Month: May 2021

Our Block ‘Watch girl’

I try telling my new friend, this stray girl with fragile toes, silk ears and white eyelash; try telling her about Pandemic protocol but she doesn’t care. She loves Momos from the Tibetian lady at Top in Town Mini Mall, but that is closed since Lockdown.

Black Beauty our Block Watch girl/dog & I took years to make friends but as time went by, I could not help but notice we shared a kindred passion. For the Law of mutter…


I have a reasonable temper but Blackie can be a wailing storm at 2 am. Sometimes she’s a lopsided ‘meh‘, or just does abstract poetry with her dark eyes in patch of white ash fur.

Aye, this in our strange day and time – I, human am pleased to say that she & I have things in common:

we are gulpers of Oxygen, we die without Water, or Food. We unashamedly exhibit dislike for the current confines of Distance,

that said, I envy Blackie.

I envy her maskless addressless state, unsure where she arrived off; why some of her paw is askew, why her neck bends 75% south; last December she suddenly healed of arthritis, the limp is less pronounced. Today Black walks up the stairs, visits at our door and mumbles for chow.

I’m thinking how Blackie and I were both made by God, not monkeys. I’m more like a monkey than she is though. I’m more Rhesus. More scratch-head, pout mouthed. Blackie is snout mouthed, “friend” person. If God had a four legged pet, He’d get a dog. They are faithful, they have crazy hearing and wouldn’t miss a word He spoke. They would follow like faithful disciples: we humans are more short sighted versions of cat.

Infant Lotus & some

B. has forgiven me for being different from her. Here she waits some noons when the sun slants in our patch picked from farms and gardens and seeds we ate and preserved.

Ahm. Some use for old furniture. (I should neaten this, right). Its like the wilds among Peace Lily, baby Gulmohar, water babies, strawberry (actually), and some names we’ve no clue of but call ‘Meer cats’, ‘Squirrel tail ‘(river grass). There’s Zeezee, Zuzu? <African fuss leaf,

All of us, flora fauna / homosapien : creatures of an unequal earth, co- species. Fathom that?

I truly wow that God made Blackie & Co.,for such a time as this:

to remind me that Life is way more complex than mere survival …


“The story of Jesus is incomplete…

without me.*”

That sentence arrived an hour ago without warning. The entire story of nature revolves around man, woman, child, their environment, like the planets revolve around the sun; like birds returning to the nests, like bees go to flowers: the entire Bible is an endless Whisper to Humanity;

the aspect of Love, the person of Jesus: Emmanuel – God with us; He lived, lives for what, whom? From the first Word of the…

Unbroken. Oil.RN


Bible to It’s last, this is about us. What were we thinking? Every drop of water, every slant of Light, every dawn and dusk, revolves around humans: yes the Story of Jesus is incomplete without us in it: any which way you look at it, fight kick slam shut it, crucify it, hang it out to dry. Without me, His story is incomplete. And what does that say about what He is to us?

It drives home things some things I’m gagging at. There’s no little joy here, just yelling sunshine. All of everything, from the beginning to the end, wraps around His Humans. No more shying from a Presence that pushes me like I were all He lives for, no more excuses…

As my day ends here and we settle in to night, no matter hell or high water,

I’m nestling in the way one sentence* arrived at me, wrapped Itself around my core and breaths now with a dimension all Its own.

Who am I, again?

No more excuses. FMF Writers.


Who names these cyclones? As “Tauktae” batters our west coast, showers and demi-gale rinse our flora, fauna & us all – roof/ roofless, and

newspapers drying in the sun for the Ugh Virus;

Two young girls in Bangalore City, got into PPEs and are helping families bury their dead in a local cemetery.

Unsure if this 👆🏼 is alright- posting their pic here but suddenly I don’t care. Am proud of them, of their parents who supported them in this. Am not too sure I’d do the same. Life’s edgy, uncertain, scary.

Our chicken stall friend Aji asks if we won’t buy 5 kilos please, his voice pleads. Garbage collectors request a ‘baksheesh‘. I would’ve frowned, now the heart is no longer fenced with one’s own dilemma. It’s as if walls have broken, we are all in one room. One emotional room. Some have marooned themself. They are wary. They will not call. Shrug.

That said, green leaves and autumn crocus arrive on schedule. And morning dew and light in the sky flipping in thru my window. What a beautiful earth in all the madness we are. Ashes & death from the Ganges to our monitor sets.

The earth reels as she did from her day 1, she never changed that spin. We don’t know much about existence, do we,

besides what Billy Gates or Elon Musk said or did not say today

or why we must/ must not Vaccine our self; which Vaccine is imported or ex. Exported. And why they must cost any thing at all to ones who cannot afford a meal;

questions, questioning answers.

Meanwhile Tauktae spits & fumes in Gujarat: respect to Newsmen & women braving winds to bring us our daily Feed from graveyards and other places. They are called Vulture Journalists by folks locally, unsure why.

It is the Season of the Unsure. Pre- monsoons have had that flavor from before I wore tiny petticoats. Will our Farmers smile, will they, won’t they?

Will they be rice tomorrow dad?” Ms Mupti Singh taught us that one at Music class, I must’ve been 8ish. I did not really know anyone who didn’t have a meal to eat. Soyamma & Thamdi from a fisher folk family, came home to help with the dishes, then play. They wore little saris and lopsided hair buns. Oh could they run! You never beat them at cricket, at throw ball, at Hide&Seek, their long legs flaying the sand like young horses. They climbed trees, walls, roof; they were wide eyed with joy at mirrors, at dad’s guitar, at the Pressure cooker, at the tiffin boxes of food Ma packed for them, their round tummies barely hid in the sarees they wore, wore them like little boys. Both of them got married before I finished school. They must be great grandparents by now, in the eastern coast of India, which is battling other storms, like the rest of us are.

Disaster is such a Leveler, phew. We are all on the same plane now, the student, the teacher, the … …well almost. There’s our migrant workers, and hungered masses.

There’s young Nia, grieving for her dad. Tinja for his Grandparents. Families with young kids gone. A set of grown up twins dying within hours of each other, yes of Covid. What can I say. It is too much for a blog post. Am praying, that wisdom will prevail, that governments will know what to do, that they will bless back like only they can.

Am grateful for green grass and crocus that still blossoms a decade after we got them from a beach side somewhere in the west coast. It is a big round circle of life, fitting in square holes in the crust of sanity. Insanity sits waiting like a bride, on the eve of a terrific wedding. I smell change, in me, in you.

Things we thought we did not know, we shall know. What has not been told to us, we will now understand.

Not my words above, that’s from the Bible. Time and Tide take care of Insensitivities.

No War Zone

My messy Lil garden where prayer always happens.

Little half words, like swords they cut away disbelief and fear. A certain war leaves, like autumn. Here inevitably I find my Day spring, my source of Life.

Not just another day!

As our nation reels and staggers among seen and unseen factors, can all the kings horses and all the kings men put things back together again? Before we can get used to the day’s Papers, the next day dawns with worse stats. This is unreal, but like one person said, “ was a disaster waiting to happen.” It is a war on everything we’ve known.

Today we prayed that we would really pray, set aside 21 days asking the Lord to hear our voice, for our people, our leaders, our healing as nations, as states, homes, families, individuals. 21 days of a fast from everything that holds me back: negative thoughts, distracted mind prone to worry..

all that. Remembering who God is, and what He means when He says, “If my people who are called by my Name will humble themselves and pray, I will forgive and heal their land…”

Took this pic- our tiny saplings grow into little plants, as a nation plummets…. where?

Moki, an acquaintance will laugh at this post: not everyone believes in God. And then not everyone believes God answers prayers. And then some believe in a God of disaster. When He speaks He is a mere Judge. He is, but He’s also the One that lets new skies each day lift my heart. Am spending the next 21 tugging at the hem of His garment, seeking Grace.

Yeah, mid– storm, sailors do cry “Mayday!”

This morning my heart is curiously still: yeah I’m seeking His face. He’s brought us through worse. Covid and poor disaster management is not the worst ill there is. A worse one stares us in the face- the soul of man, woman and child that lives alone, without the Friendship of the One who made us all, one Who waits to meet us here before it is too late.

FMF Writers

“What is Love?”

…I ask my baby Lotus leaf sitting in palm sized pot, and she my National Leaf too, says nothing. Lazy evening mid pandemonium of bad news, local birds and neighbor welding event! What a varied mess we are.(Do check video way below if it uploads👇🏼)

What is Love?” I ask the Maker of my Leaf.


His definiton of Love is soothing a leper, kissing back a Judas, fixing the ear of His murderer. His, is a banner over the outcaste, Breath of Life o’er a corpse stunk a week in Lazarus’ tomb, His Love walks on water, slams storms, goes where I won’t …

What can I say. If I ask a question, He answers, and the Answers sit like a Lotus in murky waters.

Me? My Love is an Emotion, like my hate,my indifference, my pain. His is not an emotion.

His definition of Love is a 2 Edged Sword.

It asks me to love my grand aunt Essie, never mind that Essie has murderous eyes . He asks me to look at her with His…eyes.

For one quarter of a millionth second I stare at my murderous auntie with His eyes and I see satan trying to morph her! So we can hate each other. I’m a puppet to his schemes,so is Essie my poor relative who doesn’t know better.

Hey His love is an Emotion? Nah its a

… a 2 edged sword :

Grace & Reconciliation. Constantly, constantly, over & over. Grace & Reconciliation.….

Like new leaves grow. His definition of Love goes on and on and on. Thru sickness, war & crime. We survive because Someone looks at us via the Cross;

Not punishment & hate: but Grace& Redemption. A two edged sword. His definition of Love.

Ay, I’m saying we’re not even the Maker of lotus leaves.

I, uh

I love my wicked aunt Essie, just a little more. Cuz when I see with His eyes, I see me too with His eyes.

I see me too with His eyes, and somehow I even I feel beautiful, isn’t that a miracle
Of grace, of Redemption.

His "love" is an emotion?  

Nah its a two edged sword.

Watch “Steady Me Hollyn Cover Kitsy ft. Vihan Damaris” on YouTube

My girls. “Steady me”. Dearest Lord, how I need this.

Kitsy our younger daughter with Vihan.

Its a bad time in India. Today a small trip outside felt so unreal. No sign of wailing ambulance, just a chilling quiet in our locality. But the papers. A dear friend’s 30 year son succumbs. In W/ A groups every one knows at least 5, 6 people in stages of panic, loss, grief, rage, fear.

My cousin in Rotterdam asks if the news they see on TV is true. I tell her, I wish it were fake, then send her the news clip of our friends son: its all over the news. Not just him. I don’t want to list numbers, am in shock that there’s not enough help. Shock, and horror at the degree of helplessness that isn’t even real.

Steady me. Steady us Lord, as a Nation, as a Planet.


When Remi plays those keys it is like a cure. “Remedy” you could say for laughs but that is for real. He hits those keys slow as if hesitant, as if unsure, like an amateur. Ha. You think!

Remi has fingers like I’ve not seen, he can’t sing a note, he has this puzzled gaze, he isn’t showing off, and I’m telling you he can rip a wheezy old organ and make it a grand piano. Sure its a gift. He knows, or doesn’t. I don’t know. We never will. Remi is blind, a senior at my son’s school, now he works at a Bank. Has the humor of a seasoned stand up comedian. I wonder where Remi is now, what he’s thinking, talking about, is he safe?

Thought of him now, as I got this Prompt. A gift is something that never should stop being used. Blindness never stopped Remi.

Nothing should stop you. And me. Us. Say, what?

🙂 No matter the news. The weather. The season. No matter the storm. The Gift goes on. Its the way God intended it. Its use, in the darkness, in the Light.

Hang in there warrior, shine. We need you.