Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Too Busy Reading

My reading goal for this year was twenty-four books – doubling last year’s resolution. That’s two books a month. However, I have got carried away and have read nine books already this year. I just finished reading “No Country for Old Men”, which I began the day before yesterday. Very interesting book. I can’t wait to see the movie. In fact, it was the fact that “No Country…” won the Oscar that made me go and check the book out. I have been reading every spare minute I get (as well as procrastinating in other matters). But I love every moment of it! However, not all my reading is as enthusiastic as it should be. “Lord Emsworth…” which I began last September still holds four unread short stories, and I am finding myself resisting reading “The White Company” because I cannot reconcile myself to any Conan Doyle that does not very prominently feature Sherlock Holmes. (That, and the fact that it is incredibly heavy-going).

Interestingly, I find myself getting more restive and restless these days. I wonder if that is because the banality of my everyday existence fades in front of the excitement of the lives of the people in the books I read. It’s possible. There is also lots of other stuff going on. I’ll post about it by and by. Right now, I’m off to another book. :-)

Thursday, February 14, 2008

St. Valentine’s Day

Exactly a year ago, on St. Valentine’s Day 2007, I was filled with a warm, exciting, carefree feeling of love. Love for myself, for the people around me, for nature, for everything I could think of… It had been a glorious day, and sitting in my lovely office as I waited for my next client to arrive, I thought about what life had brought me and what it might still have in store for me. For a few months before that day, I had been struggling with intense sadness and despair. But on Valentine’s morning I felt delightfully exhilarant. I had just returned from visiting my sister for her birthday, and was looking forward to a delightful four weeks of work before spring break when Nisha and I planned on taking another lovely trip somewhere. I felt immensely happy, and had a deep sense of joy and liberation.

When I was a child, I tried my hand at developing pen-friendships with people in faraway lands. I had hoped to share my life, my thoughts and my feelings with someone I did not know. I never did make any lasting pen-friends, but the urge to share my life still lurked somewhere in my heart. I wanted a witness to my life. I wanted someone to see what I saw and feel what I felt. I wanted someone to share my dreams, someone to watch me cry and watch me laugh. Not to console me, and not to live life with me, but just to watch – and view my life through my eyes. And I decided that whether there was someone to watch or not, I would share. That was how my baby blog was born.

For the most part, in bursts and spurts, it has chronicled my life. In several ways it has helped me through the process of healing from hurt, and given me a forum to rant and to celebrate with people known and unknown. I am twenty-eight years old, and never before in my entire life have I been able to look back on a year and remember as much about my life as I have done this past year, and as vividly. More even that the years when I journalled in my diary. I have accomplished so much this year.

This year marked my second Masters, my move out of Gateway Hills, the death of my first car, the purchase of my second, my first practicum outside the university, the making of a few cherished friends, extensive travel, the resurrection of my paper -journal, individual supervision, my first few semesters of group psychotherapy, the first semester when I did not take any classes, my taking up reading again, surviving a near-fatal accident, Martin Scorsese winning the Oscar, The Way of All Flesh, joy, sorrow, infatuations, nostalgia, pain and healing. And you dear Reader, have been witness to it all. Come, welcome another year with me.

P.S. I am aware that that last bit was very melodramatic, but I just could not resist.