My South Indian wife is more eclectic than traditional. She finds delight in rummaging through antiques to decorate our apartment in what she calls shabby chic. She looks enchanted as she taps her foot to bluegrass music and the blues. Most recently, her obsession has been watching Olympians compete for the gold.
Between the races, we watch the sports casters report about the life of the athletes. Oscar Pistorius, the South African Olympic contender who runs on prosthetic legs, had to overcome many obstacles before the Olympic association would allow him to compete. American weightlifter Sarah Robles was determined just to get to the London Olympics while surviving on a $400-a-month award from USA Weightlifting the group that oversees Olympic weightlifting in the United States. She barely had enough money to eat. I’m touched by their stories, I feel raw and bare.
“Aren’t you going to stay to watch the race? To watch the fastest man in the world?” I enjoy my new life with my wife, the many flavors, what we share. I want to stay and watch, but I don’t.
It’s not a lack of interest in the superhuman ability of Usain Bolt as he speeds across the finish line that causes me to shrug my shoulders and retire to another room. Nor is it the rekindled feelings of inadequacy I had during my childhood for not being very coordinated or athletic. The constant teasing from the other kids forced me to shy away from almost all organized or competitive sports. I feel self-reflective as I watch these athletes compete. I need some time to be alone, to go within.
Not disturbed by the muffled sounds of cheering crowds from the TV my wife watches in the other room, I huddle behind my computer screen. It has been a long time since I have attempted to write. I doubt my abilities. I’ve been in a slump for a while now. “I have too many responsibilities,” “I just got married,” “My stars aren’t right,” were some of the excuses that played in my head. I allowed fear to overshadow me too long. It turns out that what I write is not so important. The act of typing itself opens possibilities for creativity to flow. It’s like winning a race; I feel enthusiastic, fresh, and alive.
It’s only a few paragraphs, but I’m pleased. The experience is sweet; a sense of surrender, being present. The Big Mind is in control again. I’m reminded that my life is for others and that we are one and the same.
My Guru once told me that the Divine orchestrates the experiences we go through in life so others can learn, be inspired, and forge ahead. It seems like it doesn’t matter if you are committed to winning a marathon or just taking a few baby step to get started again.