The lake is beautiful, calm, content. There is an airport to its south, a busy road on the north…a bridge accommodating people walking on the east and a flock of birds resting on the west. Everything around it, is moving. And yet, I can’t help appreciate how calm the lake is. It doesn’t have anywhere else to be, it’s happy with the surrounding, it needs no more. It is home.
I smother for this stillness, for this content. I can relate to the feeling, but its buried deep down. There was a time I was close to home. And as I moved on with life, collecting materials, the so called well fit life style, I kept going away. They say tell me your friends and I’ll tell who you are. But what if your surrounding is full of compromises. Nothing around me defines me. Every moment I gave up something for the sake of sanity, for the sake of safety, for the sake of tradition, I moved a step away from home. If life is a series of choices, did I really make so many bad choices to be here. It’s said the easiest person to be in this world is you. Then why didn’t I take the easy route. How did I end up here, in a world of difficult choices, trying so hard to be everything but myself?
The hawk takes a flight, not worrying about what the others still sitting in the lake will be thinking. Not wondering if sitting is better or flying. It’s going up and down, returning home when it feels like. There is no material to be collected in each flight. The only pleasure it seeks is the pleasure of flying. Life is simple, and yet, the most beautiful. The other one joins it in the flight, moving its own wings with the same intensity, it catches up with its partner and in no time, you can see the harmony in how they move, individually and yet together. It seems effortless, and yet, completely connected. When they’re flying, the sky’s their home. When they’re still, the water is. Its an atmosphere of trust, of joy, of content. Which for some reason, we humans, can not build. No matter how many buildings we stand, how many safety nets we weave, inside, we are insecure, unhappy, dissatisfied. No matter how many buildings we stand, we can’t make them home.
May be the first wrong choice we made was to encapsulate ourselves from nature. I can not think when I am in that building called home, because everything around me, keeps defining me in ways I don’t want to be defined. Everything around me, ties me to things I don’t relate to. And may be, that is why, true art takes birth outside, in the open, in the wild. All imagination is in the unadulterated world made by Him. Not in the artificial face of the world we have formed, of social statuses, of materials, of riches. A bird may live the life, shorter than man, in the wild, without a penny, without having an everyday sense of so called sanity and security, and yet may experience the best of the winds, the best of the rains and the best of the beauty. And yet, it may die feeling it was well fed, well accompanied with its fellows and it fit in the world just fine. That’s the life I want, that’s the death I want. That’s the home I seek, where I can live like a bird, where I can die like a bird.