idiot.
It's not a labour of love anymore.
Then what is it? What, pray, is the point of it all?
If I cannot love it, if I cannot protect it, if I cannot fight for it.

Should I give up writing and continue to float lightheaded in this vast numb plane?
Or should I quit the paycheck to keep alive the only thing keeping me alive?

If Dogs were on Facebook

I wonder how the social network would be if dogs could chat. Would they use more smileys or words? Would they ever go offline? What would their newsfeed look like? Pictures of bones and dirt. Chew toys and torn rugs. Embarrassing photos of their humans. Animated selfies, where you could never see their whole face. Because they would be too excited to take a proper selfie. And certainly no Instagrammable food. Because a dog wouldn't take photos of its food. It would gobble it up, because that's the sensible thing to do. Do you realise Mark, where you should diversify instead of trying to shove Free Basics down people's throats? But I digress.

Unreal

'It's late', he mused.
'Just a little while longer,' she insisted.
'Isn't he waiting for you?'
'Please...I want to be with you.'
'Sara,' he held her hands, 'I'm not real.'

RIP Pijush Ganguly

What is life but a fickle fantasy
A chance encounter
A present on its way
To become a memory?

Requited Love

What is requited love?
When you are stalked by the people you stalk on Facebook.

Silence Between Us

Amidst the heavy fog of words surrounding us, it was silence that said the most.

Ah Fish!

As she stood on the edge of the platform, nostalgia from the city market below found its way to her unassuming nose. She closed her eyes, breathing in the aroma and gasped, 'Ah fish!'

#MumbaiRains

21 July 2015

I sat listening to the sound of rain on my laptop, while your city flooded. Never knew clouds could carry fire.

Bread Omelette

The bread omelette stared at me, like the disfigured face of a burn victim.

Its wrinkly white pores resembled an old man with no teeth. The omelette hung limply from the sides like the limbs of a cancer patient.

I sank my teeth into the rubber.

I hate bread omelette. So I had asked the guy to get me a plain omelette. It was a simple enough instruction. But what arrived was a sallow egg sandwiched between two resilient pieces of bread. I told him I did not want the bread. What made him get the bread?

He told me I should have specified.

Only I did.

I told him off, a bit rudely. And then realized, may be this was why people thought I was obnoxious. I left the sad bread omelette as the lame kitty nobody wanted. A desperate desire to throw away the pathetic excuse for food rushed through me. The nerves in my palms leaped in joy.

I could throw the plate in the kitchen and make him cringe in fear. May be the resounding noise would wake him out of his carelessness. A thousand such scenes flashed through my mind. It was worth a try. The act would be obnoxious enough to get his attention.

Or I could ignore it. Let him know I didn’t care for his substandard service. He would get the message.

Or I could just rescue the omelette and eat it. Ignore the distorted bread.

But there wasn’t any evil in that.

I patiently waited, looking to create maximum impact.

And as I pondered over the next course of action, I slowly ripped the bread to shreds. Along with the omelette. The elastic slice badgered my teeth. Amidst mouthfuls, I thought. This time, I’ll let it slide. But the next time, I drag him to hell.

Conversations with The Parrot

Dressed in green, Mr. Parrot hopped down my balcony parapet.
'I see you have resorted to walking, Mr. Parrot. Perhaps you should buy some heels...you know, to help with the height ,' I said cheerily.
'Good Morning to you too, my dear,' Mr. Parrot replied in a dispassionate Forest Whitaker tone. 'Have you seen my hat?'
'Umm no,' I said, a bit disappointed. 'What are you, a Leprechaun?'
Unruffled by my question, Mr. Parrot quietly preened his feathers.
In a bid to get his attention, I continued, 'You should get your tail cut! It's out of shape.'
'You know, my dear,' he looked at me solemnly with his one lazy eye. 'Your snarks about my appearance don't bother me. I'm not human.'

Before I could reply, he turned away and dived off into the blue summer sky.
'Wait...,' I called out to him. 'I have your hat.... I won't give it to you!'
It was late. He had already become a distant speck.
What a show off, I thought. From tomorrow, I'll stick to making fun of humans. At least they can't fly.

Walking through the Bylanes of Memory

As the S9 bus started to grate its way through the pebbled road, the roar of its ancient engines deafened me. An unknowing smile lit up my face. Of course. How could I forget the 5 years of riding through noise to the university? It was the same bus, the new ones they had purchased 7 years ago. Even the passengers were the same. I recognised the conductor.

A shy lad looking to learn the ropes of a government job, he had first joined the service around 2007. I had noticed him instantly; he stood out, a quiet, humble voice amidst rowdy conductors. But today, as he went about the rows of passenger seats, his brazen attitude made me realise that he had after all, become a pro. He walked towards me, a little heavy-set (as are most Bengali men), wearing the same moustache and good-boy haircut (another Bengali specialty) I had first seen him sport almost 7 years ago.

'Ticket?' He asked, betraying no signs of recognising me.
I immediately handed him a 100-rupee note, being the first in a long line of passengers to do so. If you have been to Kolkata, you know how difficult it is to get a change for Rs.100 here. It occurred to me how easily I had asked for change of 500-rupee notes from auto rickshaw drivers in Gurgaon.

'Jadavpur, toh?' He looked at me, as I handed him the note. I looked up at him and smiled. He had after all, recognised me. I sat behind the driver's seat, watching the green plains of the Eastern Metropolitan Bypass give way to luxury high-rises. The metro plan that had been on hold since 2006. The traffic jam. Everything was the same. How was it, that the conductor was in the same post for over 7 years? Didn't he want anything more from life? How was he happy?

As the bus inched towards my university, he came back with the change. I had never spoken to him before.

'Bhalo achhen? (Are you well?)', I asked him as he handed me the change.

He looked at me, surprised. Generally, passengers aboard public buses only speak to conductors to either ask for some change or to halt the bus between stations.

Embarrassed, he smiled and mumbled a, 'Ei cholche (It's going alright)', and rushed to the bus door to reprimand the passengers who were trying to get off in the middle of a traffic jam.

I got off and walked through the smoky 8B bus stand and into the crowded lane filled with food stalls, mobile recharge shops and Xerox counters. The lanes where I had spent 5 valuable years of my life. Everything was the same, even the people. There had been no change in this part of town, except in the number of food items that had increased to include more delectable fares like momos and chicken pakodas.

As their heavenly smell hung in the air interspersed with smog, I inhaled deeply. Not everyone wanted to be part of a rat race. Perhaps, the biggest ambition some had was to come home to two square meals a day and a loving family. And that was okay.

I met my friend, and to my surprise, she hadn't changed at all. Still petite and crazy, she entertained me for hours. We chatted about life, our old classmates and the university. As I boarded the returning bus from 8B, who else should be there but the driver-conductor duo from the morning! Some things never change.

As the citylights kissed the dark Kolkata sky, I realised the biggest complaint one had against this city was also perhaps, its biggest strength. Kolkata didn't have ambition, they said. And that's okay. Perhaps, it was fine just the way it was.