Go deeper out.

                                                         Go deeper out.

Dawn broke over the hills. A rosy hue of cheer he did not appreciate. Once in a while, he wished it would not herald a new day, another day of emptiness.  With each swing of his arm, the net would flare out, slap on the water and sink to the bottom, raising their hopes with each measure of deep and more at the familiar pulling on the drawstring to close its mouth before pulling it back on to the boat. The nets hadn’t come back completely empty of course and each slight pull of weight in it had excited them, till they opened it to dead fish, shells, sticks and seaweed.

His hands were not sore; why would they be? This was barely work. He wished for the familiar ache in his shoulders and arms, his fingers stiff with heavy hauling; it would mean he had something to show for his time spent out here, something to take home to the family. Ruth would have smiled again; instead of the worried frown that seemed to have taken over her pretty face lately. She had every reason – there was barely enough after the Romans had taken their taxes, and the temple priests took their share and then with what was left, he had his family to take care of.

The soft bump of the keel of his boat touching the shoreline broke his reverie. His younger brother, Andrew, hopped out with the crew and pulled it beyond the reach of the whispering waves. Together, they fussed over thier nets which had to be washed clean before putting them away for the evening run when they would try their luck again. Disappointment mirrored on their faces though they did not speak of it. Second day in a row. Where were the fish?

A glance along the beach where the softly hissing waves moved lazily in a pattern along the sand showed his partners by their boats, mending and washing their nets as well. They hadn’t been any luckier.  Empty or not, the nets had to be washed, any tear in them mended and then laid out to dry. All, crucial for their livelihood.

 People moved  about higher up where the grass gave way to the road, prospective buyers returning to their carts equally glum. The lack of fish affected more than just the fishermen; the ripples would reach to the tables of the rich and wealthy who cared nothing for the fishermen who had toiled all night. They would grumble about a lazy workforce who should work harder if they wanted to earn a living.

What did they know?

Simon slapped the net angrily against the water, as if it would help wake the sleepy, errant fish. They were out there he knew it, and they were meant to be in his nets; he cursed under his breath. He had been fishing in these waters ever since he was old enough to walk; his father, his grandfather – that’s all they had ever done. Fish. He knew these waters better than anyone. He knew where the fish rested during the day, where they swam at night; he knew when they bred and when they spawned. He knew them. Yet. Where were the fish?!

A shadow fell over his work and stayed. He looked up into the bearded face, of the Rabbi. Simon stood up with a smile. “Rabbi, my mother in law is well now and has made me promise to invite you for a meal the next time I see you.”  An invitation he hoped the rabbi would politely accept for another day – Simon wasn’t sure if there would be anything at home today.

The Rabbi smiled in acknowledgement, and turned to his brother who had come up to join them. 

“Hello, Andrew.”

“Rabbi” Andrew acknowledged solemnly.

The Rabbi looked over their shoulder and the brothers turned to the noise behind them. A crowd had gathered and was fast approaching. “May I use your boat?” and at their surprised silence, he continued, “I need to speak to them” he gestured at the people “and I cannot do it here. It would be easier just beyond the breakers.”

Andrew and Simon exchanged a glance – why not? There was nothing else to do now anyway. No fish to clean nor dry, nothing to salt nor separate. They shrugged, and motioned for the teacher to get in. When the water was calmer just beyond the waves, the Rabbi stood up and holding on to the mast to brace against the slight bob of the craft, he began to teach. His voice reached easily, the wind carrying the words. The crowds lapped them up as eagerly as the waves that licked the sands.

Simon leaned over the edge, watching small fish dart about in the clear waters. “Call your big brothers” he murmured, “we shall be waiting tonight.” Soon enough, the rabbi was dismissing the crowd, and Simon picked up his oar to bring the craft back to the shore, when to his surprise, the Rabbi suggested, “Come, let’s go out into the deep. And let down your nets for a catch.”

Simon, always frank and never one to waste words, “Master,” he said slowly like he would to a child. He was a fisherman; the Rabbi, only a carpenter, so Simon felt the need to explain why they could not indulge a ridiculous request. “We have been out all night, doing just that, and as you can see, we have nothing to show for it.” His arm swept to the shore where some catch would have been laid out, and to the bottom of his boat that looked too clean to have been witness to flailing fish gasping for their last breath. Its hot, the sun too high, the fish may be resting closer to the bottom of cooler depths, his instincts and experience pushed unspoken thoughts.

His eye caught Andrew’s. His brother had been a follower of John the Baptist who now languished in the prisons of Herod, which was another story, and it was at one of those meetings that Andrew had met the Rabbi. And of course, whenever Andrew was excited over anything, he had to rope Simon in too and had dragged him off to meet the rabbi. Simon, ever indulgent of his little brother, had rarely denied him anything. Not since their father had passed away leaving the family in Simon’s charge.  And Simon knew the boy was hurting about John’s fate; he couldn’t refuse him today. Besides, his little brother was staring at Simon, upset at his tone with the rabbi.

Simon sighed, “Nevertheless, if you want us to, we shall. Hey boys!” He called to James and John,  his partners still by their boats. “We are going fishing. To the Deep! Come if you want to.” As expected, they laughed, and waved him on. His own crew dared not, not if they knew what was good for them. Faces stiff, they unfurled the sail which flapped to pick up the wind; their craft glided out with the hot noon sun blazing down.

The rabbi had turned his face to enjoy the wind as it pushed his long hair off his face. He closed his eyes, a smile on his lips.

“How far out?” one of the men whispered to the other. They had been a crew for years and knew the futility of the exercise just as well; the lake here was already deeper than their nets could reach.

Simon looked at the rabbi in question and at the nod, indicated that the nets be thrown out. Splash! The first net lay for a breath on the surface before sinking slowly. Others followed almost immediately. Fighting impatience he reminded himself - Simon owed the rabbi for his mother-in law’s recovery.  He looked for more silver linings: the words the rabbi had spoken from the boat had an authority he had not heard from other rabbis and teachers at the synagogues. Blood suckers, his brothers, had described them and though Simon had pinched him into silence, he tended to agree. But the Rabbi he now carried in his boat was different: approachable. Oh well, he sighed deeply, may this wasted morning be counted in his list of good deeds, he prayed.

Yet, watching the men sit silently without hope, waiting for orders to retrieve their nets, he could barely hold back his frustration. He would have to clean off the debris and rubbish that would snag in and he wondered how many more holes he would have to mend before breaking off for lunch. His stomach growled as if to remind him. He could not abandon the nets either; they would have to be washed – again –he wondered how much rest they would get before their run at night.

Simon glared at his brother; he should understand there was a limit to how much Simon would do for him, then followed Andrew’s stunned gaze into the water. It was dark and troubled. “Pull up the nets!” he commanded. As the drawstrings closed the mouths and the men tugged at it, the water boiled with thrashing fish! The crew of seven struggled at the weight in them. A sickening tear along a side of a net, spilled out some of the catch.

“Hey!!” He bellowed, waving his arms to catch the attention of his partners who were waiting patiently for them to return. They scrambled into their boat as they realized what was happening. 

Both boats were filling fast with fish whose tails whipped about as they sought to escape, their sharp dorsal fins spiked up in distress. But the men were laughing, ignoring the cuts on bare legs. The nets were thrown out again and again, and each time, they came up laden and heavy.

Gulls squawked and screeched as they dived and fluttered around them in a cloud at the unexpected bounty. The sun glinted off the surface of the lake where two boats in the middle of a lake struggled to cope with an impossible situation.

Simon stared at the rabbi who had moved to the narrow prow of the boat to allow the men space.  The boat was so full, it barely moved with the waves, so there was no danger of the Rabbi falling off balance. His eyes bore back into Simon’s, a slow smile curling the corners of the mouth under that beard. Wading through knee deep fish, Simon climbed up the step that separated the prow from the bottom of the boat; his frustrated, impatient thoughts of earlier calling against his conscience. Falling to his knees he cried out, “Lord! Leave me. I am a sinner!”

“I hope the invitation to lunch is still open. I am famished.” Came the reply.

                                                                                                                   Based on Luke 5: 1- 10.

Susy Matthew

Oct 2019.

And the Lion, Roared.

And the Lion, Roared.

The little spider had managed to crawl in undetected along with the humans. She ignored their tears and wails, hoping they would be done soon and leave the cave. The sun would set shortly, and they hurried to; not before laying their comrade gently out on the table slab, always furtively watching out for interference from outside, it seemed. They did however wrap the still figure; first with a straight cloth, then with hasty strips to hold them in place. They’d be back; she heard them reassure each other tearfully, with much spices for embalmment and with better cloth. Not all of them seemed as determined as the women though.

The cave was silent and dark now, with the mouth closed as a boulder was rumbled into place. The spider had work to do, as she contemplated on how to position her web. She chose the crack between the boulder and the cave mouth where a sliver of twilight sneaked in. Perfect. Dinner would follow soon.

Web done, pitch darkness did not bother the little spider as she furtively scurried over to the slab. Something inexplicably drew her over. Clambering up the side, she hesitated at the edge, a leg stretched out to furtively touch the cloth. What was so familiar about this? She moved slowly up and over the figure, measuring the length of the still form. If she could have seen colours she would notice that the white linen cloth was stained from the inside, out; but she did notice a sharp smell from a portion of the cloth. She hated vinegar. At the back of her mind, the still form reminded her of a lamb. A dead lamb. Why, she wondered.

It was long after the next sunset. Life was perfect.

She was snacking happily on a fat bug that had wandered in during the afternoon and was now nicely tied up in her silken wrapping. A tremor in the air shook the delicate strings on her web, making her miss a chew. Dinner forgotten, she sped over to the slab. All instinct drew her here.  She now paused, perched atop the cloth wrapped form, wondering what next. The room crackled with energy and power.

That was when she felt a searing heat burn out through the linen. Leaping into the air, she just missed being fried by shooting streaks of hot light. Blinding brightness followed her closely.  Her tiny legs pushed her as fast as they could as she scrambled for the safety of the crack and beyond. The flash of radiance spilled out through the gaps between the large boulder and the lip of the cave before it was gone. Two dozing men leaning against the boulder continued their slumber oblivious to the momentous event unfolding behind them.

Gathering her wits, she sneaked back into the cave. It was crowded with glowing beings bearing large wings; they stooped to fit their tall form in the short roofed cave. Their excited concentration was solely on the figure yet lying so still on the cold stone slab. But the air was warm in this cold tomb. 

Pin drop silence.

The little spider hoped they would not hear the whisper of her feet as she scrambled back to the safety of her web. She couldn’t help herself, something momentous was happening, and it drew every particle of her being to this moment, to this place.

As the audience held their breath, a shuddering gasp came from the linen. With a shout of exclamation the winged beings hurried to remove the strips, peeling back the cloth with hurried, trembling fingers to reveal a once bruised and bloody figure that now sat up, blinking in the beings’ eerie glow. The winged beings fell to their knees, then prostrated before him as the human swung his legs over the slab. He hesitated a moment, then stood up.

  A lion’s deep roar shook the earth, throwing the boulder off and ripping up the spider's web. Outside, the two men ran away in terror, while inside, heaven’s jubilant cry echoed in praise from angelic choirs!
"Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honour and glory and praise!"

The Lady of the Sugar Skull Mask.

The full moon led the way across the tree dotted plain. The horse’s hooves bit into ground, kicking up loose mud as I rode on.

‘Go North” the curandera had said.
“North? ” I had asked perplexed.  No stars to guide one; not that I could steer by the stars anyway. The sun had set hours ago. Which way was North? Her outstretched hand pointed out to the dark horizon. “North”. 

Surely, it had been the flickering light of the candles in the culvario that had caused her silhouette to dance around the edges so, I remember thinking to myself , nervous; the woman with her long white hair in her long white shift like robe.  The Stone altar behind her had a shrine with niches. Each niche held a candle, each flame steady in spite of the wind…

The wind was cold, I felt hot; the horse sweating beneath me. I held onto the reign with my right hand, while in my left I gripped tight the cloth covered object she had given me. It was cylindrical and fit into my grip, like a baton. I was not allowed to see it till I had reached. Just where was, ‘reached?’

My search for my sister now drove me. I wouldn’t have normally sought out a traditional healer from a culture so alien to me. I knew nothing about these people but my sister had crossed the seas to this little town following clues to an ancient site that she had insisted held her destiny. Ancient sites. Destinies foretold by candles and crystal balls…I had snorted to myself. Hocus pocus for the illiterate. Only, my sister wasn’t illiterate, she had majored in Mexican Archeology. A safe enough subject our family had thought, till she had met up with Juan.

Strangely, the curandera had not been surprised by my presence.  “I would like a limpia” was what I had to say to her to gain access; as instructed by the townsmen. I had obeyed. A Mexican Spiritual Cleansing ritual was the last thing I needed, but questions to where my little sister was, was more pressing.

“Come into my capilla,” she said after a long silence during which her eyes burned into mine, extracting everything there was to know about me. Stop it! I chided myself and my over active imagination. I may not have understood all that she said, but could guess what the rectangular underground room was with the images of saints and gods standing over baskets of herbs and bones while candles of multi colors decorated a central block of stone; her prayer room. Everything in me wanted my legs to carry me out of here as fast as they could, jump into my car and race off down the road in a cloud of dust, never to return. But my feet wouldn’t budge; they were bolted down as were my arms beside me. Smoke rose from her ministrations, clouding the room and I would have coughed, if I could have moved.

I tried to keep everything out of my thoughts except my sister’s face and why I was here. I had been told there were good healers and bad, witches; I couldn’t tell the difference.  What had Sophia got herself into?! 

Now the rhythm of the horse, loaned to me by the curandera with a cryptic, “don’t worry, she will return to me when you don’t need her any more” brought me back to the cold of the night; the animal seemed to know where ‘North’ was, its steady gallop reassuring yet frightening in its surety. It halted with a loud neigh under a tree at the edge of an open field. A warning? A signal?  This place was another calvario, a spiritual portal. This much I did know from Sophia’s notes. Notes from the tattered eared, much thumbed leather bound note book in her knapsack which had been quietly handed to me by a child in town. The child had run away before I could ask her any more.

Two sleeping forms lay beside the altar.  They seemed to hug each other. I uncovered the baton in my hand; it was a candle as expected. The watery light of the moon revealed more - black, with a skull carved into it. I almost dropped it but remembered the stern caution of the woman. I lit it with the match she had provided me and by its light, saw the face of one of the sleepers – Sophia! Her open vacant eyes showed me my search was over; she had met her destiny. Juan lay face down beside her, his arm protectively around her.

Numbed with shock, I turned slowly when a woman in a sugar skull mask stepped out from behind the tree – long white hair and white shift…and through the corner of my eye, saw one of the still forms shake off the embrace and rise up.

By Susy Matthew

2019

The Red Umbrella

The grey horizon promised a turbulent night ahead. The fluttering sails white against them, seconded it. She hoped Craig knew what he was doing with the ropes and ties. She knew nothing about sailing and had come along only to keep him company. “Would we need to turn home?” Could he hear the hopeful suggestion in her voice, had it masked the anxiety? She had tried to keep her voice as steady as she could – he hated weakness and she didn’t want to come across as helpless damsel in distress – which was exactly how she felt at the moment. The boat’s bow crashed into another wave; she held on to her seat tightly, fighting lunch threatening to rise up along with the next wave. Its wet spray startled her enough to forget her food.

He didn’t reply. Had he heard her above the wind, or was he just ignoring answering? He had once told her he avoided any conversation that would cause dissension or a reason for an argument as he viewed it. That  had been when she had tried to tell him how much he had hurt her over the years, and how a simple, sincere, ‘sorry’ would have been balm enough, but he had chosen silence and a quiet exit from the room, as if her  two sentences had been too much of a bother.

“Do want a drink? Its in the fridge. I usually have a stock of juice and whatever – take what you want.” He called out cheerily. She knew then that he had heard her, but had chosen the easier path of ‘saving his arse’ by changing the topic in an unwanted conversation – as usual. He also wanted her out of sight, below deck; did he think she would judge him on his prowess with the ropes? She, who could not sail and hated water sports?

How far apart they were on this tiny boat, in the middle of water with no one else in sight for miles. Any hope for intimacy was abandoned along with the crowd he had brought along - ‘his people’ -  through his lap top, his phone and had been on ‘important matters’ for as long as he could till they were out of network range. He hadn’t needed her company, it seemed.

 “No thanks.” She turned her head to get her hair off her face not daring to use either hand, still gripping her seat.

“Could you get me one then?” He had heard that. “Need to be here to check the sails.”

She looked at him wondering if she could point out that he wasn’t doing anything with them, merely sitting by that long rope that he had wound over that metal knob like thing that seemed to keep everything on course. The sails seemed calmer now too. Why couldn’t he get up and serve himself? Couldn’t he see how sacred she was? Were they that distant?

“The clouds look angry” she said instead. Indeed the horizon wasn’t merely a metallic grey any more, there were boiling clouds rolling in. Sailor she may not be, but even she could sense a brewing storm. If she pointed it out a second time, he might, just to prove a point, turn even further away from shore. She held back her counsel. He would do just as he wanted, would risk everything for the sheer excitement of it; she didn’t need to encourage him. If she was quiet enough, maybe he would have the thought to turn back, and she would praise him for his wonderful idea. That’s how they normally communicated anyway.

She twisted to looked behind, the way they had come. Shore seemed a hazy outline in the rising mist. Had she imagined it in her desperation to want to be connected to a sense a safety, or were they even further out than she knew? Regret minced at her insides – why had she thought this ride would change anything between them, that they would be friends again, they way they used to be? A flood of memories crashed in unbidden mirroring the heaving craft. Best friends marred by marriage; they should have stayed friends and married others – would that have preserved what they had? Or, maybe it’s just the way of life – seasons change even a forest of trees, maybe marriages too have seasons and maybe they would see spring again? She smiled at the hope. “What happened?” his voice above the wind broke her reverie.

“What?”

“You were smiling. Finally enjoying the ride? I told you it’s nothing. The lake is moody but I can control her.”

Control.  That’s it. It summed everything up perfectly. She looked at him with this new revelation. How could she have not known? He lived for control. Stupid woman, following her heart – what heart? There is nothing left of it, she scolded herself. Bits and pieces glued together with hope – hope springs eternal – where had she read that? Reading – that had always been her escape route – to bury her head in other worlds where she could control the time and pace of the reading, change the scene with a new story if the previous one was uncomfortable or boring or….simply because she could. Control.

The craft was on course into the charcoal grey of rainclouds kissing the waters, occasionally outlined by a flash of lightning somewhere in that malicious heart of fury. She could see the sheet of water even before the first raindrops pattered down, spitting up the water as they fell. “Let’s turn back!!” Her panic raw and exposed, her restrained reasoning within herself now no longer a choice.

His laughter rode the wind. “Enjoy it!”

A lone figure stood still on the pier they had left behind. The umbrella gave scant protection from the rain laden, lashing wind. He had brought it for her. She would need it when they returned. The water would be choppy; she hated even a fun fair ride – how would she be living through this? She could swim, he knew,  but he also knew she could not fight these waves.

He had waited for what seemed like an eternity. He would wait even longer, if only it meant he would see her again. He hoped his red umbrella would help guide her home, and to safety. He had been her shadow; and like shadows, never seen as long as they lay behind. He had never been in front – how could she know he existed? But he existed for her. He waited….


Disclaimer: the cover picture is for representation only and the Author holds no claims to its origin nor any rights to it.

Who truly represents a state?

When a friend posted about a rude and mean person yelling at her husband for not knowing the local language, and demanding they leave the state otherwise, it made me mad. Mad, because this mean and rude person dared announce himself as a representative of this state. He is not. Categorically, he NOT a representative of the soul and heart of Bangalore. Unfortunately, this cancer is spreading and more violent, mean and rude people are rising up in 'defense' of a culture they think they own.
They don't, because, as far I am concerned, they dont even understand it, to begin with.

When I first came to Bangalore, more than 3 decades ago, I too had had an encounter with someone who insisted I 'learn the language or leave'. Though he had frightened me, he hadn't inspired me. (I wonder if this present mean and rude person could have been his son? After all, meanness begats, meaness, and rude people cannot pass on a legacy of kindhearted tolerance.)

The people I met in my sojourn in this city - the Brahmin family I lived with for years, the others whom I met in different walks of life - however, did earn my respect and because of them, I wanted to learn their language, I wanted to share their experiences on levels that knowing only English would not. And while picking up phrases of speech, sharing jokes on mispronouncing and progressing to full sentences made me 'one of them'. And I am proud of it.

Call me a Bangalorean any day, parawagilla. Namma makkullu Bangalurudhu. My children also belong to Bangalore. I may not yet be very fluent (lol), but my heart is knitted with this city. She is soft, she is gentle. She is magnanimous and she has adopted children of many hues and colours, of different backgrounds and cultures. Her heart is large enough for all of them to take shelter under her wings...she is my Bangalore.

Coming back to the present - where did these Mean and Rude people come from? They are the tares among the wheat. The poisonous weeds that mimic the true crop to spoil the harvest. I think their loudness comes from being small inside, and to be noticed at all, they need to cause a fuss. Given a chance, I am sure they would take the next flight out to a 'white' country, only to come back with accents thicker than their heads, and with this new found identity, will lord it over others as a 'fo-ren return' to crib about the 'dirt, the roads, the sanitation, the hygiene', constantly comparing with their 'better experience' out-there-where-the-grass-is- greener.

Would they use their 'better experience' to help out? To make a difference that would make people want to be around them more? I think not. They would still be mean and rude in their new avatar.

Me thinks, they should be the first ones to leave Bangalore till they can truly reflect her quiet, elegant, glory.

. Baruch Hababa B'shem Adonai

Adonai . Baruch ha ba ba shem.

John 20:1-9
We can come t church to 'check out' /verify what we have heard from another's mouth, like Peter and John did when Mary Magdalene brought news of Jesus' missing body. Or we can stay till we get to meet Him. Why do we attend church?

                     Here's a little expansion of these most famous verses in story form:

    They peered into the dark tomb. Empty! Mary was right,Jesus was missing, Bewildered, they ventured further in, looked around and finding no body, left back to where they had come from. They had forgotten what Jesus had told them: they who had been the closest to Jesus while he had been alive.
         Mary, as a woman had not been allowed according to custom, closer than the fringe of their all male circle, watching from a distance but nevertheless had followed Jesus everywhere he had travelled. Not a member of the privileged Inner Circle yet faithful to him whom she had accepted as her master.
           Now, the two men, confused, frightened by the news left her to herself. They returned home: back to familiar surroundings, back to what they had left behind for their master. He was no more; they had to rebuild their old identity. Her news had excited them but there was nothing more they could add to it.

        Mary sat outside the opening in the wall of stone, weeping.
      Reluctant to leave the last known place he had lain, refusing to follow the example of the men who had been closest to him for surely they knew him better than she did. They, had new plans now; she, had nothing left.
      Her desperation, her brokenness, her sense of utter loss was far greater than her need to rejoin the group. Without him,she had no connection to the group. Without him,she had no direction. Where was she to go now? Who else could give her a sense of identity beyond what men labled her? What was she without him?
      She would remain here.

      She'd better get out of sight before the sun rose bringing others to the graveyard. People revisiting memories of other loved ones. They may question her presence, her tear streaked face outside an empty tomb. She didnt want to meet anyone. She had no answers for anyone. She didnt have any answers for herself. She would hide inside and mourn her loss by herself. Alone as usual.
      The linen used to wrap the master's body! She would take them. She remembered, before she had run out to call the disciples, that there had been something strange about them. They were neatly folded and placed at where they had laid his head. The kerchief that had covered his face though was away from this neat pile as if dropped in a hurry.
   Mary Magdalene looked into the empty tomb again only to react in shock at two men in white who had entered without her noticing. Mary was disappointed. Was she to be cheated of her last hope? She felt anger rising. They were strangers. They had no right to be here.
       One sat where Jesus' head and been and the other where his feet had been. This was her master's place, now hers! Her bitter disappointment lent courage to the words she would use to eject them out.
 
     "My lady," one of them spoke before her, shocking her by his tone of respect. She, a woman need not have been acknowledged with any more respect than a dog. "Why are you crying?"
   
      The silence stretched between the three of them; the men waiting unusually patiently for her answer, she, wondering how to answer. Finally, " Because they have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they have put him." She couldn't think of a plausible lie. They would probably laugh at her- who would rob a whole body? Grave robbers only looted treasures buried with the dead. Jesus had been buried with nothing. Hearing the sound of her own voice speaking the words she had been refusing to believe, punched home the reality. He was gone!
      Fresh tears flowed out through her fingers as she wept into her hands, a deep groan coming up from her broken heart. It would not, could not ever be made whole again. He was gone.
   
      She sensed a third man behind her before he spoke. "Dear lady, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?” Dawn had brought the gardener who tended the grave sites.
      "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will take him away.” She didnt know how she would carry the dead weight but she would think of something later. If only they would give him back to her.

   "Mary!" A soft call. A firm voice.
 
    Her heart stopped. Her head swam. Its him!! "Teacher!!" She spun around in disbelief, excitement. Her hands stretched forward to touch him. Was he real? Or had her heart forced her head to trick her?
   
     "Dont touch me." He stepped back. "Not yet." He was laughing with her. "Don’t hold on to me, because I haven’t yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and tell them, ‘I’m ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”

   She didn't understand what he meant, but it didn't matter. She couldn't wait to tell the others!

An old clam shell and I.

He did it again.
The world outside say I shouldn't let it get to me, but it hurts anyway.

 So, like this old clam shell, I added one more layer of hardness over my heart and vowed (though I knew it wouldn't last), to never let anyone matter enough to hurt me again. We settle back to maintain peace as best as we can...till the pressure cooker inside lets off steam. Again.
Its a fact with every relationship, I find. Life, in itself is an experience.

      

 A patch of yellow on its shoulder and a white lump on the other, betray companions who had stuck onto the shell, obviously much later on in the life of the clam. Passengers who had weathered the storms that raged in the seas around them, together. Had they sung with mermaids in the watery beams of sunlight that played on the sandy sea bed and stoic coral where multi colored fishes swam among dancing weeds?  What secrets had they shared, these completely different species from separate worlds, yet so close that even death could not separate them? A symbiotic relationship no doubt.

      Reminds me of the friends who have weathered storms and been the rainbows for me.


         















 I turn it around and it fits perfectly in my hand. Its as if it is mine, beyond the fact that I found it. Born for me. Could it be as old me, its first layer of shell created along with my situation and adding layer on layer along with me? Now isn't that a thought?

        Inside it is smooth, polished, completely different from what it exposed to the world outside to be so easily dismissed as inconsequential, unappealing. 
I rub a thumb over and marvel at it. I enjoy it with my eyes closed...till I meet a slightly, not so smooth patch, an obvious scar. It is white, and I wonder what could it have held so close, absorbed it even to become an extension of its very being. A pearl? A very costly possession created by its own tears? Embraced and treasured. Not shared, not discussed, not to be misinterpreted, not to be judged. Savored as uniquely its own.

        How did the clam loose it then? Was it wrenched out, taken over by someone else; displayed as a thing of beauty while the old clam who had given everything to make it was tossed aside, discarded as worthless? However they were separated it had cost the clam its life.

  This shell found half buried on a sandy beach at the lip of whispering waves, could have been me...or you.