It is past 10 pm, and I have just quenched my thirst with a fortuitous coconut stashed in the fridge. Huz never paid heed to it, until of course, he spotted me trying to sneak past his eagle eye, said coconut in hand. It was so darned sweet, how could I possibly share? Emptied of its watery contents, it will go back in the fridge till tomorrow afternoon, when I will take my trusty axe and smash it open, Tarzan-style. Nothing like the taste of sweet young coconut meat, so soft it can be scooped out with a spoon.
I have missed witnessing the full moon in Virgo altogether, so far have I come from those days when I’d keep track of moonrises and moonsets and strive to find good vantage points. Tonight, it is an 85% waning gibbous, and I have spent the last three hours happily crocheting on a freshly made bed.
If anyone asks, I’m a serial hobbyist. My interests spin like a lunar cycle, and all I can do is heed the call, faithful like the tides. These days, it is the weaving of yarn that pulls me into its spell. I used to watch my mother crochet, but never once thought of asking her to teach me how to do it. I didn’t think I could ever possibly learn, it seemed too difficult, too beyond me, something only my multi-talented mother could do. The apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree though, and here I am now, as old as my mother was when I was twenty, churning out granny square after granny square, hatching plans for all kinds of ambitious crochet projects, baskets teeming with colorful yarns. It is a rather absorbing, bordering-on-obsessive hobby, and one must remember to get up and stretch every once in a while.
There is a very particular kind of bodyache that occurs when one has not exercised in some time, then proceeds to do a 30-minute full body workout, chock full of weighted squats. It’s all good though, all part of the plan to be Strong at Sixty. You’re only as old as your spine, and mine is calling out for some twists.
Twists are fun, esp when they arise in plots. There is a tiny grey tabby-like kitten in our lives all of a sudden, clamouring for a lot of food and a lot of love, and here we are, ready and willing to supply both. I have a strong suspicion it might be the runty offshoot of the Terrible Tomcat that terrorizes Minnie and Mowgli….in which case we are harbouring a snake in the proverbial grass. In any case, the kitten is very cute, and behaves like a much-less-poopy version of Jimmy, our beloved cat who disappeared without a trace.
Who are these mysterious beings that just plonk themselves into our lives to wreak havoc on our hearts and our furniture?
The last full moon was in Leo, my rising sign, and it coincided with the birthday of my favorite Aquarian friend. We are the nature buddies we always needed, living in the same city but never meeting. She and I share a propensity for nature trails and frogs among many other quirks. I can safely say I have never had as much fun as I’ve had in the last eight months of knowing her. I love how she pulls me into her sphere of energy and enthusuasm, so in the spirit of reciprocity, I suggested we go on a hike to celebrate her 48th year of existence in this concrete jungle that we so desperately need some respite from. What better way to spend the day than walking on a trail on a faraway beautiful beach?
The air was cool, the water calm, and the beach stretched empty in all directions. There wasn’t a soul in sight, a yearning we aren’t even always conscious of. Donning our hats, shades and walking sticks, suitably fortified with a post-drive picnic, we proceeded to traipse our way across the beach to the headland that juts into the sea. All the way till the last point, admiring the wild plants and violet seashells, where we sat and watched the sunset amid conversation and coffee. Our eyes expanded in all directions, absorbing the blues of the Arabian sea, the cloudscape above, the landscape around us. The moon rose as we made our way back, a pale luminescence that grew brighter as it got darker. I had no idea it was going to be a full moon night. It made the rest of our walk even more captivating, as we neared the shrine and entered its circular space festooned with prayer flags. It could have been a temple in Nepal, the land that could possibly have been my homeland in another lifetime. We sat there for a while in the quiet, glad for the reassuring presence of the other, she already wearing the floral stole I gave her as a birthday gift. It was the mystical power of the moon that churned up some deep emotions, , sometimes that’s all there is to it. I felt my heart open, and all kinds of obscure sorrows, fears, gratitude and joy came pouring in. I put my face in my hands and let myself cry.
We walked back to the car and shared a doughnut, reluctant to leave, yet afraid to stay much longer. The unspoken trepidation of being out-of-contact with family back home, the lack of signals, the Tracker time limit. The road back to civilization was long and riddled with hazards, but the moon stayed close. The day was already a bardo. My friend and I, we have a shared love of soft, bun-like substances. And chips. We also eerily often express the same thoughts or use the same words at the same time. I dunked wedges of kinoo in kala namak and handed them to her as she drove us both home.
I have read a whole book by Pema Chodron since then, it’s called ‘How we live is how we die’. That’s where I learned a little bit about bardos. It’s a book that addresses the fear of death, to put it baldly. It scared me at first, much like life does, much like death does. Yet I kept on reading. It was a wonderful read, and I should probably quote some bits from it here, but I can’t remember any of it now, even though I read it with attention and intensity, by which I mean I read it with a desire to imprint it in my brain. When I was done, I thought I’d dwell in my newfound wisdom for a few days. Instead, I immediately downloaded another book by Pema. It’s called ‘Living beautifully’, but I abandoned it after chapter two. It’s too soon.
A very lovely white-haired woman, well-known in some circles as an artist, a sculptor and a writer, recently asked me at a classical music recital, what do you do? I fumbled with my reply as usual, searching my brain for something I do that would redeem me in her eyes. ‘Well, these days I’m learning to crochet!’ My friend, we shall call her M, was asked the same question in a gym elevator by a person she prefers to avoid. Despite being a lovely filmmaker and an ardent animal activist, she is loathe to define herself thus. These days, she loves visiting a lonely island called Buddo, with her dog, in the creeks around the coastline. Sometimes, she takes along groups of people, sometimes they will be a bunch of young boys from Hunza, and maybe they will sing some Wakhi songs, and play some music, and perhaps she will record them for her yt channel. Sometimes, I will go along with her, and I will be the country mouse to her town mouse, buffeted by the relentless winds, and we will turn our backs to the skyscrapers and walk all the way across towards the ever-shrinking, ever-growing mangroves. We shall elect her the mayor of Buddo and she will clean up all the trash and plant hundreds more trees, and save all the bubbler crabs, hermit crabs, marine snails and mudskippers, and there will never be any ‘developments’ of any kind.
munira's bubble 