I recently finished reading a novel called Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl and came across the following excerpt which describes the life of a goldfish: “The most incredible thing about goldfish, however, is their memory. Everyone pities them for only remembering their last three seconds, but in fact, to be so forcibly tied to the present – it’s a gift. They are free. No moping over missteps, slip-ups, faux pas or disturbing childhoods. No inner demons. Their closets are light filled and skeleton free. And what could be more exhilarating than seeing the world for the very first time, in all its beauty, almost thirty thousand times a day? How glorious to know that your Golden Age wasn’t forty years ago when you still had all your hair, but only three seconds ago, and thus, very possibly it’s still going on, this very moment…and this moment, too…and this moment too…and this moment too.”
While I cannot say that I would trade my Santa Monica bungalow for a clear glass bowl, I can say that I have taken a cue from the goldfish and reminded myself of the importance of truly living in the moment, thus breaking free of the endless What Ifs, How Comes, and Why Mes that constantly plague our psyches. Who knew that a little gilded fish could be so evolved?
Here’s a news item that may have flown entirely under your radar: On January 27, 2009, two-time Pulitzer Prize-winning author, poet, and short story writer, John Updike died of lung cancer at the age of 76. Mr. Updike made a career out of capturing the rich essence of the English language and exposing the human condition for all its rawness. If you have never read any Updike, hie you hence to your nearest bookstore or library and see what you have been missing. I recommend The Rabbit series; a collection of novels (Rabbit, Run; Rabbit, Redux; Rabbit Is Rich; Rabbit at Rest) revealing the heartbreaking story of Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom, spanning over 50 years of his life. The four books (and the subsequent novella, Rabbit, Revisited) were all published a decade apart. One of my favorite quotes comes from the first novel Rabbit, Run:
"There is this quality, in things, of the right way seeming wrong at first. To test our faith."
The way I see it, "faith" here is nothing more than faith in ourselves, our own intuition, and the belief that we can often move blindly through this life, trusting in the decisions we make even if those decisions don’t become clear until years later. There is more to the universe than can be seen with the present, naked eye. None of us is "perfect" and it has become clear to me over the years, and through my own experiences, that everything happens for a reason.
John Updike was recently interviewed in Reader’s Digest, and the interviewer asked him to give the audience a tour of the three desks he had at home, to which Mr. Updike responded:
"We moved into an old summerhouse built on a patrician scale. I took the maid’s quarters, above the kitchen - four small rooms plus a bath. In the room with a wooden desk and a typewriter, I write mail. In the room with a steel desk and a view of the sea, I read proofs and write by hand. A third room has a white desk and a computer for final drafts and longer letters. And the fourth, where I read, has an easy chair."
Only a mastermind needs four rooms in which to contain his genius. There is heartbreaking amount of empty space now in those rooms, and in the literary world. If I can bid one of the greatest writers of the last century a proper adieu, I will do so by asking that one person (that means you) go out and read one of his books, poems or short stories. It’s the only wish a writer has: that his voice be heard.
I am convinced there is a very special section of the afterlife where people as brilliant as Mr. Updike convene to sip brandy and discuss greatness with each other, and gratefulness for all our flaws. Without these mistakes, we do not grow as human beings, and we certainly wouldn’t have characters like Rabbit Angstrom. I like to believe this because it seems impossibly unfair that John Updike has written the last word he will ever write.
I recently received the following email from a friend:
A man sat at a metro station in Washington, DC and started to play the violin. It was a cold January morning. He played six Bach pieces for about 45 minutes. During that time, since it was rush hour, it was calculated that thousands of people went through the station, most of them on their way to work.
Three minutes went by and a middle aged man noticed there was musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds and then hurried up to meet his schedule. A minute later, the violinist received his first dollar tip: a woman threw the money in the till and without stopping, continued to walk. A few minutes later, someone leaned against the wall to listen to him, but the man looked at his watch and started to walk again. Clearly he was late for work.
The one who paid the most attention was a 3 year old boy. His mother dragged him along hurriedly, but the kid stopped to look at the violinist. Finally the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head the whole time. This action was repeated by several other children. All the parents, without exception, forced them to move on.
In the 45 minutes the musician played, only 6 people stopped and stayed for a while. About 20 gave him money but continued to walk their normal pace. He collected $32. When he finished playing and silence took over, no one noticed it. No one applauded, nor was there any recognition.
No one knew this but the violinist was Joshua Bell, one of the best musicians in the world. He played one of the most intricate pieces ever written with a violin worth $3.5 million. Two days before his playing in the subway, Joshua Bell sold out at a theater in Boston and the seats averaged $100.
This is a real story. Joshua Bell playing incognito in the metro station (on Jan. 12, 2007) was organized by the Washington Post as part of a social experiment about perception, taste and priorities of people. The outlines were: in a commonplace environment at an appropriate hour: Do we perceive beauty? Do we stop to appreciate it? Do we recognize the talent in an unexpected context?
One of the possible conclusions from this experience could be: If we do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in the world playing the best music ever written, how many other things are we missing?
Welcome to the Indriya Yoga website and to my blog! This is my first truehearted attempt at such wonders of technology, and I am excited about being here, on the web. My intention for this blog is to bring mindful awareness to a range of topics that relate to yoga and to living life presently in some way. I am a word zealot, so look for inspiring quotes and ideas from films, authors, poets, and other worldly savants. I hope you enjoy reading this blog and invite you to contact me.
Most importantly, as I begin blogging I must thank a few special souls who, without their presence in my life, this would not be possible. Thanks to Jackie, my friend and creative web designer, for all your hours devoted to this project. Thank you to my family for laying a solid foundation and planting the right kind of seeds and love in my heart. Thanks to my mentor, Ravyn, who continues to teach me through the act of living her own life, and for inspiring the blogger mind. And finally, thank you to my lighthouse for extending the horizon in every direction.
