The truth is that however I choose to express myself will not live up to the weight of these facts: Vincent died, and then James died.
The astonishing Yiyun Li!
I love Yiyun's poise and clarity.
I love how Lilian has emerged.
From the Guardian / an extract from Things in Nature merely grow:
A mother gives birth to a firstborn, and blunders through the baby’s infanthood. Then she gives birth to another baby. The second time things are somewhat familiar, less daunting, and yet just as many things can go wrong.
Losing a child for the second time, I knew some things to be important: sleep, hydration, small and frequent snacks, exercise every day. Get out of bed at the regular time and never ruminate while lying in bed. Make the effort to brew good coffee in the morning. Read – one act of Shakespeare is good enough, so is a page of Euclid’s geometry, a chapter of Henry James’s biography, or one poem – from Wallace Stevens’s collection. Write – there is no reason to stop working and there is also no reason to strive for regular working hours. Anything that prevents agitation or rumination is good for the mind. And, most important of all, for me: radical acceptance. The death of a child realigns time and space. If an abyss is where I shall be for the rest of my life, the abyss is my habitat. One should not waste energy fighting one’s habitat.
I have only this abyss, which is my life. And an inevitable part of existing in this abyss is exhaustion, which the second time I learned to accept without protest. After James died, flowers arrived in front of our door. The flowers deserved attention, but I had to turn myself inside out to find the energy needed for that attention. (Here’s a small thing I’ve learned: if one is to send flowers as a gesture of condolence, better to ensure the flowers arrive already arranged in a vase.)
In that exhaustion, still there is some living to do. What was within my capacity I would not shy away from, as work is as essential as breathing and sleeping.
I did not stop writing or take time off from teaching when Vincent died. Writing, teaching, gardening, grocery shopping, cooking, doing laundry – all these activities are time-bound, and they do not compete with my children, who are timeless now. There is no rush, as I will have every single day, for the rest of my life, to think about Vincent and James, outside time, outside the many activities of everyday life.
And this, among other reasons, is why I am against the word “grief,” which in contemporary culture seems to indicate a process that has an end point: the sooner you get there, the sooner you prove yourself to be a good sport at living, and the less awkward people around you will feel. Sometimes people ask me where I am in the grieving process, and I wonder whether they understand anything at all about losing someone. How lonely the dead would feel, if the living were to stand up from death’s shadow, clap their hands, dust their pants, and say to themselves and to the world, I am done with my grieving; from this point on it’s life as usual, business as usual.
I don’t want an end point to my sorrow. The death of a child is not a heatwave or a snowstorm, nor an obstacle race to rush through and win, nor an acute or chronic illness to recover from. What is grief but a word, a shortcut, a simplification of something much larger than that word? Thinking about my children is like air, like time. Thinking about them will only end when I reach the end of my life
As her memoir of losing her sons is published, the author talks about radical acceptance, and how writing fiction helped her to prepare for
The author reads her story from the June 23, 2025, issue of the magazine.
I've followed Iranna's work since about 2010. I like the use of ash (vibhuti), the references to karnataka / temples. I like that his sensibility is authentic and his own.
He was in nyc a few weeks ago, in conversation with Fareed Zakaria who owns one of Irannas large works - nearly 6 ft, probably $100000. Fareed asked him all the usual trope questions- didn't your parents try to get you to be an engineer or doctor. In his accented English, Iranna said, I had full confidence that I would make art.
I liked that straightforward ambition, the lack of doubt. For these reasons, I decided to splurge and buy two works. I intend to hang them in my office for the time that I am chair. Any time someone comes to see me, that is the backdrop they will see me against.
Grey, brown. Vibhuti, geru. The yellow gold is incandescent, reminds me of my ajji's laxmi sara. Brings to mind the words of Purandara dasa in Bhagyada lakshmi baramma, "chittadi hoLeyuva" - radiant heart. There is a tree shape and a cloud shape. There is intention, there is serendipity.
I've seen Irannas wife's work at Aicon and on Saffron art. His in laws make art and I've seen their works too. I saw his son at his talk. Joyful energetic samsara. I considered buying an SH Raza print for $1000 but ultimately decided that Iranna with the kannadiga temple motifs, everyday grace and unselfconscious ambition is the energy I want at my back.
I watched All We Imagine as Light last night at Film Forum. Payal Kapadia did q and a with Shuchi Talati. Payal was energetic, open, and joyful.
It packed an emotional wallop that I wasn't expecting. The movie is extremely well-crafted - here is a film maker who loves film and loves her craft. Reminded me a bit of Molly from Rubyfruit Jungle, unshakeable in her trajectory as a film maker.
I found the movie textured and deeply evocative. Visually layered, with a cleverness and precision that other film makers noted, I loved the music and all the sound. The billowing of the blue saris was my favorite shot. The rain in Mumbai. The ridiculous beauty of the fishing villages. That part was giving Anita Desai :-)
I was distraught. The city skyline was unrecognizeable. Wait, was that Bandra station? I spent a good 8 years on those platforms and on those heaving trains, and yesterday I couldn't recognize the color of the inside of a train. Impermanence, displacement and migration are central.
I loved that all the stories were told from a very female-centric lens. She called the men "lulloo" :-) The underlying ideas of space, of belonging, of the need for privacy, of anonymity in a big city, resonated with me very much. She doesn't hesitate to look "violent gentrification", the patriarchy squarely in the eye! She embraced the physicality of the two nurses. No attempt to gussy anything or anyone up. The fragile dignity in the curve of Prabha's neck, how she squats to mop up the rain water, the sex scene with Anu. It is a new sensibility, not one of oppression. That made me happy.
I loved the contrasts, the juxtapositions - rigid grieving Prabha versus joyful seemingly-flighty Anu. Quiet inner struggles versus the predictable din of the train. That feeling of being completely alone versus the raucous communal dancing at Ganeshotsav. Documentary versus fiction. That ever-present feeling of being eclipsed, of encroachment, of being jostled for space, which I think, really is a signature of Mumbai!
I loved hearing little snippets of gujrati, bhojpuri, marathi, bengali - that feels like Bombay. Just like I fully expect to hear russian, spanish and korean on any given night in Manhattan :-) I was gobsmacked that she made the movie in Malayalam! I'd love to learn more about this part - I loved hearing all the well-worn phrases. "Dimaag kharab" "Mumbai meri jaan"
The dream-scene with the drowned man confused me and then pulled me in completely! It felt like a kind of exorcism - Prabha stops looking to the future, no longer beholden to her desire / fantasy that her husband will ask her to come back, she returns at peace to the present. The line where the boy in the shack tells Parvati to stay as long as she'd liked struck me. I loved the last two sentences of the movie. "It is beautiful there. It is beautiful here, too".
I loved how she talks about process, "padhaai" - do, reflect, grow.
I'm madly collecting all the links and facts I can! She thanks her grandmother in the credits! The movie title is "borrowed" from one of her mother's paintings. Love Love Love.
As a scientist working diligently towards promotion, worrying about the implicit bias and shades of grey in my external letters, it was bracing to see film-makers embrace ambiguity, adversity, their craft.
Nalini Malani All We Imagine as Light, 2017 reverse paintings on acrylic 11 panel painting; each 187 x 106 cm
Payal Kapadia’s glorious film is an absorbing story of three nurses that is full of humanity
📁 RETURN TO FIRST IMPRESSIONS📁 RETURN TO CHA REVIEW OF BOOKS AND FILMS Click HERE to read all entries in Cha on All We Imagine as Light. Pay
I went to school with my son this morning. The 4 year olds are pretty fantastic, their default setting is to give / seek affection. The teachers are wonderful, they have this deep and practical goodness.
I thought the parents would be shown how many letters and numbers their kids had learned. Instead the teacher read Bunny and Tree, a book with no words!!
It starts with a seed, that grows into a tree. A bunny encounters a wolf, the tree scares the wolf away. The bunny and tree become friends. The bunny is lonely. Bunny and tree go look for the bunny's friends. The tree turns into a train, a boat, a plane! The bunny finds its friends and they live and grow, and make new seeds! There is love and sadness, adventure and discovery.
The kids' imagination was astonishing! The danced, they called, "Bunny!", they shushed each other. It was the most authentic, joyful thing I've seen in a while.
I found the whole thing so inspiring. The greatest chef, the greatest restaurant in the world and this is the story he chooses to tell!
The episode on rice particularly struck a chord.
I remember the texture of the earth under my feet on childhood summer vacations. I never understood why I felt what I felt. The love, the sense of connection. What a gift to have experienced that, with my father, with my family.
I see now this connection to the earth is a privilege. Not everyone has it. It sustains us.
Photo credit: INDIA by sandeepachetan.com travel photography
Via Flickr:
Website | Instagram | Pinterest | tumblr | Facebook | Twitter We saw these freshly cultivated paddy fields on the train journey from Srinagar to Anantnag in Jammu and Kashmir, India. Rice is the staple food in Kashmir. The summer month of July is the peak paddy sowing time. Agriculture activity was on in full swing in the entire state. It is a family activity, with every member contributing on the fields. Read full stories on : Lolab Valley: Kashmir Unexplored A day in Kokernag, Kashmir Life and sights around Dal lake in Srinagar People of the valley: Kashmir Kids of the hills
Do it the hard way
And its easy sailing
Do it the hard way
And it's hard to loose
Only the soft way
Has a chance of failing
You have to choose
Quoted in Lizzie Gottleib's wonderful movie "Turn Every Page" about the historic working relationship between her father Bob Gottleib and Robert Caro who wrote the Power Broker.
Loved every minute of the movie. I, of course, was moved by the father-daughter angle.
In a new documentary directed by Gottlieb’s daughter, the 50-year partnership between the acclaimed author and the renowned editor is examin
Life in general, and my kids in particular, confound me. I feel most competent (in control?) when I am prepared. I have made a career out of making to-do lists and diligently checking things off. Fittingly, my kids connect with me the most when I'm flying by the seat of my pants 😅
H was away, I already had low-grade anxiety because I am the second-favorite, first-shittiest parent. We went to pick up summer camp stuff and got caught in a thunderstorm - one block from home, one block from the train. I asked the kids what they want to do - they said go home and get rain boots! Not just go home, but go home and get rain boots! They laughed and laughed! Laughed at the rain, laughed at how unprepared I was. They splashed in puddles. The whole thing was an adventure. They were unafraid, unfazed, joyful, present. We passed many adults who were annoyed, the afternoon thunderstorm had rendered them irascible, incapable of making a choice that brought satisfaction. Exasperated at the weather, bufuddled as to whether to wait or risk getting wet. The kids were bright! cheerful! Gleefully, they tell the story of how I was caught unprepared, caught by surprise by the thunderstorm, and what a good adventure it was!
At Whole Foods, they went on the escalators. They asked me to put the shopping cart on it. I said I was scared, I’d never tried it before. They were curious, open, joyful. I did it. They were delighted. Not just to see the cart on the escalator but to see me unsure, to see me trying things :-)
The images of a happy brook, eddies in a waterfall, have been coming to mind...
Water around rocks in a river or waterfall - the movement was energetic and joyful, water finding its way. The water felt feminine, flowing. The rocks had a masculine, unyeilding, steady feel.
And the eddies make little whirlpools. I feel that swirling centripetal force - the force that pulls us in to our lives. Samsara. Sometimes it pushes us out, centrifugal force...
dededos
andulkaphoto
origamiaround
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline
areudirty
