Patronus!

Give me a ghost, a ghoul, a witch any day. Lonely evenings do not frighten me. Rats? Disgusting,yes, frightening? No. Spiders are fascinating, not frightening. There is only one being that elicits uncontrollable screaming from me, and that being is organic, mortal, and weighs a fraction of what I do; but the thought of this being on my hand is unbearable.

Fear amazes me. I realize that fear is the most primal feeling, undefinable as it is unmistakable; insubstantial like the wind, but solid like a typhoon. The world bows to it, yet it is often the axis mundi of our horizons, a compass. In fact, I have willingly circled my home with poisons, like spells, to keep away undesirable insects. One strong dream is enough to send me running around, checking bank balances, or shutting windows and doors, or plunge into boxes in quest of objects which MUST be found. I HATE to admit this, but Freud does have a point about fears defining who we become.

I see the cats learning, unlearning, and otherwise navigating fears as they step around with caution and deliberation, unwilling to explore terrain with hind legs, as they get used to sofas and shelves that form the landscape of my house.

My daughter, who is unafraid to speak her mind, can happily live on her own, and remains unfazed at prospect of harrowing journeys across time zones and date lines, even she holes up in the only place she feels safe, her room. If an unwelcome bug flies in the window, she believes that her closed door will keep it out. Likewise for all movie ghosts and ghouls that frighten her.

When I was young, I remember the best cure for all that frightened me: the voice of my father. I knew, then, that if I only called or screamed loud enough, he would speak, sometimes only a word, and the world would turn back to the recognizable familiar, everything in place, everything explained with a name.  Now, I have shlokas that calm whatever restlessness haunts.

I wonder, now, in times of fear, what my father's solace must have been. He often used to tell me to order myself to think of some happiness, plagued as I have always been with strong, concrete dreams. I suspect my father was not the only one to counsel their restless child thus; this might be the reason why the idea of a Patronus is so easily grasped!

My sincere gratitude goes out to my father for righting my topsy-turvy world with a mere word. I thank him for banishing and diminishing my fears, for giving my sword light in all manner of darknesses, for filling up  my dreams with the sound of his voice so they never bleed into my waking worlds.

Something scared me today, frightened me enough so I forgot myself momentarily, and behind a closed door, I ordered myself to hear my father's voice saying my name; I produced a corporeal Patronus and my Potterite readers will know what a big deal THAT is!

Happy Fathers' Day, Daddy!




 

Glass Windows and Long Stories

There is something cosmic about staring out of the glass, on level with the clouds and tree tops, looking down on parking lots and roofs. Today, I am more aware of this feeling for various reasons. The most obvious of these is, of course, that it is a clear day, with unlimited visibility, the sun spilling gold all around the world, so the sky feels like another landscape. If I wasn't so afraid of situating myself in precarious places, like high glass towers which would often be at the mercy of the frequent storms, I'd be a megalomaniac, intoxicated by this sight.

However, there is another reason for being more aware of the cosmos: some new potentially habitable planets have just been discovered. The informed ponderers postulate about the existence of water on these planets, which could host life.

This worries me; I feel like I am perched at the edge of a high, fragile glass window in the middle of an indifferent storm. How is life an accident? We assume that we are unique; doesn't that scare everyone? This assumption seems illogical at best and egoistical at worst!

My reaction, of course, like always, is to seek out stories that examine other alternatives. The ones I have been drawn to lately have been fantastical universes, even multi-verses that are not anthropocentric. I find these stories about dimensions of other lives, life-forms, realities co-existing with us, fascinating. These have been the stories that have kept me up at night (work schedules notwithstanding).

An excellent example, of course, is the Harry Potter series; I revisited the first book since it was what my book club was reading, and again, I find myself hooked. I have blogged about this elsewhere, so I shall save my patient reader the repetition. Then, Shannara kept me up till the wee hours. And now, Stroud's London, told partially from a Djinni's perspective, holds me captive.

They say Fall is the season when curtains between various worlds and states of being are at their thinnest. The falling year does bring to mind the long story told over many nights, the longer twilights and small days, when humanity holds the largest number of festivals, celebrating beings we don't really understand but are acutely aware of.  I think of this season as the least anthropocentric, when people are naturally drawn out of their shelters at night, to gaze at the large moon and sharp stars, and wonder.

So in a couple of hours, when the evening begins, I, too, shall fold up the day and settle down with the unending story that reminds me to be afraid of high glass windows. After all, I am not Sisyphus and my world is not as predictable  or  as anthropocentric as his: I do not inhabit a deserted universe, nor do I have the strength to roll this rock, or believe myself to be the only upright life form.

Winguardian Leviosa!

I just watched the last movie of the Harry Potter saga in honor of the passing of an age. I feel as though I am older for having lived this story. As I look back on what I like to call the Harry Potter decade, I am astounded at how much this story has reflected our world and how much it has helped me live it.

The world I find myself in the second decade of the new millennium has changed drastically and suddenly from the previous decades; I've had to re-define some very basic concepts, like the idea of safety, travel, friendship, communication, education, and segregation. It has been, for me, a decade of upheavals on a very basic, psychic level that has mandated that I replace my internal compass with a GPS.

I remember telling my friends scattered across the country that  get-togethers should be no problems, since no place is farther than the nearest airport; but that was before 9/11, which completely changed air travel. I remember being able to count my friends on my fingers; but that was before facebook told me that I'd need many arms and many, many fingers to count my friends. I remember always being on the look out for reliable, reasonably priced calling cards and long distance plans; but that was before oovoo and 3G phones. The list goes on.

In a world that changes so fast, where tomorrow strides and barges in before today is done, I've held on to stories that distill these complex issues into familiar archetypes, told in a way that reminds me of the familiar way of life, at the same time shows characters trying to adjust to a completely new world, having to learn very similar lessons. This story resonates with me for many reasons, but I believe my ability to relate to the characters' choices, lessons, terrors, joys, and crossroads is the main one.

I am not alone in this, of course; my child, who is putting together her college applications, was very impressed to know that one of her dream schools has a very active Quidditch team; we visited "Harry Potter Houses" on our last trip to London and Oxford; no one today is a stranger to a strange word like "muggle."

Today, the entire theatre was completely full and the whole experience to watching this movie on the opening weekend was a treat, like watching a Bollywood blockbuster on opening night. The audience actively participated in the watching: there were boos, clucks, giggles, snickers, guffaws, and outright laughter, as though we were all at a live performance, not a movie. As the light faded out on the characters we'd all come to know so well, the audience burst into a resounding applause.

This was a heartening experience. When I read bleak projections for the future, dire consequences promised for irresponsible choices made by earlier decades, I am more patient. After all, there can be no way to predict what gems of imagination await during troubled, troubling times to remind us of the richness, sweetness, and sheer beauty that is the human experience.

Like audiences emerging out of a tragedy many millennia ago, we, the audience emerging from the theatre today were definitely proud of being human, of the same ilk as the characters whom we admire, then pity and fear for, and ultimately own, so that, like the wish-figures reflected in the mirror of Erised, they keep us company when we look into our solitary looking glasses.