Category Archives: Love

Wisdom From a Rare Krishna Book

Original photography sourced from Samishome.com/blog

Original photography sourced from Samishome.com/blog

“Think of this as the mastery of your craft,” he said. This is what you get when friends visit Buddhist centres in London over Christmas. Thanks Ezra-Aharon.

So the Yogi wants mystic power, the Jnani wants salvation from the miseries of life, and the Karmi wants material profit, but the Bhakta – the devotee – doesn’t want anything for himself. He simply wants to serve God out of love, just as a mother serves her child. There is no question of profit in a mother’s service to her child. Out of pure affection and love, she cares for him. When you come to this stage of loving God – that is perfection. Neither the Karmi, the Jnani, nor the Yogi can know God, only the Bhakta. (Science of Self Realization, His Divine Grace A.C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada)

The message: Do things out of love, not for personal gain.

Advertisements

Happy Father’s Day: Here’s a Handmade Burger

Not a metallic silver and blue banner in sight or balloon floating by its side in a tacky window display. No sports-inspired medals stating: ‘Go Dad for giving up your sperm!’ ‘No. 1 Man’, special offers or large-scale retail campaigns. Where were all of the 2.4 families with a beer-bellied dad in tow and smug grin on his face? So in the interest of doting dads everywhere, I’m here to lodge a formal complaint that Father’s Day be taken seriously in the name of family justice and good manners.

No woman can ever replace a daughter! *evil laugh* (Just kidding!...or am I?) Taken from 1browngirl.blogspot.com

No woman can ever replace a daughter! *evil laugh* (Just kidding! Or am I?) Taken from 1browngirl.blogspot.com

Usually, today, I would log into my Facebook and find, not the heartfelt and mischievous messages that I like to recite and then write in my ‘dad-playing-golf’ illustrated cards; instead my generic puns would be momentarily tainted by the hate mail from mothers and sons, mainly, who have etched out Father’s day just as those fathers had etched them from memory. Scattered somewhere there’d be an antique father-daughter photo but generally, a melancholy cloud drifts over Father’s Day and a downpour of double-standards.

The absentee father carries all of the flack when it comes to inner-city social problems. Despondent boys whose lack of male leadership forces them into irreversible situations that waste their youth; lost females who seek validation from conniving men, repeating the cycle with unplanned pregnancies, and last but not least; the vulnerable mothers who by obligation of childbirth, do their best to fix their broken families. I have no words for those men. However, what about the men who are there? Who want nothing more than to be there but have to argue over fragments of themselves in a court room? Allocated time to spend with their offspring as though they no longer count. When was the judgement passed that all fathers should be condemned?

Father’s Day, for me, is a celebration of the one in a few men I’ve had in my life to-date. The kinda-short bald guy whose mishap at the barbers cost him his thick, black beard and now reminds me of an ethnic Hitler. The man who I cranked my head round to see as I rode my bike without stabilizers for the first time, and who would scrub my feet and underneath my armpits in the bath. My personal bank, though I try to always pay back in full and the one who surprised me with his support when for April Fools Day I pretended that I was leaving university. That’s my Dad, and he deserves my appreciation for the sheer fact that this day will never be as acknowledged as Mother’s Day.

As we walked up to the entrance of Handmade Burger Co. and saw the sign offering a free burger for fathers, I said, “See? At least someone appreciates you!” and then we dined on mammoth burger meals. No KFC.

Love ‘Fatty’.

Cherished Imperfection

Imperfection – in things, in people, in places – add character to life. Tell us about an imperfection you cherish.

The words ‘cherish’ and ‘imperfection’, I have to say don’t form much solidarity in my vocabulary. ‘Imperfection’ is usually followed by ‘improve’ and then an attempted radical overhaul of whatever it is that seems to have aroused the mild but fortunately, brief episode of self-loathing. This is coming from the girl who did a critical SWOT analysis of their style – highly methodical with the intention of being practical but at the same time, deeply OTT and another neat acronym, OCD.

Image

Image taken from: Issuemagazine.wordpress.com

Needless to say, our so-called imperfections rarely go noticed by those who hold any relevance in our lives. I see my mother every day and not yet has she ever commented that my face sometimes looks hormonal (puffy, fat, not safe for viewing) – like now – and whatever society deems imperfect usually becomes the inspiration for something beautiful – my friend, Ayesha Jones, is a wonderful example. But the one weird and wonderful imperfection I’ve grown to respect and admire, and I expect a lot of contorted faces after I declare this… so here it is… – stretch marks.

There I said it. I’m smirking just a little bit, by the way, but how well placed that the sunshine was beaming onto my notepad and illuminating the page when I wrote this. My stretch marks – thread-fine and indent various places across my not-very-curvy body. There was a time during puberty when I too despised them. How unfortunate to have these unsightly lines that not even cocoa butter seemed to erase? Breaking out southwards towards my ankles their distinctive tread mark made me self-conscious and weary of wearing my gym skirt. What if the boys laughed at these tears in my skin? Totally rebellious, when they couldn’t be contained by my calves anymore they snaked their way to the backs of my thighs, then dispersed in opposite directions around my hips without apology or warning. An invasion of the worst kind.

Powerless to what mother nature had in store for me and lots of Google ‘How to’ searches later, I think quite simply, I gave up. It wasn’t a huge moment of enlightenment looking at myself in the mirror and hugging my war-town hips but as a woman who appreciates the female form, I started to embrace my stretch marks for what they truly were. Signs of growth and feminine development. I clung onto every line as a display of my coming-of-age; not something to complain about but to celebrate. To look down now they’ve pretty much  vanished away but when they return again as reminders of a child, I’ll adore them even more then, than I do now.

What are some of your most cherished imperfections? Please let some be as wacky as mine….