It's been so many things. Through time and space. I don't always think about it, but I know this affair runs deep. My first memory of it was of dad drinking it, on cozy winter nights. It would have a lot of froth, and Beatles would always be playing in the background. For years later, every time I looked at coffee, Beatles would start playing in my head. Coffee had its own soundtrack. And the smell, oh the smell was heavenly - nothing more intoxicating than that cup, lying on the table in my dad's study with its own soundtrack, while he read from an old book. I wasn't allowed to drink coffee because "you are too young and it is an adult beverage" but sometimes, dad would give me a sip, and knowing fully well how awful it would taste, I'd fall for the offer every time, perhaps secretly hoping that it would taste better this time. But my baby taste-buds were not ready for it. I absolutely hated the taste of coffee! And I recall spending hours trying to figure out how something can smell so amazing yet taste so horrid.

My dad would be utterly amused.

It wasn't until the first year of college that I really started drinking it. Everyday on my way to class at exactly 8:50am, I would walk into the campus coffee shop, and Jeremy would know what to make. That cup was warm in the winters and soothing in the summers. Coffee kept me awake in class, gave me company through some very dark nights and many cheery afternoons. It has never been just a drink, but an experience. It's Beatles and my father's study. It's loneliness through the woods, it's happiness in the mornings, it's a reason to take a walk, and coffee is also love. Knowing fully well that I would never say no, Dylan still asks me questions like, Do you want some coffee? Why don't we go to a coffee shop? Let me make you some coffee? Will coffee make you feel better? I found a new coffee shop, do you want to check it out?  And he'll make it, and he'll take me, and he'll taste it, and he'll give funny names to all the different types of coffee I like.

Perhaps I'll have a study one day and I will read, old, utterly complicated books late at night and listen to the Beatles, and my coffee would taste horrid to someone else.

It’s really not that I do not want to write. Or that I no longer have anything to say. It’s just that before I know it, it’s been a month since I have last written. It always surprises me how quickly time is passing, because I keep thinking that it’s been just a week or two that I last posted here. We keep thinking that once we settle down life will become calmer and slower, because you know, the words “settle down” kind of implies that. But it’s such a lie. It doesn’t get calmer, but it doesn’t necessarily get crazier either. It gets blurrier. Before you know it, you don’t really know where your days go. They just go somewhere.

I should keep track now. Of the sips of coffee I take in the mornings, and the cookies I bake in the evenings and the flowers I water in the afternoons and the trails I hike on Saturdays and the books I manage to finish in a month (which, sadly, is a very low number). I must keep track or I will have nothing that’ll flash before my eyes when it all ends. I must remember the letter I wrote sitting at dining table this afternoon, and the lemon scented candle I lit this evening, and the friend I spoke to after ages, and the squirrels that came to the patio, and the little sparrows that crowded the street this afternoon eating god knows what on the ground (they even stopped traffic).

If there is anything I am learning, it’s this: If we don’t make conscious efforts to make our lives matter to ourselves, it won’t. It won’t matter to us and it wont matter to anyone else. We must hold on to moments we have, grasp on to life’s little joys while we can. Because if we don’t, we wont even know when a month has passed by, and then another, and then another until there are no more months left.

Sigh. I hope you are with me dear readers. Because I do hope that I write, and I do hope that I come back before the month is over.

You know, even if I am in a corner, dying (unless I am already dead!) I would write for my dear October. My old friend is here again and as always it has been a lovely and much awaited reunion. Unlike last year, this year I am walking a lot in October. Embracing every bit of it and that excites me immensely. I greet it in the mornings with its soothing mist and damp grass. I meet it in the afternoons with its not so-hot-and-not-so-cold but just-right, breeze. I hear it from the window during the nights with its orchestra of the swaying branches mixed in with a special melody by the crickets.

Life has been mostly good... and quiet. Quiet is good. Quiet is always good. Don't ever not be grateful for the quiet, because chaos is always lurking beneath and it's only just looking for an opportunity.

So yes, life has been good. My daily struggles involve changing bandages on my feet (because no matter what shoe I wear, it just wouldn't become friends with my feet), and fighting with a spider. There is a spider that made her home outside my gate, by the mailbox, and she just wouldn't leave. Her web looks ugly, and makes it seem as if I don't care for my home.  So giving into my vanity, I have destroyed her home multiple times but she builds it right back up, sometimes within hours. Tough little gal. So there you have it, these days I have been losing to a tiny spider. Sigh.  I may have to call it a truce. I may just give it a name and see what happens. Like Charlotte… (or Aragog?). It looks like we are spending the winter together.

Sometimes we should. Sometimes we should stop fighting and let things run their course. Autumn teaches me that every year. Let go. You can't stop the leaves from changing the colors, dying and disappearing, you can either enjoy the destructive beauty or you can fight it. You'll fight it and you'll lose. Because things have to run their course. And sometimes when we give into the stubbornness, we lose sight of what we are fighting for or fighting with.  For instance,  no matter how I look at it, my vanity is not more important than that poor spider's life. But if I continue at it, soon it will become a matter of pride and I’ll lose sight of the fact that I am about to kill a living thing, for really no reason at all.

Sometimes when I am lying in the bed or on the couch, I stretch as if I am trying to reach for something. But there is nothing there except the wall of my imagination. Have I reached it, I wonder. What if I can’t indulge myself in my fantasies anymore. What if this is it. This life. These early mornings and late nights. These chaotic afternoons and silent evenings.

Sometimes I find myself humming a tune, reliving a moment and feeling a tickle in my heart. Sometimes I wonder if I have just conjured it up and it can’t possibly be real. What I felt and feel and touched was nothing but a figment of my overly dramatic fascination with this life and this love. I waited for something and then something died. It was over but then it begun. It’s a funny game.

This makes no sense - what I wrote above. Just like life sometimes. But you have to witness it and write it as best as you can hoping that someday it will give you an end that you’ll weave into a tapestry you always imagined.

I can whistle. I just can't whistle to an actual tune. I wish I could. There is something about whistling that speaks to me. When I hear Dylan whistle, for just a split second I pause, like time stops for a fraction of a second and starts again. I listen and even ask for more sometimes. There is something soothing about listening to the "Dock of the Bay" being whistled in the kitchen. Makes me realize all over again the difference little things make. That's what we need in life. More whistling.  I need more of you whistling.

Some people will never "get you." Try not to spend eternity asking why. Sometimes there is just no connection. No matter what you do, you wont find one. Some people will continue to see you differently. So, you must cherish those who lift your soul. And while you are at it, surround yourself with people who lift you higher. There are always a few, you are just not looking around because you are concentrating too much on the people who will never "get you." The world is already filled with the people who want to bring you down.

The most courageous decision you will ever make is to finally let go of whatever is hurting your heart and soul. Make it. Now is the time. Some things are heavy. You must let them go. It is not your burden to bear.

If someone wants you in their life, they'll make room for you. You shouldn't have to fight for a spot. Never, ever insist yourself to someone who continuously overlooks your worth. People will do anything, no matter how absurd, to avoid facing their own souls. Do not be one of those people. It's time to start living the life you always dreamed about.

I have been off chasing a dream.

Well, one of them anyway. And I am still not there yet. It is amazing how much energy and effort and dedication it takes to materialize anything. Makes me wonder that perhaps it's really because we don't want to put enough effort into our dreams that they never materialize. We imagine that there is always another day to work on it, that perhaps tomorrow, perhaps next month, I will put my act together and actually get to do what I really love. But we never really get to it.

Over time it becomes such an unattainable idea. We have dreamed it so many times that it no longer has any room in the real world because it would just never materialize as perfectly as it has in our minds. We will stumble and fall, and we will fail. We do.

I almost let a dream fall. I was ready to take an eraser to my soul, wipe the dream that I had carried for so long in my heart. The dream had lain dormant for so long that I felt like I no longer walked towards it. So, I was going to let it go. Then I realized that I had confused the stillness of everyday life with not wanting it anymore.

Now, I am trying to not let the real life get in the way of my dreaming.

Lately, the strongest urge I have to write is when I should be doing a thousand other things with my time. Things that cannot - should not be delayed. Things that are seemingly so important as to substantially change my life's direction. But will they? For years, I did not have the courage to find out. Now I'd like to try. I'd like to wait till the last minute before the deadline to submit my article. I'd like to try to find a new place without putting it in the GPS first. I'd like to risk not setting the alarm and still hope to wake up in the morning on time. I'd like to walk into the wilderness without any maps.

I kept twirling my reading glasses with on one of it's legs. I knew this would loosen the screws, perhaps completely ruin the glasses, but I didn't want to stop. The other day I put an alcohol-based perfume into a candle I was making just to spice things up. It spiced it up, alright. One word: FLAMMABLE. That candle turned into a firecracker in no time. It was awesome. I liked that little thrill. Sometimes I have to find out - find out what would happen if I microwave the egg for four more minutes (nothing good comes out of that!), sometimes I wait to see if the pot will overflow, if I can walk from my bedroom to my kitchen with my eyes closed and not bump into anything (yes I can!). If I can walk in my heels in two inches of snow without falling. If I can catch a snowflake on my tongue. If I can take that leap of faith, if I can risk that broken heart again.

The truth is, I like chaos, even if it is at a very minor level.

I have been dreaming again. You know, the forbidden kind. We are quick to blame the world. Someone - something must have done something that this terrible tragedy happened. Someone must have forbidden it on me to not dream. Something must have happened. I wondered about that for so long.

But really, it was me. I don't remember exactly when, but at some point, I forbade myself to dream. I don't know how but I settled for mediocrity. I took off my rose colored glasses and saw the world as it was and decided that dreaming wasn't worth it anymore. Things weren't going to get any better than they were and living in reality means accepting it. Eyes on the road, feet on the ground. Let's follow the path. Let's not make it. Let's not pretend like someday we'll be flown off our feet. Let's not give love too much thought. It is, but a dream. Let's hope that someone will take pity on us and walk with us for a while, and that would be enough.

The magic in life - the magic that makes you breathe and bleed, it is but an illusion. A child's play. A party trick. But God, almighty God, isn't that the most beautiful thing you have ever seen - ever felt? Dreaming about magic, dreaming about the possibility that you could be better than who you are right now, dreaming about a whiff of happiness. Dreaming that your life could matter. 

My year began with laughter – quite unexpectedly. We sat by the fireplace and shared memories and drank hot chocolate. We played board games that we hadn't played in a very long time and became immensely competitive. We shared photos we had taken throughout this year while the snow gently fell outside. We made mom laugh until she cried and took embarrassing photos of dad when he fell asleep on the couch. I made the worst peppermint mocha which everyone drank just to not make me feel bad. I read a little here and there when I had the chance – during early mornings with coffee, late at night with coffee, in between movie marathons, and when everyone took naps. Dylan got me a beautiful necklace and I promised to love him a little more this year.

I sat inside the porch a few nights watching the snow glowing in the moonlight, and wondered about how these moments and this life is so fleeting. Before we realize, it’s all a memory. The year-end and the new year; the fireplace and the snow. If I live long enough, my life would be so terribly different by the end of this year. There are things coming towards me and things I am running away form. There are changes happening everywhere, every moment. I tell myself that I can't always stop the changes but I can hope to do good, and be good. I hope that this year I write my story well.

I count my years through my books. This year was tragically sad. I only read a few.

But I'd like to encourage you to post a photo of (or write about) all the books you have read this year, and tag your friends to do the same. Let's see how many books we have read collectively. Perhaps I have read the same as yours. I tag: Katrin, Virkky Mums, Awais, Soumya, Wildflower, Shreya, Wanderer, Launna, Mirage, Momina,  Afixxion Addixt, The Other Side of Me, Rajesh, and Ellen

Please feel free to take this even if you are not tagged. Don't forget to let me know once you do. Looking forward to it!

I never know what to tell someone who is grieving from the loss of a loved one. How do you make someone feel better when someone they love has died.

No words seem appropriate, no words seem to do the trick. It is almost hopeless at that time. I just don't know what to say... except that I know how it feels, because I lost someone to death as well, heck, I almost lost myself to it once. But that doesn't make the pain any less.

Death is the eternal break up. We fight and we argue and we quarrel and we are bitter, and we hold grudges for years and years, and then suddenly it's all over. And there is nothing we can do about it. Death doesn't consider if someone loves you and they don't want you to go. It doesn't care if you have a million things to do before you are ready. It just takes, until nothing is left. That's probably the most helpless we can be in this world.

But what's amazing is that how easy it is to forget. How easy it is to completely dismiss the idea that any one of the people we hold so dear to us could be gone in the next second. How we can so quickly and eternally lose someone to something so trivial as a heart attack, a traffic accident, a senseless shooting, or even a suicide. To breathe, and not know it is your last.

It’s an autumn tradition in the U.S. to go apple picking, and visit pumpkin patches to get the best pumpkin for Halloween, and grab some cider before you hop on the hay ride, and sometimes end the day with a bonfire and s’mores. Sometimes it involves telling spooky stories, sometimes it involves laughter and songs, and other times it just involves silence. We all grew up with that. 

Now when I think about it, the whole ritual sounds silly. We pay for an overpriced bag of apples and the quality of the apples is always a hit or miss. There is really not much to the hay ride. It’s sitting at the back of a trailer with hay on it while it drives around the farm at 15 miles an hour. And yet, every year my friends and I itch to do it all over again the moment the first fall wind blows. We go and we pay and we ride and we drink, and we find the whole idea silly and we laugh.

But something has changed over the years. We have stories to tell now. We aren’t necessarily making new memories but rather recalling the old ones; solidifying our friendships while exchanging our experiences from when we were children - when trying to grab the apple from the highest branch was so much more exciting. Somehow doing this over and over again, reminds us of the simpler lives we all once had, helps us get in touch with our innocent selves that was content with just a hay ride and a glass of apple cider.

Childhood memories, no matter how silly, are so terribly important for our sanity today. I think we lose ourselves in the stress, and the work, and the selfishness when we lose our sense of self. We must never forget who we were and how we came about to be. We must never forget that happiness sometimes just means spending a Sunday at the apple farm.

I do hope this fall you take a moment to relive your childhood. Pick your favorite thing you did as a kid and do it all over again no matter how silly it seems. You’ll be happier for it. You’ll be better for it. 

I Romanticize

Even though it's only August, the sun has been having trouble staying out, and I have been having trouble taking photos with natural light. I have a studio setup, but I’d rather take photos in natural light. I like capturing glimpses of life, as they are when they happen.

I spent the weekend at home after a long time. I started looking at the place I live in, how the walls and the roof has always felt so temporary. I look at small displays of my life here – things gathered, read, and worn – the memories created in this tiny place. I wonder what this place will be remembered as when I leave. Will the next person know that I sat by this window countless evenings eating strawberries? That I have counted all the leaves on the tree in the courtyard by my terrace? I wonder if it matters whether there is a ketchup stain on the carpet, or that there is a tiny hole in the wall above my bed from where the string lights hung for all these years.  I wonder the marks you leave on places – on people – ever matter in the grand scheme of things.

There is no sure way of knowing whether you’ll leave any effect on this world as you experience it, but you can only hope that what you did in this life was remembered and that you changed places to make them prettier, and touched people in a way that made them more human.
For now, I am going to sit here, and eat my strawberries, and hope that I am doing as best as I can in this life, and with this life. Because it is only that belief and hope that will make me do anything good, if at all.

Online personality quizzes are becoming increasingly popular and it looks like we'll believe just about anything, however vague, they'll tell us. We don't hesitate to flaunt about these elusive results on facebook/twitter and somehow feel enlightened about ourselves. Well, how about you take a stab at the following questions and see if you can answer them for yourself. Who knows, they may enlighten you too. 

What’s the kindest thing you almost did? Is your fear of insomnia stronger than your fear of what awoke you? Are bonsai cruel? Do you love what you love, or just the feeling? Your earliest memories: do you look through your young eyes, or look at your young self? Which feels worse: to know that there are people who do more with less talent, or that there are people with more talent? Do you walk on moving walkways? Should it make any difference that you knew it was wrong as you were doing it? Would you trade actual intelligence for the perception of being smarter? Why does it bother you when someone at the next table is having a conversation on a cell phone?

How many years of your life would you trade for the greatest month of your life? What would you tell your father, if it were possible? Which is changing faster, your body, or your mind? Is it cruel to tell an old person his prognosis? Are you in any way angry at your phone? When you pass a storefront, do you look at what’s inside, look at your reflection, or neither? Is there anything you would die for if no one could ever know you died for it? If you could be assured that money wouldn’t make you any small bit happier, would you still want more money? What has been irrevocably spoiled for you? If your deepest secret became public, would you be forgiven? Is your best friend your kindest friend? Is it in any way cruel to give a dog a name? Is there anything you feel a need to confess? You know it’s a “murder of crows” and a “wake of buzzards” but it’s a what of ravens, again? What is it about death that you’re afraid of? How does it make you feel to know that it’s an “unkindness of ravens”?

Source: "Two-minute Personality Test" by Jonathan Safran Foer.

 I love what books do to me. Every time I finish a book, I look different. It's in the glow in my face coupled with utter exhaustion as if I have just gotten off a long flight, but I am about to meet the love of my life. It's in the way I talk, the way I listen, and the way I describe the colors. It's such an exhausting journey but a thoroughly satisfying one. The kind of journey that sticks in the memory and you speak about it for years to come.

I love what I give back to the books. Like memories - memories of the trains and the car rides, I have taken them to. Memories of all the parks, and lakes, and beaches where I've spent so many lonely evenings. Of the countless connecting flights and foreign airports. Memories of a some shy flower petals that found their way into some pages. We deposit little parts of ourselves in the books we read.

I love what books do to me. If happiness truly exists, it's found in books.

I never really understood why autumn is associated with sadness. Perhaps it is the uncertainty of the season.  We don't know if summer has ended of if winter has already begun.  It is the in-between and most of us don't do very well with it (more on that later).  Most of rather us would rather be in the glitters of summer, or under the covers of winter.

For me, October has always been the most inspiring time of the year. Perhaps because I like life like that - fully open, ready for me to take it on - naked to the core. October allows me to see what things are really made of. No more hidden tree trunks under millions of leaves that have lost their identity in the green.  No more flowers that all look alike. No more trashing the water of the sea, no more hiding under the snow. 

Fall is when everything is raw and visible. Fall is when you see what the tree is really made of, and how many colors in the leaf really make that green.  Fall comes raw and natural. It doesn't hide behind sunscreens, and snow-cones. It doesn't cover itself with holiday lights.  What it does is strips us of all the pretentiousness, and let us face our raw emotions. But people don't like that.  Perhaps that's why they think it's sad. Why would we ever want to face how we really feel, who we really are when it's so much easier to pretend feeling happy under the mistletoe, and put on a fake smile on the beach.

Perhaps, that's why I like fall. It's no nonsense. It strips me down to my core. Challenges me to be one with myself.

I love taking photos around our house on quiet Sundays like this one. I like capturing all the silly things we keep buying, all the seasonal decorations we get so excited about, all the little arrangements we keep making, the piles and piles of books and movies that add to our comfort. I love to look at them knowing that they make our lives so rich. I can feel the love among these walls, and hear the laughter from room to room. I didn't think it would turn out half as much as it did when we bought this house.

Too many people think they'll buy a house and it will be their home. But a house and a home are so different things. Home is not what you buy; it is what you make. And this one, is mine.