Moving Stillness

Sarangkot, Pokhara, Nepal

"The stillness in stillness is not the real stillness; only when there is stillness in movement does the universal rhythm manifest." - Bruce Lee.

I never could get the actual sense of Lee's words, try hard as I might to figure it out in the context of his own field of action. But his words made sense to me as I, along with my co-travellers, stood atop a hill at Sarangkot, watching the horizon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the rising sun. It eluded us anyway, hiding itself behind vivid cloudy folds.

Moving Stillness

Stillness. It manifests in different ways. Sometimes it's frozen and hard as a rock. Sometimes it drifts by like a gentle zephyr or a sailing wisp of a cloud. At times it's quiet like still waters. And at times, deafening like a roaring sea. Now and then, it would shed all its hues and yet again wear a vibrant collage of colours.

Stillness. Occasionally, you discover it within you. More often, you come across it around you, enfolding you, trickling into you, little by little, slowly, steadily. This stillness. This moving stillness.

Still silence
seeps, fills, overflows
hushed stillness.

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The Still Thirsty Crow

 

The crow hangs around the eaves today. Just as he had done the last morning. Yesterday he had slipped his beak into the rain gutter to take a sip of the previous night’s rain. Today he’s prancing along the trough to see if there’s any water – here, there or just around the corner. Well, no. Today is not his lucky day.

He flew in to this neighbourhood just a few days ago. It's a kind of homecoming. He had flown away from here way back when the pigeons had taken over these roofs. Strangely, the pigeons are nowhere in sight these days.

The crow wakes up from his reverie. He slants his gaze into the eaves trough once again. Could there be some drops caught at the corner? Or near the spout? Just enough so he could throw in the much-fabled pebbles? Then the water might rise a bit. It just might! But, no, there’s not even a drop. For, it had not rained last night.

Strange are the seasons nowadays. They used to span the year. Now they come and go as they please, every day. The rain was pelting the roof just the other night. And today the entire trough is dried up. Now, where can he find some water to wet his throat? Wherever the pigeons find it, perhaps. Where are the pigeons, by the way?

Fall was yesterday
Summer had its way last night
It might rain tonight.

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