Headlights

I live in an old Gothic style hotel conversion in Seattle. The lobby looks like it still lives in the 1930s and my 8th floor apartment is adorned with french doors, parquet floors and ten windows. The view of the university and surrounding streets is magnificent and it changes by season. In the fall, I'm continually floored by the expanse of reds and golds and oranges. In the winter, after the leaves shed from the trees, I can catch glimpses of Lake Washington and the Cascades. And the spring and summer are majestic.

But my favorite view from these windows comes after sunset. The top half of the windows are pitch black from darkness. But the bottom half are my own personal Christmas light show. As cars honk their way down 45th Ave, their headlights and tail lights flicker through the trees, creating a glittery effect that resembles twinkle lights. These flashes remind me of two things: the constant movement of the world and the need for perspective. Even though I live alone, these movements are my companions in a way. They remind me that people and places and things are continually making left turns, fluid to the rules and boundaries they pass. They remind me that there are worthy destinations. And they give proof of the simultaneity of the world. What is the driver in the teal Saturn worrying about as I sit staring at Hugh Laurie on House? What must my brother be doing as I mentally yell at my students while grading papers? How many other people are cooking bread pudding at exactly the same time as I am? There are so many maneuvers in the same moment. I'm just one peon with one set of worries and one set of problems, no bigger or smaller than the flashing lights. I love staring out of these windows.

Namaste

I imagine I will be saying Namaste a number of times, so this one is the first. The beginnings of things are always double-sided for me. The newness invites me in, yet the unknown invites me out. These feelings reside simultaneously in most activities in my life. That means that I've had the luxury of many many beginnings and I hope to continue them. This new beginning (blog writing) has been creeping at the edges of my life for many years. I've often thought about starting a blog - but I was always off put by the public-ness of my private thoughts. Does anyone really need to know what I'm thinking? Am I really that self-promoting to suggest that my thoughts NEED to be out in public? The answer (I hope) is yes and no. I decided, adamantly, to remove the "need" from these thoughts and just write because I like to. I also began this project as a way to keep track of the details. If Oprah is right (and she often is), that love is in the details, than I'd really like to remember them. More importantly, I would really like others to remember them. I would like to remember the small important things, not just in the large rollercoaster moments of life, but in the everyday.

I sometimes wish I had my paternal grandfather's old diary. Dinubhai Patel was a professor of Philosophy and as I began my PhD in English Lit at UW, I wanted to know what he was thinking. Was he as scared as I was? (Probably not). Did he love and hate grad school the same way I did? (Possibly). I wonder what he would tell me about the rigors of this field. I wish I could read his words and let them advise me as I dig deeper into academia. But no such diary exists and its been more than 10 years since his passing. The stories others tell me about Dada usually find two forms. He was frugal and he was ridiculously warmhearted. He loved his students, his family, and his work. He wrote ferociously (I imagine) because he had papers all around the cozy Juhu flat he shared with Ba. Oh! to get my hands on some of his writing. Dada has inspired so much of my work, adventure, and direction in life. I'll write this blog, for me and anyone who might one day wish to carry me on their journey for a while (as I too often carry Dada). So, on this inaugural entry, I wish to say, Namaste Dada.