Happiness in a package

Today we went to a fair- Holistic fair. There were many vendors with healing jewelry, palm readers, fortune tellers with a twist, meditation scent sellers , peace sound making Tibetian bowls and what not.

But then a guy with a smile came and sat under a tree where we were sitting . This little out door hangout seemed like a nice shady place, here there are chairs in a semi circle. Another couple also came with their lunch plates and sat down.

Well this guy said I am going to talk about HAPPINESS and then he showed that he wrote a book about it which mainly says (what we all know) that when you stop chasing "HAPPINESS" you'll find it has landed right on your shoulder like a little yellow butterfly.

He talked for a good twenty minutes giving many formulas and theories and anecdotes.

HUH! Actually the listeners summed it up much better when they were given a chance for the open discussion.

Any way, I was thinking about how we get scared when we see dark clouds that gradually approach and we feel- here, it is going to gulp all my happiness, all my sunshine. But doesn't that make sunshine more precious? Don't the clouds have beauty in themselves?

When I move back a few feet, move back from ME, I happen to see the beauty,truth. Happiness is a much bigger thing.

With all that memory and feelings I create something . A necklace piece. I have not given it a name yet, but how about if I call it VERDANT- some one who is inexperienced in judgment , yet young, unripe, innocent, and fresh?

Yes, that is what I feel when the sun beams go through those transparent tear drops. And the green little crystal beads glisten with glee.

Mythology

"Artists don't make objects
Artists make mythologies" - Anish Kapoor

I wake up from a strange dream.

I was swimming hard upstream, against the current. There were many other fish swimming like me. All trying too hard, sometimes pushed back way behind to start all over, some landing somewhere with a loud thud.

Yet, their shimmering bodies glisten with the moonbeams. Sun rays make rainbows. I am enchanted.

I am exhausted. My throat is dry. A gush of water like a huge waterfall, frightening, yet my only quench of thirst wakes me up.

I get a drink of water. Analyzing my dream I came to the conclusion that I was probably worked up inside, thinking how to survive in this home business. How are we going to pay the huge medical insurance when it will soon be all on us. Where would I sell my jewelry. If I don't sell them how will I carry on with this passion?

Then also I felt so small the other day when I went to see the Art fair last weekend. Am I there yet?

I try to think of my style. I want it to manifest itself. I don't want to stamp a brand too hard. No, I never feel satisfied working from a given pattern or kits. I mish mash many ideas, inspirations, experiments and come up with my own hodge podge.

Looking deeper I see that it has a trace of past - my style, I mean. Memories of my mother's, aunts', even grandma's jewelry- that have the touch of antique India in them.

Then it is mixed with wire work, recently learned, bead chips, Bohemian and Czech glasses, swarovski crystals, all that I take from the new age and the new world.

We have come such a long way- I was thinking as I had been crimping the last bead for my necklace the other day. I name this necklace- Mythology


I wanted to make this necklace piece to go with my Chevron danglers.

It shook me up. The story of the Chevron bead- that it used to be traded to buy slaves.

Then strangely yesterday I came across an interesting article, flipping through an old Bead and Button magazine. Here, Melody Mc. Duffy, an American beader is writing about her experience in Ghana where Krobo beads are made.

Of course the Africans villagers did not greet her with open arms in the beginning. It started with a lot of suspicion and doubt but gradually the spirit of Art brought them together and from a common interest of beading they shared their passion, knowledge and helped each other. The Soul of Somanya was born. Visit www.soulofsomanya.org to know more or help in this project.

Who Am I

I was trying to write "My Profile".

There was a time when I was known as- so and so's daughter. Then, I was Mrs....-so and so's wife. Even the last half of my name was chopped off and replaced by some unknown family link. Then I was recognized as so and so's mother, which went for awhile - a decade and a half.

Now I pause to think -who is this "Me" person really, that I am supposed to write a referral for?

What are the values that I cared for most, that I carry on in my daily living? Or, are they just big, pompous hollow word in my wish list.

I wanna be ...

Is it the same person who greets me every morning at the mirror?

I remember the day when in college we had to write about our values. We had to cherry pick only five qualities that we value most out of a list of hundred wonderful character traits. They were all super qualities- like honesty, sincerity,punctuality, artistic ability, popularity, beauty...etc.

I wondered why couldn't I choose all? Why only five?

Do I remember those five now, twenty five years later?

I think I can remember ... sincerity, art and the ability to love...

No, I don't remember the rest. Now I know why they asked to choose only five!

Of course I should have chosen slimness, money, intelligence... but no I was confused and I did not choose them.

I have a quote in my "studio" It says - "Art washes away from the soul the dust of every day life." by Picasso.

Isn't it beautiful?

In this vein I remember another event. I was a child then. I went to a very humble house in rural India with my dad. It was a mud hut. But in the entrance there was a beautiful design drawn right at the door step. It is called an alpana The design was drawn with simple rice paste, grinding rice added with water and the finger tips were only used. No other tools were involved.


At the end of the day most of it was gone, faded with foot steps and the wind.

I commented "What's the point in taking so much trouble to make such a beautiful thing when it's life is so short?"

The lady was shocked. "It's a welcome design. Shouldn't I do it? I'll make it again tomorrow. It doesn't matter if it doesn't stay forever."

What stays forever? Really!

Have you ever seen the Sufi monks dance? They go round and round with their limbs stretched out. One palm stretched up to the sky, the other one points downwards to the ground,as if they want to say -

Oh Almighty, Omnibus -make me thy messenger. Give me your omnipotent power and through me let it be passed to the next generation, to the world.

Bestow thy grace and blessings on me so that I may carry it to my fellow brothers and sisters. Make me selfless and let me forget my ego.


Yesterday I found a couple of Chevron beads in my bead box. These beads used to be traded in the slave industry. Buy human beings trading these beads! It gives me a chill. It used to be produced only by the glass artists of Italy.

Now they are made in China too probably! I got them in a small shop in San Luis Obispo. At least they looked just like the picture that I had seen in the wikipedia for Chevron beads.

I made a pair of earrings with them and now I am in the process of making a matching necklace integrating those colors.

Mother's Day Abuse

Do you know that Anna Jarvis, the lady who first started the tradition of celebrating the Mother's Day in North America, had to spend all her inheritance money and the rest of her life fighting against the abuse of this holiday? Nine years after the official Mother's Day, commercialization became so rampant that Anna Jarvis herself became a major opponent of what the holiday had become. She was arrested in 1948 for disturbing the peace while protesting for this exploitation and abuse of mother's day celebration.

In the jewelry business 7.8% of the annual revenue in 2008 came from this one day event sale. According to the National Restaurant Industry this the busiest day in the whole year.

Anna was furious and called it laziness when moms were given store bought cards.I verified these information from the wikipedia.

Interviewing ten mothers separately, and informally, I came to this surprising conclusion that nine out of ten did not want to head to the crowded restaurant this day. Rather, they wished that they were treated with some home cooked goodies, or to a picnic, a movie or taken to a theater.

This Mother's Day I miss my Ma very much. I lost her two years ago. As I was thinking of her, something strange happened. As if a small voice within me whispered - who said that she is gone forever?

She is right here in me, my daughter, my baby grand daughter. She is gone but a new baby has come . This is how it happens. The fruit falls , then from the seed another baby plant grows. The basic tree does not vanish! It was strange that I was solaced so easily and became so philosophical.

After that, I took my bead box and created a jewelry . It has all our birthstones of the four generations.

Zoe - amethyst, me- crystal in lieu of diamond, Rinti -ruby and for my mom- sapphire.
The central stone is a cloisonne with designs of a vine. It is wrapped with gold filled wire in a special wire work that is called the divine eye.

My eyes welled up after I finished the piece. I know it was not from eye strain .

Then I mailed it to my daughter.

WireBlissMei: Iza Malczyk - Jeweler

WireBlissMei: Iza Malczyk - Jeweler

Obsidian

"Obsidian is basically a lava rock. When volcanic lava cools rapidly, it forms a shiny black glass known as obsidian. It is typically dark gray but may be pure black and opaque with a vitreous luster...."- gabbed the guy from the other group.

We are in Yosemite. The huge El Capitan stands straight and strong. The Half dome is half draped bathed in the afternoon sun rays. The Bridal Veil falls with voluptuous abundance . What a breath- taking beauty!

I look at the giant red wood tree fallen right in the meadow, now horizontal, half burnt in a fire, all roots gone.

She lived a thousand years. What message does she tells me?

But no, I back off. I must not go too close. They have very fragile root system, I might hurt her. But she has no roots, silly!

I read that out of a million acorn seeds only one may have the potential to be a real red wood tree. Most of them don't make it.

Yet, there are baby trees growing all around the dead giant, full of promises. The wild lupines adorn them with royal purple gowns.

I remember the picture of the Native American old lady, busy weaving her basket who used to live here some hundred years ago.

I come back home, light my table lamp and look for a round obsidian bead.
I drape the bead with silver wire in a basket weaving fashion. It is called the herring bone pattern.

As I look at the dark obsidian in the center her vitreous lustre and fine lines whisper all kinds of gossips and stories of the yester years.

Legacy

I was trying to do some spring cleaning while an old letter fell on to my lap from the book case. It is a letter from my father, written about fifteen years ago. I started reading it. It is a long letter . Here he was talking about his childhood and about all the people in his life who made an impact on him and helped shape his character.

There were several beautiful stories which I plan to share with you little by little. Today I am going to pick the one about my grand father.

The year was some late eighteen -something. My grandfather was hit by a car while he was out on his morning walk. It was very early in the morning, there were not too many people in the streets of Calcutta. But two people witnessed that the driver was a British guy and he did not use his horn .

My grand dad had to lose two of his fingers in his right hand for this accident.

People, especially his lawyer friend urged him to sue the driver. The case was quite simple to win , ready with witnesses who also were upset with the driver's attitude.

My grandfather could not care less. He said, "I am an old guy, short of hearing. The sahib has no grudge on me to harm me. It's just an accident. I don't have the time to waste my energy on anger."

Rather he started practicing writing with his left hand and gave all his time and energy on writing for anti malaria projects. Soon he became the editor of that anti- malaria magazine.



Today, it's my father's birthday. He was a great guy. Most of all he was my dad. He gave us so much. What did I give him? All I can do is pass on the legacy to his grand kids who unfortunately may not be able to read his works. His books are written in Bengali.

Not only that, I wanted to share it with the whole world . My only request if you happen to land here please do drop me a comment. That way I'll know that you came to visit me.