This Thing Called Karma

“What others do to you is their karma, how you respond to it, is yours”

For the past few years, I often repeated this mantra – to myself,
to my children, in my blogs, when I spoke in class or at conferences…  It had become a standard mantra.

Like all philosophical mantras, this one with all its dogmatic relevance challenged me – every single time. At the end of it, I had no choice but to surrender to it and move on.

But…. let me be the first to say that I moved on, probably looking calm on the outside but on the inside, I moved on kicking and scratching with the frustration of obvious injustice of it all.

Life wasn’t fair and I was furious at being dealt with such an unfair and biased hand. It was clear to anyone who chose to see the unfairness, yet, all I could do was sit back and breathe.

Philosophy can only do so much when it comes to self management. All those golden myths and quotes of ‘higher consciousness’ guiding us how to respond to life’s quandaries meant nothing if I couldn’t recall them when I needed to.

But here’s where I surprised myself.

I remembered them – not always immediately – sometimes, the essence of those quotes and higher truths slowly peeked out from under the blanket of my inner turmoil, waiting shyly until I saw them and embraced them. I didn’t always do that – I didn’t always embrace them.

The perspective of injustice is not easy to drop – especially when shy hope peeks out at you with a Monopoly-influenced Chance or Community card that says, “Hang in there!”.

I was tired of hanging in there while this army of spite of casting weapon after weapon at me, at my children – hoping to break me down, hoping to take me down, hoping to annihilate me and this sense of hope that I carried.

Truly, holding on to any goodness or any light in the middle of a pitch black cloud of terror is not easy. It reeks of despair and desperate urgency and it echoes of the spiteful laughter that is intended to draw you down.

Or is it really?

Because I found that even after allowing myself my moments of despair and that self-invited, gate crashing into my own perfectly organised pity party, I found that that shy hope had accompanied me, uninvited, too.

And I was able to pause – no, I only paused, I didn’t come to this big ta-daaa moment where all of a sudden I could see the meaning of life or anything, but there was an odd sense of clarity – like I could somehow navigate through this crap even if it only meant one day at a time, one step at a time.

I still couldn’t understand how anyone could justify their silence over the negligence and lack of providence for their their own children, grandchildren, nieces and nephews. There was no excuse. But there was nothing, there is nothing I can do to light up the heart and soul of people who have closed themselves to anything but vengeance, greed, anger and hatred – almost all of which has no basis except that they are asked to be that way as a token of loyalty. People who have lost touch with any sense of humanity and integrity to do the right thing.

Because..? Sigh! I better not comment…

So I continued my love-hate relationship with this whole concept of Karma and wondered if reincarnation were my only way out to have this insanity play out of my existence…. I wondered if this were my destiny, my fate…. until…

There was a sudden turn of events… and every ounce of my being – my head, my body, my voice, my heart started screaming, “Karma!! What you give is what you get!!” I felt redeemed and at the same time I felt guilty for feeling redeemed. I felt there was a God!! And then I remembered that I didn’t believe in a vindictive God! But we all pay for our transgressions, don’t we? Heaven and Hell is right here – right now… and we can’t really run away from doing shit to others, playing with their lives, their emotions and their feelings… right?

This meme came up on one of my facebook pages… a post from 2015

Then why did this expression of karma and karmic response (I can’t think of anything else at this point) – why did it unsettle me so? Was it that I didn’t believe that it would come around to justify my experiences?

Then I remembered my mantra. And I hated it for coming up when really, all I wanted to do was remain with my self-righteous anger, the anger that I so deserved to feel and experience. The anger of betrayal, of family turning so vile that they turned their back on me, the anger of loving a man who didn’t deserve it and the anger towards a father who was willing to sacrifice his children’s lives to perpetuate his own sense of self and egoistic narcissism.

I had every reason to remain angry and then feel angry towards the mantra too for coming up and taking me away from my moment of self-righteousness and making me pause.

Pause…. to think, to feel, to introspect, reflect and respond…

Damn! This philosophy of life that I had bought into – these ideals of living with my head held high – they’re taking away my moment of kick-back tantrum-throwing, and rage at the injustice and all that juicy drama that I can engage in…. even if it is in the privacy of my own bedroom.

psst…. It was that mantra again…

Ok… I was going to do what I believed in… I was going to follow that mantra…. and allow karma to do it’s bit, while I did what I felt right and honorable to do.

I wondered if I was doing this to be on the good side of karma – or however the karmic loophole was. I wondered if  in my ‘don’t react, don’t retaliate, don’t stoop down to their level, just hold the highest intention, do your best and move ahead‘ formula was my way of appeasing the Law of Karma or something. I wondered if that instinctive desire deep-down to scream and tear everything that was unjust apart was the real me and in my choosing to be calm, I was just toeing the ‘expected’ response to be in Karma’s good books.

I was torn by playing the devil’s advocate for myself.

So, I decided that it wasn’t worth it to fall in my own eyes – karma or no karma. It wasn’t worth succumbing to hatred and discounting the values that my parents, grandmother, uncles and aunts had raised me with. It wasn’t worth shaming the effort I had put into my own evolution. And above all, it wasn’t worth nullifying whatever I was going to hold as an example and model for my children to emulate.

Karma was a bitch, indeed – but she was watching me and even if it meant taking the high road in the face of bone-crushing reason to be nasty, I was going to take it.

Let me know what you think in the comments section below.. 

The War that Shaped my Today

A lot of my family & childhood friends would be sharing this today – because it is a significant day that shaped our childhood and our experiences. It is significant because it was a day that made us and our experiences a part of World history. It may sound trivial to some, nuanced to some others, but for us who lived through the Gulf War, it is significant.

It wasn’t until a few years ago that I realised the magnitude of having lived through the Gulf War. It was the first time that we had taken a family trip to India. And it was also the time when we realized that everything that was what we called ‘home‘ was being demolished, destroyed and burnt as we watched the daily news.

It was a time I recall of fear and anxiety – constantly wondering what my uncle, who I adored, and my grand-uncle, who was every bit the grandfather I never had were going through. I was worried sick about my school mates and teachers, family and friends who were still in Kuwait.

I didn’t get to see the war first hand, but I had the nightmarish imagination of what our history books told us. (I always hated history, and being part of history made me hate it even more!) Regardless, we waited and worried. My parents were suddenly without a job. My grandmother was suddenly without the security of knowing where her young son was.

And I…?

I was suddenly lost, displaced and without a home. My roots were rudely pulled out. I had no friends, my family were somewhere in the middle of burning oil fields, fighter jets and in a war zone.

So yes, one would probably say, “But you were in India!”

Ha! I can tell you first hand of the exclusive behavior reserved towards NRIs – even in school – even by children who learn to say nasty things as they listen to adults speak at home. It is no small joke when some of us relate to ‘not being wanted in our country of birth and residence… and not being quite wanted back in your country of origin either. So it was quite a ball-play between bastardly and step-motherly treatment, I guess. Or so, I felt at the time.

For a 12-yr-old, just getting to terms with her hormones, and now facing the prospect of suddenly being thrown into a new school – to make new friends and fit in – all the while wondering what was happening back home was scary, to say the least.

Those of you who know me personally today, would find it utterly and ridiculously impossible to believe how painfully shy I was as a child. I would talk, but only if I knew the people. I would be afraid to raise my hand in class, and I would hate to go out of class in case any of the ‘tough girls‘ would ever find me. I felt safer when my older cousins were around because I remember they would be the big sisters who would care for me when I needed that nudge.

So walking into a new school, in a new country, and having everyone stare at me was daunting – and horrifying – yet, there was a sense of fear because all those people had something that I did not.

They had a home.

I did not.

I was a refugee.

So, I came up with the perfect solution to keep the fear and insecurity at bay.

On my very first day at the school in India, as I entered the school gates, I remember mentally telling myself, “Be friendly, laugh, talk… fit in.“

And no one did.

No one saw my fear, my insecurity and my inner chaos.

What they did see was this tall, different-looking, who preferred to speak in English, (although she spoke better Hindi than many in the class :)), who did well in class, whom the teachers adored (because she did well), who made friends easily, won the school elocution competitions, participated in school and community events, read mass readings at church, led the choir, and lived… (and effectively shut down feeling the fear!)

Sadly, these defense mechanisms became a part of me and shaped into a large part of my personality. I must say the adversity challenged my sense of identity, but my social persona today is largely a result of what happened 28 years ago. It was my desperate need at the time – to find a home, find a community, find my place.

Hmmm… I  never thought that deeply about the Gulf War until today.

I am a survivor of war. My family and I are all war survivors. And we, all five of us, have experienced the fear and desperation that comes with being displaced and living like a refugee – even if it is in your own motherland.

So today, I acknowledge how far we have come along. Yes, we have been blessed – we have come through it. My childhood friends, Many of us are still in touch with each other – we share that bond and experience. We carry the trauma within us in various ways – some superficial, others deeper and with invisible scars. But we know we’ve come through.

And with that, I realize today, how grateful I am to this city I live in today. A city I was forced to be displaced to 4 years ago – but a city that welcomed me and gladly allowed me to drop roots and make my home.

Not just a number

I met this gorgeous woman last week. I had been looking forward to meet her, having heard a little bit of her – about how deeply spiritual she was. So when I met her, I spotted her instantly and we got talking.

Some minutes into the conversation, she mentioned not having done a group yoga class ever before and sprinkled into the chat that she was not young, she was old, she was 70!

I smiled at her graceful vibrancy – she had such a calming, yet zestful charm about her – it was lovely to hear her speak.

And then I uttered a unintentional cliche, “Oh! Age is just a number…”

She paused and said, “No. Age is not just a number – all you young people feel that way and say that.”

I immediately felt appropriately chastised, yet warmed up even more to this gorgeous person in front of me who was speaking my language! I apologized for my statement knowing that I didn’t mean to offend and we continued our conversation until she turned to me and said,

“Luvena, thank for you saying what you did, because now I have my answer to that. I know you didn’t mean it that way, but it got me to think how to respond to it next time. Age is not just a number. It is a collection of all these years and experiences that bring us to this age…. and it is not a nice thing to say to someone – that age is just a number – it isn’t!”

“What would be nice for someone to say, instead, would be that they are WOW-ed by the number and all that I had experienced and that when they grew up to be 70, they would want to be like me!”

She smiled at me.

I was falling in love with this woman! She reminded me of my grandmother with her wisdom and openness and yet was so clear in her thought and what she said.

We had a few more minutes before the start of the session and I shared how, although I wasn’t 70, I could relate to it. Turning 40 was liberating, yet instantly put you into a demographic checkbox that built on stereotypes. And yet, introspection had allowed me to embrace everything that had happened in 40 years of my life to fully own who I am today.

40 whole years of living, experiencing life – sometimes half full, at other times half empty, joys, sorrows, challenges… everything – the whole gamut – that made me 40. I wouldn’t trade my experiences for anything (or maybe I’d be deeply tempted to trade in some of them!)

So yes, while my attitude matters – it has no age – but experience, well, that really counts!

She was so spot-on, this beautiful woman who came into my life last weekend to nudge me into some conscious & mindful conversation!

Age is not just a number.

And I’m going to look forward to turning 70 and 80 with just as much aplomb!

Coming Into My Own

I guess I’ve always been fiercely independent. Well, to be honest, it was more like a balancing act mostly – sometimes being fierce, at other times being independent. Let’s just say I have always been intense – both in my ferocity and my independence.

Yet, there were times when I would feel like the protagonist in the duck metaphor – successfully and calmly swimming my way across the pond, paddling furiously under the surface – but keep that smile pasted!

But, somewhere in this above-the-surface-below-the-surface mismatch, there was a disconnect – somewhere in this affray, I sensed I wasn’t being honest with myself – at least not totally, not brutally – not in the way I expected of myself.

So I set about doing nothing about it…. only to realize that I was actually getting myself entrenched in this wholly wondrous world of discovering ME (or at least the parts that I wasn’t totally in love with!)

Self-work is not necessarily hard, but it is serious work. You can’t get into it as a toe-dipping session. It isn’t something you opt-into when you have the time for it – it is a complete immersion – you get fully wet – and if you don’t know how to swim, you drink in some of the water too! There’s no room for hiding and masquerades, but there are plenty of mirrors and reflective ponds. There are volume boosters telling you about what a shit you are and how you’re not good enough for anything, but there even louder ones that you find to turn up the heat on those quiet whispers that say, “I got you, babe!” & “We’ve got this!“

It took me six months of this year to to align myself to ME. And it took me all of those six months to remind myself of who I am and what I wanted. ‘Soul questions‘ as Deepak Chopra taught us – so I asked myself every day, every month – and asked others while leading meditations and beyond – those questions that tickled the very deepest parts of our selves – and eked out a response so deeply buried under all the conditioning of ‘What will people say?‘ or ‘What would someone think?‘ or worse, ‘Do I deserve this at all?‘

That was when the penny dropped!

I was like, “Hey! Wait a minute…“… “Wait for just one bloody minute!“

Who exactly was in charge here?? Who was driving the shots and me taking a call on what mattered most for me? Who was validating my need, my desire, my want for happiness? Who exactly was allowing me (or disallowing me) my connection to myself – to me being me??

And I FELT it. I really, truly FELT it – in my gut, in my chest, in my arms, my legs, my head – I felt the WHOLE ME – I felt ALL of me come to life – in tingles and bursts and fireworks. I felt my cheeks flush and my blood rush to my head. I felt it love – with myself, with the world, with people around me. I felt the kinship to that beautiful roaring fire of my Martian Pitta Aries nature and personality! And all of them came to the fore.

OMG!! OMG!! I felt ALIVE!

I FEEL alive!!

That sexy glorious sparkling feeling of being IN your element! That awesomeness!

I realize that this journey of self-discovery has been my springboard to reconnection – to the real me. What I do is in synch with how I feel and what I want. Unapologetically, truly me – forging ahead without the need for anyone’s approval or validation. Conscious of my falls, yet unashamedly willing to dust myself off and step out – again and again…. Yet, keeping it real enough by pooling in the wisdom of hindsight and the expectation of foresight – tinged on the boundaries with the courage, confidence and passion of fire.

No more the furious paddling below the surface – because what you see is what you get!

Yes, I have come into my own…. and dancing to my own rhythm, my own fire…