Who Will Be

Who I am, who I was,
Who I try to be,
We lie entangled in a mess.

Damnit, says Was,
Won't you learn from me?
I can save you.

WillBe chuckles,
Discreetly pulls her leg
From the chaos of egos.

Am stays quiet, as ever.
Both Was and WillBe
Shake their heads at her.

She has a plan, though.
Sweet, quiet Am,
Her head full of technicolour ideas.

She is bruised now, a misstep that hurt.
But that will be Was's burden hence.
Am is evolving. WillBe taps her foot.

I can't take both of you along,
Says Am, rising like a sea goddess
Fluid, almost terrifyingly radiant.

You will be hurt
All over again, warns Was,
Shielding her eyes.

For once in her life,
WillBe is clueless,
Agape, wondering.

But I can take parts of you both,
Says Am, reaching out,
Picking the pieces she holds dear.

Was and WillBe writhe
And gasp for air
Engulfed in Am's relentless, vivid waves.

It's always been me, says Am,
Rising to fullness,
Her Self reflected in the aura around her.

Reams of yearning

Your hands, they are what your letters first bring to mind.

Your hands, those fingers locked with mine for a stolen moment or two.

Your hands, the pressure of them on the paper, on my body, in my hair.

These letters... I hold them up and take a deep breath

hoping for a heady whiff of you, thinking of you in that moment, 

at your desk, leaning into the light of the lamp.

Or could it have been written as the warm rays of the sun

fell on you through that bay window you send me pictures of?

I like to imagine you writing during cold nights, the unbearable loneliness

driving you into my arms, open for you, many miles away.

Your hand, now,

the almost calligraphic letters curving into each other,

like us spooning on that rainy night of long ago.

You write words I read over and over again.

Some of these words you once mumbled hoarsely

into my ear, half-asleep.

I read them, and I imagine hearing them

in your throaty whisper all over again.

If there must be spaces in our togetherness,

let's fill them with reams of yearning,

of conversations never-ending,

of everything and nothing,

of the momentous and the meaningless.

These letters, now smeared with my scents as well,

fraying at the edges, silent and eloquent,

they take your place in my bed.

Rain on Me

When you're least expecting it, and
You suddenly miss someone
A cloud of gloom descends on you,
And you stand still. The world seems
To not notice and keeps rushing by.
There's a lump in your throat and
Tears pricking your eyelids
Demanding to be let out.

But then the cloud bursts
Into a shower of glorious memories.
And your parched soul is flooded
By those sweet quenching moments.
You close your eyes and go back in time.
The tears, now running unchecked, stream into a deluge
Yet you smile.

Those moments are forever yours,
Never to be taken away.
Never missed.

The Childhood Friend

She waited.
He was preoccupied, she didn't push him. She knew the stories would come. All she had to do was to wait. And be there.
The silence between them stretched out into what could be considered an uncomfortable one. But between them, there was no discomfort. Their silences were not disquieting, just as their long-drawn talks were never tedious.
Soon enough, just as she knew he would, he started talking. Of his childhood friend.
"Her soft cheeks were a shade of pink that never failed to charm me. I would repeatedly rub my fingers over them, marvelling that such tenderness existed," he said, his eyes bright with remembered wonder. His dimples deepened, and she almost raised her hand to touch them but stopped just in time. She wanted to hear the story; it wouldn't do to distract him.
"Her hair was velvety green," he said, his smile becoming an impish grin.
She rolled her eyes. Was he pulling one over on her again? She peered at him, trying to make out if he was laughing at her. He held her gaze. Does it matter, she thought. If he was tricking her, they would laugh and squabble over it. If he wasn't, this one would fit into some of his most intriguing tales yet. One day, she thought, she would set them all in a book. Or better still, she would get him to write one. She didn't yet know how, but she knew that she would. Long-term planning had always been her forte.
He picked up the story again, sensing that she was ready. "All my free moments, I spent with her in the garden. Always in that same, favourite spot. I never tired of her," he described. A pang of envy hit her, and she averted her eyes lest he read her mind and stop telling the story.
He was still smiling. "Every evening, I bid her goodbye with such a heavy heart even though I knew she was the one constant in my life. That she'd be right there when I came back the next morning," he said. Even through her envy, she realised that he was describing something that was wonderful and precious. She hoped the story wouldn't have a sad ending. On the other hand, she also never wanted to meet this special childhood friend with the soft pink cheeks and the green hair, whatever that meant.
"Every night, when I went to bed, my eyes would inevitably be drawn to the open window which looked out on to the garden," he remembered. "And if it was a clear, moonlit night, I would see her silhouette there, as if painted against the sky. Now she was no longer my friend but a scary fiend, her hair spread out like menacing tentacles, waiting there to catch my eye and to perhaps haul me out the window into her bewitched life."
An involuntary shiver ran down her spine. What little girl was allowed to step out like that at night? Now, more than ever, she wanted this story to have an ordinary ending, even if it was 'And you must meet her, you know. You'll get along great with her!'
She held his hand, and he continued, "I'd often run out of the room, fear causing my legs to knot and trip myself up. My mother soon made it a habit of just keeping the window shut. And I preferred the sweltering, stifling heat to the scary sight of her at night."
"Why didn't your mother just tell her not to do that? To not scare you like that night after night?" she burst out, annoyed now that his mother hadn't protected him enough.
The laughter rippled out of him. She was perplexed but the ends of her lips curled up in an involuntary grin when she looked at his mirth-filled face.
Finally, he brought himself to some semblance of control.
"Why didn't my mom yell at her? Because, my darling, my friend was the musanda tree at the bottom of the garden," he said, dissolving into laughter again.
She was nonplussed for a moment, before she joined him. Peals of laughter rang out, his tinged with the slight sadness of a time when friends, of the human kind, were few; and hers, coloured by the realisation that after all, she had been wildly envious of a musanda tree!

It Happened That Night

Fun. That was all they were looking for. That, and a quick high.
Perilously close to entering their twenties, the gang of four was determined to make their last 'free' years count. They had a kind of bucket list ready, which was to be achieved before 20 and responsibility took over their lives. Engineering was beginning to seem like a drag and all four were sure they wanted nothing to do with it in real life. Getting into engineering college was almost a coming-of-age ritual in Kerala. Even if they didn't realise what they wanted, most kids decided early on in their course that engineering was most definitely what they didn't want. Then, the other cliche took over: goofing off, spending money on ludicrous and numerous 'affairs', failed subjects, the mounting pile of supplementary exams, building new hostel legacies, experimenting with interesting vices, and the ilk.
For a lucky few, the cliche became an epiphany when clarity arrived: when they realised their life's purpose; then, the engineering course became endurable because then it was one of the means that would help them attain what they wanted to do. Or, at the very least, it would become a bargaining chip in the domestic sphere... the 'See, dad, I finished the course for your sake. Now let me do what I want to do' kind.
Tojy, Prajith, Sebastian and Manu had had no such self-discovery. With happy-go-lucky as their middle name, the four firmly believed in coasting along until Life caught them and buckled them into the no-escape routines of careers and normalcy. Sebastian, or Seban as he was referred to, thought he could do a Vineeth Sreenivasan and bring in a whole new perspective to Malayalam cinema. But he wasn't really sure, and the only steps he had taken so far were to daydream about meeting all his favourite stars when he would be a hotshot moviemaker. And yes, phases of compulsive recording of his roomies at the most inconvenient times. Like when Tojy had the mother of all hangovers and Seban decided to do a little experiment on exactly how much light Tojy's alcohol-fogged brain could tolerate; Seban's iPhone 6s almost got wrecked that day and since then, he had been sticking to relatively less volatile subjects.
Tonight, Seban was fidgety. He had thought he would make a crazy video after the others were sufficiently high; he had had plans for an elaborate Truth or Dare session. But nothing was working out. He lay back on the grass and looked up at the sky. The stars were offering brief glimmers when the heavy clouds allowed them to peek through. They were in Prajith's hometown, a classic Kerala town poised perfectly in that no-man's land on the rural-urban divide. Just a few kilometres away from Prajith's house, there was a bustling town centre; but here, in this clearing--surrounded by rubber plantations and various other trees that the Gulf-born Seban couldn't even begin to recognise--it seemed like they were far away from civilisation. On all four sides, the trees crowded around in brooding melancholy, making 9 pm seem like midnight. Their phones were eerie glowworms in the middle of nowhere.
Tojy's buddy had promised them some Idukki Gold, and they had pooled in a ridiculous amount of money for the 'stuff'. What finally appeared, was rolled and smoked up didn't seem to have ever been within a 50-mile radius of Idukki district. Expectations. They always fuck you up, thought Seban, as he looked over at the other three, who were now peering into the empty Honey Bee bottle to see if there was any brandy left. The normally sober Manu seemed to be totally off his rockers tonight. He was now shaking the empty bottle straight into his open mouth. Seban gave an involuntary giggle; Manu was the most sensible of the lot, unless they got him sufficiently drunk. The stuff seemed to have worked well for him, it seemed. He was now dancing to an invisible tune around the dying bonfire, alternately balancing the bottle on his forehead and on one upturned palm.
Maybe it hadn't worked only for him, thought Seban. Tojy and Prajith too seemed pretty loose-limbed now and they were joining Manu in his crazy dance. Maybe it was time, thought Seban, looking at his phone. He sat up. But didn't. He was still lying on the grass, he realised. He could see the stars fading away, and strange dark shapes moving in, gobbling them up. Clouds, he reminded himself, they were clouds. Just clouds. He glanced at his phone and picked it up. It seemed to take ages for him to bring the screen up to his face. Was the gravity here stronger? 'Weird town,' he thought. 'Weirdass town. I must tell Prajith. That. I. Won't. Come. Back. Here. Hate. It. Weird. People. They. Just. Stare. And. Stare. And. Ask. Toomanykoschnsh. Kwes. Ques. Fuck! Fucking thing is just making me slur. In my head. Hahahahahahahaa.... Slurring. In my head.'
"EDAAAAAAA," he yelled. He was sure he heard himself. But the others were still dancing and made no sign that they had heard him. He realised he was staring at them on the phone's screen. He had somehow managed to start recording and not even realised it.
"Fuck. Fuck. M@*^#. Idukki Gold, my ass!" he said. Or thought he said. Those three were still merrily dancing. There was someone else with them now! Where had this guy come from? Was it a guy? Was it? He peered at the screen, rubbing his eyes in the hope of clearing them up. Looked distinctly female, he thought. Female. But in this town? Where everyone went to bed at 9? Was it possible? 'Yes,' he thought. 'YES! Love Prajith! This place! I am so coming back!' He turned his attention back to the screen. What were these guys doing? Were they dancing with her? Why is it so blurred? Zoom. Zoom, he thought, as he tried to pinch the screen. Fuck! It just wasn't happening!
Suddenly, her face filled his screen, her hair falling over her face, partially covering her wildly beautiful eyes and those red red lips... What was that dripping out of her mouth? It looked like blood... gross! And yet, she was radiant.
And cold. Her hands were icy. He felt them on his face. The silence was deafening. Where were the guys? He turned his head. Why were they lying down? Were they lying down? She was turning his head toward her now, licking her lips, lowering her mouth towards him. He was terrified now.
"Get off me!" He tried pushing her away but she seemed to be incredibly strong. Or maybe he was just too drunk. "Go away! No!" he yelled as her icy breath hit his face. Blood. It smelled of blood. He gagged.
"Noooooooo," he screamed, and put all his strength into pushing her off of him.
He sat up, panting. Sunlight was streaming in through the gap in the curtains. His head hurt like hell. He looked over at the others. Manu and Prajith lay coiled in a tight hug on the other bed. Tojy was fast asleep on the floor, curled up, his lungi doubling up as a quilt.
'Dream,' thought Seban, as he slowly got up, with slow and steady movements that wouldn't annoy his throbbing head any further. He moved up to the window, and pulled the curtains closed. Wincing, he smiled at Tojy's sleeping form.
'Weird dream,' he thought as he sat back on the bed. Almost on their own, his hands searched out the phone from under his pillow. 'What a dream!' He would have liked to shake his head in emphasis but it was way too painful. He checked his Videos. And there was a new video in there. The screenshot showed the grassy clearing, the bonfire and what must be Tojy and Prajith. 'So we had gone there after all,' he thought. 'Not everything was in my imagination.'
He played the video. The night seemed less darker than he had felt it was yesterday. The fire, Prajith and Tojy dancing, then a lot of blur, Tojy and Prajith again, and... he paused the video... was that a person or a shadow? But it was night and there was just the dying fire... would that throw a shadow? He played the video again, his heart racing. Blurred images again. There was just 30 seconds more to go... He peered intently into the screen. Suddenly her eerily mesmerising eyes and bloodstained lips filled the screen. The phone clattered to the floor, and Seban felt his world growing dark.

134 Minutes

134 minutes. Aalia would never forget those 134 minutes that changed her life. Though she had never really lived those minutes. Though she had been just a little bigger than her dad's palm when those 134 minutes happened. 134 minutes, and some, without either parent by her side. Just warm blue light and whirring, clicking machines, and occasionally, gentle hands of sympathetic nurses that brushed her newborn cheek.
Her twin had been dying those 134 minutes. Her twin who, she has heard, was clinging on to her in every single scan report. Love, her Ma said... see, even in the womb, she was so full of love.
Maybe she just wanted to take my place, Aalia wanted to retort. But in 18 years, she has never been able to tell Ma that. Not when Anya's baby pic took pride of place in the living room. And the idea of her took up all the space in Ma's heart. Papa would have been good to me, she thought, trying hard to remember the man who died when she was three.
Ma idolised Anya. 'Everything good I did, she would have done better,' thought Aalia. And the naughty stuff, the bad stuff... Ma would splutter with rage, her words choking each other if Aalia so much as hinted that Anya would have been just as bad as her.
Anya was the angel. There was no fighting with the immortalised. They can sin no more. Death gives them the glow of perfection. In 18 years, all Aalia had learned was that the dead were more beloved.
She twisted the dupatta around her hand, winding it tight into a coil as she gazed at the creaking fan. A dog barked in the distance and she heard the faint thud-thud of a motorcycle engine. She stuffed the dupatta into her backpack, hoisting it on her shoulder as she stepped out into the night.
Death. That was not for her. Instead, she'd choose what her Ma referred to as 'fate worse than death'. She laughed out loud as she got onto her boyfriend's bike. Take that, Anya, she thought.

The Great Wizard of Happiness

He wore his humour around him like a cloak. It made him invincible. Worries and fears, those niggling silent agents of erosion, couldn’t get at him through his cloak. He made people laugh, even at themselves, before they realised the joke was on them. And he made them think. He was a great wizard, his magic peppered with kindness, tricks, treats and packets of joy. People went to him when they wanted their questions answered, when they wanted respite or when they just wanted to be. He was The Great Wizard of Happiness, and everyone wanted a piece of him. He was happy.

One day, The Great Wizard of Happiness was performing to a packed hall; like ever, the audience eating out of the palm of his hand, when he spotted Her. She sat there, somewhere in the middle rows, trying to obscure herself in the crowd, but once his eyes connected with hers, there was no looking away. He was surprised that the audience was oblivious to what was happening… wasn’t there a crackling live wire connecting the two of them, sparks flying, singeing those who came too close? How could they miss that? He was more meticulous that day than ever before, hyper aware of each gesture, each word, gripped by the feeling that everything was reaching out to her, and she would decide to stay or to run away solely based on this one act of his.

After the show, he kept his cloak on while smiling and shaking hands with the long line of people who had gathered to see the master magician in person. Children reached out to touch his beard, women all but swooned at his smile and men expressed their grudging admiration. Usually, The Great Wizard of Happiness found these minutes to be the best part of a performance. This connect he had with people, he thrived on it. But today, all he wanted was to meet her and his cloak of humour barely masked his impatience. He could have asked his staff to look for her but he felt an irrational fear that she was just an apparition. That nobody could see her but him. The long line of eager humans dwindled, and he was disappointed to see that she wasn’t in it. The day felt dull and grey around the edges and all he wanted was to go home and think over what had happened. He asked his entourage to go ahead, that he would find his way home.

He sensed her before he saw her. He was lying back on his chair, his head thrown back beyond the chair-back, his long locks like a curtain. He felt the gloom lifting and an inexplicable feeling of lightness filled the room. His locks swayed of their own volition and he felt a giant throb of energy running through him. He opened his eyes and she was at the door, looking down, hesitant, like she was wondering if she should step in and conquer the world or run away and spare them both. Not pausing to think, he jumped up from the chair and started towards her. The cloak of humour felt like a straitjacket around him and he let it go as he reached out to her. When she raised her head and looked into his eyes, he felt she could read his soul. Still not thinking, he gathered her into his arms. Tears glistened in her eyes and he was seized with a mad impulse to kiss her tears away and wrap his cloak around the two of them to keep her safe forever.

The embrace was all he wanted and all he feared. It made him want more, to hold this moment close in the palm of his hand and not scare it away with even a breath. She looked up at his face, leaned up on her toes and brushed her lips softly against his, an invitation that he could not resist but knowing, without knowing, that there would be damnation and condemnation. And in that moment, he didn’t care. He claimed her lips as his own, banishing thoughts and fears into rarely-opened trunks in his mind, finding her passion and reciprocating with his own. When they finally broke apart, he saw that the tears were flowing freely now and that she had an angelic smile on her face. He gathered her close again.

He knew before she spoke that she would talk about going away. That she had stolen a few moments from her Life to find this man whom she connected with, though she had never seen him before. She spoke of her Order, her vows of celibacy and chastity, her words tumbling out like a clear mountain brook that he wanted to drink deep from. He held her tighter as she spoke. He was sure he wouldn’t let her go. She told him of how she would talk to people who had watched his performances, or met him, and try to glean everything she could about him. She told him how she had longed for this day, her desire for him making her limbs slow and heavy even on her busiest days.

He lifted her up as she spoke, settling her into his lap as he sat back in the chair. She still had her arms around his neck, her fingers playing with the hair at the back of his head, making his skin tingle all over. He knew then he had been waiting for her all his life but he feared the hurt that was coming. He tried to wrap his cloak of humour around him, and she laughed at his clumsy attempts to fix the tattered cloak. There would be no forever, she said, and he knew it was true. She might be punished for overstepping her boundaries but she would be brave about it, she said. A knot formed in his throat as he thought about her being brave. He swallowed hard, knowing he would protect her if he could, knowing that it would never be.

They heard the commotion building up outside. It was time to go, she said. That would be her people, checking on why she had overstayed. She would go, she said, even as she stayed in his arms, her only movement being to tighten her hands around him and nuzzle against his neck. He wished he could use his magic to make Time stand still. He was The Great Wizard of Happiness after all; wouldn’t Time listen to him? He laughed, pulled her into a kiss that broke both their hearts. Then he wore his cloak of humour, and helped her up, walking her to the door. There he met her people, laughing with them, putting them at ease, placing her hand in theirs. Letting go.

As she was leaving, she turned to him and said, “Will you come visit me when I am on my deathbed?” He nodded, knowing he would, wishing he didn’t have to.

The Awakening

Woman of substance, sophistication, world-weariness

The woman who knew it all

The multi-tasker, the doer of all things that need to be done

The lover of lists, the lover of checkboxes and checkmarks

The keeper of neat piles in neat stacks in neat boxes

The woman who knew how to manage it all

Who took things in her stride

Not a hair out of place

Then there came a day

Just a day like any other, one of many black figures on the calendar

A little special ‘cos she would go to the beach

A childhood sanctuary, favourite first place on one of her lists

She stood there on the paved walkway by the beach

Watching the boats in the blue yonder

Bobbing like puppets doing a dance

Directed by an invisible hand

A breeze tickled her ear

Wisps of hair came undone from her careful topknot

The breeze gathered strength

Something stirred deep within

She gazed at the sea

Was it calling to her?

The breeze was getting uncomfortable now

And yet in a way she was strangely cosy

Off came her slippers

Tossed aside in an uncharacteristic move

Locks of hair slipping out

She stepped out onto the still-warm sand

Watching the sun begin its descent towards

Its routine yet bewitching dip in the deep

Hesitant steps soon broke into a run

The wind embracing her lifting her hair as she finally let it loose

Now like a benign Medusa she stood

At the foamy edge of the shy waters lapping the shore

The wetness tickling her feet

She saw the high tide build up

And she walked in letting the wave wash over her

She fell back onto the shore drenched

Rivulets of salt running off her

Marking her with sand and bleached remains of seashells

The breeze enveloped her now

A gutsy wind unafraid of her steady gaze

Goosepimples bedraggled hair wet lips

The taste of sand in her mouth

Dirty she was and yet strangely cleansed

A freedom to be herself or even to just be

Delicious in its newness and as comfortable as an old worn blanket

She let herself go

The waves washed over her again and again

The breeze made unruly love to her

Her checkboxes lay unmarked

This woman who suddenly did not know it all

Did not have all the answers

But who had awoken from a long sleep

To soul-quenching, soul-stirring Life

The staid figures on her calendar laughed as they danced

The Spirit of Midnight

Lines of thought
Jumble themselves up in my head
Like woolly yarns of pastel,
Knotty, and tangled, crossing each other
Over and over
Till one knows not beginning nor end.

They slip between my fingers
Like glossy globus pearls
Pitting themselves on the floor,
Scattering everywhere, crushed underfoot.
On all fours, I scramble to gather them in,
My fingers slick with a sweat that seems
Precipitous with the end of reason.

Sleep, the slayer of mundane demons,
Lies forgotten on the crumpled bedspread
Moist with the drool of my meaningless dreams,
Where I still wander in the hope of finding an answer.

I know not what I write
But write I must.
There is a spirit in me that scorches,
Curls tendrils of my hair into feisty disobedience
And demands my obeisance

There's no letting go
Even when the soft threads tighten around me,
Biting into my body to leave dents
And the ravaged pearls take their revenge
In bright spots of crimson red that smudge my fingerprints.

I write, a farewell song,
An elegy, an ode, a hymn,
In desperation to be remembered
Or as a channel for the Unnamed that knows not the limits of Time and Space...
I know not which, but I write.

No more #FOMO, try some #JOMO instead

I often relate Father Time to the person who first came up with this concept of seconds and minutes marching steadily to plot your life. The Hunger Games fans will probably immediately visualise the arena, in Catching Fire (Book 2) which is marked like a clock, with each hourly section housing its own deathly peril. Suzanne Collins did something really smart there (even though I think the first book was far better), in the depiction of Time as a killer, something the Hunger Games contestants need to stay ahead of.

It's something many of us can all relate to, this pressing need to keep up, know more, not miss out. Isn't it ironic that in an age when most of us are living with more conveniences than we could have probably dreamed up, we are more stressed out and burned out than ever before? Time is today more elusive than ever, even when we have all the time-saving and doing-the-job-for-us gizmos our parents and grandparents could have scarcely imagined just a few short decades ago.

#FOMO keeping you on the phone? Take a break!

It would be simplistic to point fingers at smartphones, the widespread use of the Internet or social media, and say, 'hey, there's the culprit!' Puts in mind the quote about pointing a finger at someone, and having three fingers pointing right back at you! Humans are so quick to absolve themselves of responsibility and blame anything else for their lack of progress/happiness/contentment that I often wonder why God chose this species to confer higher understanding on. Today we are no longer using the tools (social media, smartphones, TV, whatever else); the tools are abusing us and we are happy to be their slaves. And we coolly advertise our addiction too, like for instance, #FOMO. Gee, that's so cool! Quite a few celebrity-related accounts I checked out on Instagram have proudly put up posts advertising their #FOMO, Fear of Missing Out for the uninitiated, as a happy-to-be-guilty-of-this trait.
All you are missing out on is life, yours to be specific. I was pretty happy to chance upon #FOMO's nemesis, #JOMO which is the Joy of Missing Out. It's ok if you don't know what your favourite star wore to every cash-rich advertiser's event, it's totally cool even if you are not able to like every status update posted by all 1,178 of your friends and you will still be breathing if you haven't clicked 8 selfies today and updated the world about every single 'fab' thing you've done, like eating, drinking, hanging out, more eating, drinking, hanging out...
Don't bring out the brickbats yet; I'm no killjoy and I am pretty much active on social media. But now that Facebook brings up all your long-forgotten memories, I realise how much time I wasted by posting inane updates on Facebook (examples are Sumi is thinking, ...is wondering what to do, ....is so excited and raring to go!) and, dear Lord, 'farming' (Isn't Farmville around these days? Was it killed by Candy Crush?). Now that I'm finally writing (short stories and getting on with that novel I always wanted to write), I think back and realise I would have been way ahead of the game if I had started back then!

Go find your rainbow!

What I am advocating is moderation, to live this life grateful for the breaths you take, savouring the food you eat, playing with the children, the cat, the sunlight, whatever catches your fancy, finding your passion... actually being in the moment rather than being a hanger-on in someone else's online world. Yes, I am arguing for real life, which, if you try it, will give you a greater high than any kind of virtual reality.  I am not pitching for the eschewing of one for the other but for a kind of wholesome inclusiveness and a balance that keeps your life dynamic, as it is meant to be. Let me leave you with these beautiful words by George du Maurier:

A little work, a little gay

To keep us going—and so good-day!

A little warmth, a little light

Of love’s bestowing—and so, good-night.

A little fun, to match the sorrow

Of each day’s growing—and so, good-morrow!

A little trust that when we die

We reap our sowing—and so—good-bye!