The Life of Clouds



The birds started first,
singing into the darkness.
Then the sun opened
the day up to the size
of our possible worlds. It
was expansive, the way
I imagine a desert would
be, at the break of day,
before thirst sets in,
when the body is still
thick with dreams, the
kind that beckon, invite.

The same world, a different
time. The clouds roll in,
form a dense layer between
us and the endless sky.
It always seems you
can reach up and touch
them, like they are our
shelter, our protection, as
though they are not
heavy with the responsibility
of nourishing the Earth, or
lacking in tangibility.

And I think, I don’t just
want my story playing
over and over; I want
them all. I want to be
everyone and everything
and all of history at once.
Not only to understand better,
but because there is just
so much to this life, too much
for our one psychology, and
I am and want to be
every colour, sound and
emotion at once, to finally
be the One in the All.

– TT

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Above and Below

I only have five words today, but they are important ones! There is always what we see, have and experience right before us, and there is the great, wide, vast universe out there to cushion us, to permeate through our experiences and inject life and energy into them. We can only start where we are, but we can also strive to see, experience, understand more … with JOY!

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I am Here


The day that lumbers on
The life that slips right past
And what of in-between?
No dragging on or rushing by
But the breathtaking pause.
The moment of, “I am here.”
Maybe my shadow slants long,
Or maybe it’s a shadowless noon.
Maybe there is verdant splendor
Or maybe there is me, in my body,
Breathing in and breathing out,
As my skin cushions the breeze.
And I am not dreaming, or hoping
Because it is all already here, inside,
And when I face the fear, and look,
I’m overcome: how very full it is. – TS

From the Bus, Eyes Almost Meet. {There’s No War in World}

On a bus dashboard in India. Photo by Tammy T. Stone

On a bus dashboard in India. Photo by Tammy T. Stone


From the Bus, Eyes Almost Meet


Sometimes, when you’re on a bus here, in India, all you can do is look; it’s almost a desperate act.

It’s often too bumpy to read, and anyway, the Hindi music, that most mesmerizing blend of pop, soul and bhajan (devotional song), is aggressively persistent frankly captivating. This music is one of the reasons we’re not travelling with any portable form of music.

We took three bus rides today. What would have been unbearably hot and dusty most days during these languid days of summer was passable comfortable; the day is a bit overcast, and almost cool in the earlier hours of the morning.

The buses, however, without exception, are packed. We were lucky to get seats for the first and last journeys of the day, because by sheer chance we arrived at the bus stands just as the buses were pulling in, long before eventual departure. These moments on the bus are quiet compared to the chaos swirling outside of it, almost peaceful. You can watch the driver read the paper, smoke or stare off into space, or leave the bus for one reason or another.

You can talk quietly as you listen to the ticket guy flit here and there around the bus shouting out the destination to attract customers, or hear people noisily embarking and settling in; there’s a general sense of anticipation for the ride to come in the form of laughter, chit chat and packages of food wrapped on laps or resting on the ground.

Once the bus leaves, that sense of peace dissipates, and suddenly you’re smack in the middle of an Experience; there’s no hope for perspective of any kind. So, you just look, from a small, awkward seat, or lodged between people … wherever you can find something for your eyes to rest on.

I sat at the window for the first ride, so I stared outside as we passed endless shops, chai places, mechanics, men sitting around, old men sitting on tree barks, kids walking to school or to the bus (often the one we’re on) in groups, cows grazing in garbage piles.

You watch, and India seems to greet you in a joint understanding that you have entered a wormhole in which old or familiar rules no longer apply. I find myself both in the space and watching it, not sure quite what the vantage point is.

Then, suddenly, I saw something. Someone actually, and I was jarred out of my semi-trance. A man stood at a human-forged intersection of sorts, not young or old, sickly or fat from wealth. He had no animals, or tools, or friends. Somehow, the space around him felt crystal and so powerful that everything around him just slowed down, almost fading away.

He wore a simple, modest dhoti (a skirt made from cloth the men wear here in Tamil Nadu). What arrested me were his thick dreadlocks and his shell-shocked eyes, which were somehow enormous despite his distance from the bus. Dreadlocks are not out of place among the sadhus (orange-clad spiritual seekers) of Rishikesh, but they’re downright strange in the middle of a small town of industry deep in the south of India.

This man looked frenetic and wild, his energy spilling all over his immediate surroundings, but there were people all around him, and they hardly seemed to notice him. I briefly wondered if I was making him up, because he was what I needed to see, or what I was already harboring inside.

His eyes seemed to say, “I am in India, as are you, but I’m not India. Think twice about what you see, what impressions you form. Everyone around me belongs here, but you found me. I am stood still. Where should I go? I might belong to another place entirely, and maybe I’m on my way there.

And you? Where do you belong?”