A work of art is the unique result of a unique temperament. ~Oscar Wilde

Is your list ready?

Here it is. Once again. Like clockwork. Inevitably. A New Year. There are a few more Earth days to 2016, but the world is busy planning for that moment just past midnight which we will label 2016. Is it the Westernised world only? Let us just accept that a majority of the world, regardless of the calendar they culturally follow, are thinking to some extent of their New Year resolutions, with regard to the moment that 31 December 2015 will roll into 1 January 2016.

Sure enough, on the blogs I follow, and in the emails I receive, many people talking about what they hope to achieve in 2016, how best to do so, and some are even sharing some of what they dared to wish for and did achieve in 2015.

There are the “doers” like Tony Robbins (e.g. New Year New You, although this is a video from a while ago, I am guessing that his advice would be the same today), the practical spiritualists like Slade Robinson (Bite sized goals),  the dreamers like Nina Lamy (The Pollyanna Plan) and let us never forget the totally “out there”, “taking it to the extreme”, Abraham (one site you can find them on) who are proponents of the “Feel Good” path to your dreams.

There is a constant tug of minds between the so called scientifically minded, and the supposedly opposite spiritually inclined, as well as the whole gamut of people who are sort of inclined towards one path, while also believing in the other path as well. But everyone, possibly, agrees on one thing. They all agree that all people wish for their tomorrows to be more spectacularly fun than their yesterdays.

So you have those who tell you to dream big. Write it all down. Make a list, or many. Break it down into chunks. Go hell for leather. Aim for the stars and you will at least reach the clouds.

Others tell you to go the more cautious way. Dream big, but not too big, as you may be setting yourself up for failure. Follow step one, two, three….

There are those, and these people catch the most flak, who say that ALL you have to do is to feel great. Happy. Joyous. In love with what you already have. Expect what you wish for to manifest. ALL of what you wish for. This is perhaps the most difficult recommendation to swallow. For our life experience tells us a completely different story. If we want to have a drink of water, we have to get off our backside, walk to the tap, fill out a tumbler, and drink it. Or we have to ask someone for it. Point is, something needs to DONE before something happens. No pain, no gain. We need to push ourselves to just those 2 mm over our limit to get that extraordinary life. Besides, who can remain constantly happy in the face of the barrage of “evils” that life can throw at us?

Of course, the answer to this, we hear, is that our experience has been shaped by our expectations. And so the dialogue continues. Does our expectation shape our manifestation, or do we expect what has manifested?

We are always  eager to manifest so much, right now. Our education has taught us that we need to work hard in order to get anything. I think therein lies the problem. As soon as we say work “hard” we paint what can be a joyous experience in ugly colours. Hard. Difficult. Strenuous. Sweaty. Sleepless hours. Straining muscles. Aching head. “GMMMPPPFFFFH!” Every thing that is un-fun, scary and horrible.

Let us consider, in our cynicism, that we will never achieve a hundred percent of our dreams. That it is all too hard, too distant, perhaps even too unworthy. Let us then consider whether we enjoy being bogged down by that cynicism. As we live our day to day lives entwined in the mundane, do we have to ignore all the small wonders that lift our hearts and make our spirits sing? Even in the darkest hours is there not always something that we can look to, and say “Thank you for being here, right in this moment, to remind me that all is not lost”?

Let us consider, again, what that recognition of the small beauties leads to. It leads us to feel better, and even more than that, feel good. Is there not always that chance that this good feeling will make us more attuned to the other scattered bits of magic around us? May not this awareness lead us to seek more? More feeling good, more noticing the divine in the mundane?

Death_to_stock_communicate_hands_1Does that mean that there is a possibility that, by the end of 2016, we will have reached a place of more beauty through a journey of more adventure? Does that mean that the advice of the stalwarts may actually carry a grain of sense? Or two? Why not give it a try? Why not choose a path, there are many, to our own fun? Santa has made his list, and he has delivered. Now is the time for us to make our list, and the beauty is, that the Universe will deliver. Before you argue the point, is your list ready?

 

photo credit: Death to the Stock Photos

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The safe life

angel light

The pursuers were no longer too close. I could still hear their cries and the sound of them crashing through the undergrowth. I could no longer hear their loud breathing. Even so, I knew that I could not slow down. Whatever had caused them to fall behind would not hold them back for too long, and soon they would be upon me again. Tired as I was, I had to speed up. I struggled to pick up my pace through the bush, hindered by the saplings and branches of trees swinging and snapping into me and the leaves brushing into my eyes. I was running a dangerous course with my eyes almost closed.

The terrain had been sloping upwards slightly, and even though I was not fully familiar with the land, I gauged that I was moving away from my destination and had to get back to flat land before I could get back home.

I ran though the bush, wincing but refraining with from crying out loud as the branches snapped into my face, and the sharp pebbled surface of the floor of the forest cut through my torn shoes. The ground dipped irregularly and I caught myself from stumbling a number of times, each time catching my breath and muttering a roughly termed prayer for my life. I hoped I was not near any cliff, and even as the thought escaped my mind into the dark moonless night, I tripped, fell, slid, rolled down the sudden steep slope downwards, catching at saplings and low branches of trees, desperately trying to stop my momentum. The thundering rush of blood to my heart drowned out the sound of any pursuers, and suddenly I found myself dangling from the edge of a cliff, a branch of a tree growing at the edge cutting into my palms as I clung on for dear life.

It was with tremendous effort that I caught the cry that rose from my throat, petrified of being heard by the hunters. I clung on to the over hanging branch. power rising from my desperation to live and fear of falling. Each limb trembling, I tried to find a foothold, but could only feel smooth rock. I could not heave myself up for fear of cracking the branch that held me to my life, and being found. I tried to quiet my breathing, softening the rasping by degrees. The crashing of the undergrowth brought news that they had come close, and would be at the cliff in moments. I flattened myself into the cliff as much as I could, clutching onto the branch with increasingly sweaty palms, praying that they did not have lights and would not think to look down the cliff side. I remembered that they had not had any lights before, and counted my blessing.

They were at the cliff top, hollering at each other, I was glad I was in deeper shadow under the tree. I dared not look up in case my movement caused the tree to move, and alerted them. I dared not look down terrified that the dark void reaching far to the bottom would overwhelm me. It shames me to admit it, but I am terrified of heights. I buried my face into the slight growth in the side of the cliff, closed my eyes and mingled desperate prayers with the effort to still my trembling. I had no idea how long I would be able to hang on, but I knew that I would have to, for maybe longer than I could.

After a long time, a very long time, my hunters suddenly stopped the yelling and stomping and milling around at the top of the cliff, and following a loud barked command stomped away through the forest. I listened to the noises fade away until at last the forest returned to its nightly quiet. I did not think it would be a good idea to try and climb back out to the hilltop and I was certain that letting go would precipitate me to a sharp and very painful death. Now seemed a good time as any to turn to prayer.

Tears scalding my cheeks I whispered, “Please God, please save me, please show me that miracle I have been waiting for all my life.” Beyond the breeze seeming to suddenly cool and fan my face lovingly, there was no response. My hear still thumped with fear, and my arms still screamed with intense pain reminding me that to let go meant certain death. I tried again, “ Please God!” but could go no further as I did not have any other words. Everything seemed inadequate. I felt like it was getting light, so I opened my eyes a slit wondering whether it was already turning into day, but it was not. All was still dark, it was just that there was a ball of light a little bigger than a humming bird hovering next to me. I thought I could make out wings flapping furiously as the light steadied itself close to my head.

I heard a soft whisper, “Just let go.”

Huh? That was my miracle? Just let go, and plummet to your death? I was not ready to die! I heard it again.

“Just let go.” Then, even more bizarrely, “You are safe”.

Sure. I am safe in the arms of God. I would just be gathered up. Dead! Nope! I was not letting go.

“You are safe. Let go of the branch”. The ball of light seemed to pulsate around me glowing in itself, but without imparting light to the surroundings. “Just let go.”

I heard my own voice speak in a fierce, low whisper: “NO” through shut teeth.

“Could you loosen the little finger of one hand? Just one little finger? You are safe”. Insistent little firefly!

I wondered whether God really wanted me to die, or was this beautiful, seemingly harmless light straight from the Devil? Even as the thought crossed my mind, I nearly laughed out loudly at my religious conundrum. Alright, one little finger could do no harm. Holding my breath, I let go of one finger. I gritted my teeth, but did not fall.

“You are safe” The little light fluttered around, weaving in and out of my field of vision. My head was still pushed hard into the cliff wall. I would not risk anything by moving my head too much.

“How about the other little finger?” The cheeky little flicker of my imagination seemed to know all the tricks. “You are safe”.

I hesitated. The light grew closer to me. “You are safe”.

Feeling a little braver now, I pried the other little finger off the branch. My state of dangling hopelessness seemed not to have changed. The cool breeze was certainly cooling off my heated brow, and making my shirt less sticky on my back.

“You are safe.” It said again. “You are safe”.

“Who are you?”

“I am your miracle. Go on, try another finger. Just let go”.

Now this was almost too much, but the soft light, cool breeze and drying sweat seemed to have calmed my nerves. I slowly unfurled one index finger. Wow. With seven fingers doing the work of ten, I was still hanging on securely, and the little piece of light had gone into a frenzy of celebration.

“You are safe. You are safe. You are safe”. It chanted softly as it danced around me, only slightly more tangible than a will o’ the wisp, though the whirring of the wings remained loud and clear.

Slowly through the night I was coaxed into letting go finger by finger.

“You are safe. You are safe. You are safe”.

As I marvelled at the ease with which I could hang on to the branch with a diminishing number of fingers, the little light danced around me.

“You are safe. You are safe. You are safe”.

At last, there I was, hanging on by one hand and three fingers, having let go of the last couple without much prompting from the now dizzily happy little bubble of light.

It floated so close to my eyes, I could not look away.

“You can let go of all three fingers together now. You are safe”. This whisper was urgent in its insistence. A climax seemed to have been reached.

Allowing my head to turn and look straight into the light, I took a deep breath, and so much more easily than I thought would be possible, I let go of the branch that had been holding me to the edge of the cliff. I might have heard some clapping as I slid down the cliff side and suddenly found myself on solid ground. I fell on to my knees, exhausted and triumphant, and slowly straightened up. Far in the East, there was a hint of light, the harbinger of sunrise. I looked up at the cliff. That little bubble of light had been right. I had just come down maybe a foot or two. I had been safe. All along.angel light

 

 

Photo credit: https://pixabay.com/en/angel-light-lichtgestalt-bible-645591/

rays_of_light_184565The blogosphere has brought the monologue to the ordinary person. All talk show hosts get a chance to speak their mind on an array of subjects as do comedians, politicians, lecturers etc etc etc unhindered for the duration of their speech. They may get e-beaten up afterwards, but for the time that they have centre stage, they get to have their say. Before the age of Blogs, Vlogs and Facebook posts, the lay person, or the wise, never had a chance to get on a bandbox unfettered by fears of being knocked off by rotten tomatoes. Loudmouthed opinionated articulates (I was one of these) did manage to get much of their points across, but the barrage of face to face disagreeing heckles would either cause these people to retire hurt, or become belligerent, or both.

Today, I can get on to my little corner of the world wide web, and even if my 62 +/- page views per post is no match to, say Stephen Fry’s 11.7 followers per Tweet, I get to have my say. People like, comment, or just move on as is their wont, and I think on it.

The monologue of the little person has much power, though. Many little people posting monologues engender many little person dialogues, and suddenly there is a large dialogue which can bring down governments, or, save the whales. Much has been discussed in social media about the power of itself, and I am no stranger or enemy to this phenomenon. I am  wholeheartedly grateful that this is a power that has been unleashed, for good and for not so good by people such as The Zuckerberg, The Williams-Glass-Dorsey-Stone, and The Hurley-Chen-Karim. Always keeping in mind that this power has unleashed a backwash of hate, bullying and hurt that has massacred as much as it has brought love, harmony, progress, to the foreshore.

There was a time when if I said something that made no sense to my audience I would be shouted down immediately. It happened quite often, as most of those I spoke to were wider read than me, more in touch with current affairs and had facts, figures and songs on the tips of their tongues. Those half baked ideas which started in my pre sleep thoughts and took brightly hued though nebulous shape in my dreams, just floated on the periphery of my awakening consciousness. Thus, when I started to speak with the confidence of extreme youth, I got entangled, and got dismissed by others of extreme youth. Over years (many years) I learnt to speak more forgivingly, in a manner that embraced other opinions, and I found that I still never got to have my full say. Everyone I was with also had opinions which they were eager to voice in their most allowing way.

So when I tentatively put my foot into the world of blog posts and, for the most part, received positive feedback I was amazed. I am still less widely read, less in touch with current affairs, than many people I come into contact with, and have virtually no figures to guild my facts with. I spent hours writing and re writing my posts to make it least offensive to most viewers. I refrained from putting up viewpoints that appeared to me harsh or indefensible within my still awakening consciousness. In the early days I did allow my sarcastic tongue (almost) full reign to put up a few reviews. But of late, even when I have nothing to say in glowing terms, I have tried to be mellow in my expressions of dislike. It has always been striking that, even in these cases, the attitude of many of those who know me in a more personal sphere, has been, “If you want honesty, go to (bodhimoments, the person), but you may not be able to handle it”. It has left me mystified, because I have always felt that I am saying things in the most loving manner possible. Yet, I have been grateful for my moment in cyberspace.

I guess, my core being has remained unchanged, even as the core beings of all the people I have come into contact with through my life have remained unchanged. There is, in more cases than I probably recognise, a growing awareness of the subtle world around us, but to me it seems that most people react to the events in sporadic and will o’the wisp manner. Outrage here. Bleeding heart there. The world seems to sway from one cause to another, locked in a momentary embrace of “This is what needs to be addressed. Now”. Yet, each person is in their own self, a universe unto themselves. (that sentence makes me cringe! The grammar makes no sense.)

Each monologue from the little person on the web seems to generate a dialogue, or a “multilogue” which then dips and swells for as long as the root monologues from the stalwarts of popular consciousness sustain them. After that there is the next 11 second wonder that raises its head. There is nothing wrong in this. Our lives are intricate meshes of innumerable threads, and whichever one snags at any given point of time is the one that gets the most attention.

Reverting back to the idea that our core being remains unchanged, even when we feel ourselves renewed, maybe we can bring change in the world (if we want to) by paying attention to the shiny threads within our own selves. Those bits of colour, light and awesome adventure that make us wake up at the crack of the occasional dawn feeling that nothing is more plausible than this moment of infinite possibility given to us, in this place of love, right within the light that shines within us. We have all felt it. Go on! Admit it!

http://all-free-download.com/free-photos. Photo credit

I have recently discovered BookTubers . This YouTuber family is by no means new, it is just that I have arrived late to the party.

Since I came upon BookTubers via my guilty secret (beauty YouTubers), and since a large percentage of beauty YouTubers are in the early twenties age range, all the BookTubers I initially discovered were also similarly aged. Amazingly, or not so amazingly, this group of YouTube enthusiasts seems to review and read Young Adult Fiction overwhelmingly often. Even though not exclusively, it seems to be that much of the Book Reviews, To Be Read videos, Book Hauls etc. I have watched since discovering this genre, has involved Young Adult Fiction, Graphic Novels, etc. I know that Graphic Novel aficionados would all scream in frustration and fall in a heap, because some Graphic Novels are NOT Young Adult Fiction. E.g. “The Arrival”, by Shaun Tan. Oh dear, I have done it again. “The Arrival” is not a Graphic Novel, it is a Picture Book. Both of which are different to Comics. Sigh.

I remember back to my “freshly twenty” age, and the number of girls around me reading “Mills and Boon” or other such similar romances. I was guilty of sneaking a romance or two into my TBR (to be read, in modern parlance), myself. Most of the time, even at that age, my reading was heavily censored by my parents, which meant I read more classics than romances. Many of my friends were also reading Camus, Sartre, etc and making the atmosphere dense with their (surely half baked?) discussions of such thinkers and their work. Maybe they got those authors. I did not, which does not entitle me to cynicism. I did read a book or a half by such philosophers with no understanding whatsoever, but for the most part, satisfied my parents’ wish of my being a “serious” reader with less demanding books. Many of my compatriots at that age, though, were reading much lighter, romantic novels, which today would definitely be classified as YA. So there has been no generational “dumbing down”. People are reading as before, it is just that in today’s world of room to Internet to fame after a fashion, it is easy to get a very skewed view of what is actually happening in the world.

It has also occurred to me that I originally viewed the term Young Adult differently to what it is probably meant to be. I thought Young Adult meant the more “advanced” book for those who are too young to be called adult. The “Twilight” saga having being called YA probably added to this delusion, for I could not imagine that any adult could seriously digest these books. Amazingly, more than a few adults have, and with love. But YA fiction is aimed at those who are young adults. Who would have thought? Right?

Before I turned away from BookTubers and their vlogs, to more “intelligent” pursuits, because it is a very long time since I have been a young adult, I realised, that, Ariel Bissett, BookTuber, crazy, funny, adorable, and twenty years old, has been chosen by the Man Booker Prize people to be a “Man Booker Prize Vlogger”. OMG, right? This is her (along with four other BookTubers) official task: “This year, the Man Booker Prize will be running its own vlog book club, featuring five popular, literary vloggers in the UK and Canada. The ‘Man Booker Vloggers’ will chat about all things Man Booker from long list stage onwards, posting videos discussing the books and authors in contention for this year’s prize”.

What is the Man Booker Prize, other than being a prestigious award that can make an author’s career jump from the doldrums into the firmament? It’s aim is “to increase the reading of quality fiction, and to attract the intelligent, general audience.” I looked through the list of recent years Man Booker Prize winners, and the closest I have come to reading any of them is having the “White Tiger” by Aravind Adiga on the family bookshelf for a couple of years. I have not read it, another family member has. So, it is time I step off my high horse about BookTubers, and embrace them all.

Cute, Mad Ariel 

Very Insightful Rincey Reads       DeathtoStock_Clementine2

Sanne, whose name is as commons in The Netherlands, as Sarah is in the UK.

Only some of my new discoveries.

Photo Credit: http://deathtothestockphoto.com

Thomas JeffersonLeave all the afternoon for exercise and recreation, which are as necessary as reading. I will rather say more necessary because health is worth more than learning. ~ Thomas Jefferson

Obviously Mr Jefferson had never read a lot of the popular literature of the twenty first century, some of which read like they were written by an unlearned person, and others read like they were edited by an unlearned person. In order to avoid the risk of offending many of the popular authors fast garnering millions of dollars in royalties, I will not mention any books here. The point remains, though, that reading does not necessarily equate to learning. Reading, however, can equate to recreation, and has the advantage over exercise that it need not be confined to any part of the day.

The next thing that jumps out is that Thomas Jefferson, may the Lord bless his wise soul, does not seem to have heard of mental health. Yes, exercise, does improve mental health, but reading does so as well, and it seems to me, from his sentences, that Mr Jefferson is talking of the kind of robust health that is energetic, kinetic, and bursting with movement. He is not talking of the health that lights up one’s innermost thoughts and adds a spring to one’s smile. He has a point, naturally, but maybe if he had been a twenty first century guru of everything, he would have phrased this same advice much differently.

Maybe he would not have talked of leaving ALL the afternoon for exercise and recreation, for if the ordinary man did so, the ordinary man would have to also go to bed with maybe one meal less in his tummy. Who but the school student, or the sports star has the opportunity to exercise all afternoon? It is also very questionable whether said school student or sports star would actually find this steady, compulsory sport practice recreational, all the time.

Maybe he would have suggested recreational exercise at different times of the day, suited to different walks of life, ages, and cultures. Maybe he would have added reading as recreation. Maybe he would have emphasised reading for health as well.

But, to give him his due, Thomas Jefferson is probably drawing the attention of people to the need for exercise and recreation, and recreation through exercise. Perhaps, in his wisdom, he foresaw, that there would come a time when people would get so cornered into eking out a subsistence during the day, and relaxing on their buttocks during the evening, that he saw the need to remind us to get out there and exercise. The “all” afternoon, is probably rhetoric, and the point about health and learning the same as well.

All Hail Thomas Jefferson. 

There are some tasks which are so difficult that the mere thought of completing them can paralyse. I don’t know whether the difficulty of this particular task has been built up in my mind to it’s incapacitating proportions, or whether the task is indeed very, very difficult.

For as long as I can remember, it seems from Nursery Rhyme days,  I have been a worshipper of Bengali poet and philosopher, winner of The Nobel Prize in Literature in 1913, the inimitable, the wizard of words and sorcerer of ideas, Rabindranath Tagore. I have long admired his poetry, even before I began to understand it, because I could recite it end to end without any idea of what the poetry meant. The words knit into each other so well, the rhythm flows so beautifully, that the poems wield themselves into memory easily and effortlessly. As a child I could, as now, recite his poetry, and more often his songs ( I have a flat line voice which does not lend itself to singing) and be lost in the rhythm and the flow paying no particular attention to the meaning. The words fit into each other in a lilting seamless jigsaw puzzle with such precision that if one was to be removed, a substitute is not possible. This is as true of his poetry as of his prose.

This is not to say that the works themselves were superficial or meaningless. In fact much the opposite. Tagore, above all, was a philosopher. His works major and minor, are all artistic philosophy at its best. This is why translating him is such a behemoth task.

It is a great pity, there is no translation of Tagore into English that I have read that brings me to within a hoi of the original. Dare I say it? Even Tagore’s own English translations fall woefully short of the magic his Bengali works invoke. Even the philosophy behind his works gets only partial justice, let alone the raw poetry and imagery of his Bengali words. There are many who do translate his works, and very skilfully so, but …. but….

As a person who can grow emotional over skilful use of words, and as a person who has always admired the power words have in creating images, I have long wanted to translate Tagore’s “Geetabeetan”, his collection of songs. First I had to mature much to even begin to do justice to the philosophy, and I do not believe I have the depth of understanding even now. I also feel that I do not have the power to create that poetry in English.

I feel, that in order to convey the songs of Tagore to a twenty first century world, I need to be able to transcend the century that has passed since his writing, and yet show the timeless beauty of his poetry. Many songs that he wrote seem to be written specifically for today, and yet there is no way I am able to bring this this to the world. I just don’t have the words. Nor the oomph. I have tried.

I often say to myself that if reincarnation is really a thing, I do not want to be born again. But perhaps I should. Perhaps, if I were born again, and I tried more single mindedly, I could actually translate Tagore into English, and pay due tribute to a human who has brought me overwhelming joy. In the meantime, in this life, I can continue to listen, hum, and sway to his songs, feeling their glory in each cell of my body.

What a pity, only some of the very few Bengali readers of this will understand why I am having such a fan girl moment.

In the meantime here are a few translated lines from Tagore’s own pen, for a small taste of the words that reach deep into the soul, the original of which is one of my favourite songs.

The World today is wild with the delirium of hatred,

the conflicts are cruel and unceasing in anguish,

crooked are its paths, tangled its bonds of greed.

All creatures are crying for a new birth of thine,

O Thou of boundless life,

save them, rouse thine eternal voice of hope,

Rabindranath, by himself

Rabindranath, by himself

Let Love’s lotus with its inexhaustible treasure of honey

open its petals in thy light.

O Serene, O Free,

in thine immeasurable mercy and goodness

wipe away all dark stains from the heart of this earth.

Thou giver of immortal gifts

give us the power of renunciation

and claim from us our pride.

In the splendour of a new sunrise of wisdom

let the blind gain their sight

and let life come to the souls that are dead.

O Serene, O Free,

in thine immeasurable mercy and goodness

wipe away all dark stains from the heart of this earth.

Man’s heart is anguished with the fever of unrest,

with the poison of self-seeking,

with a thirst that knows no end.

Countries far and wide flaunt on their foreheads

the blood-red mark of hatred.

Touch them with thy right hand,

make them one in spirit,

bring harmony into their life,

bring rhythm of beauty.

O Serene, O Free,

in thine immeasurable mercy and goodness

wipe away all dark stains from the heart of this earth.

Out of the Desert

I don’t like to watch movies made from books that have moved me. The most recent one I can think of is “The life of Pi”. I know. Ang Lee is a revered director and the movie won four Academy Awards. But the movie could not hold a torch to the book. To me, reading the book was like an awakening. I felt it in my nerves and read through it’s pages up until the spine tingling finish with wide open interest and often, laughter swirling through me. I don’t know whether the laughter was intended by the author, but to me, it was an integral part of my joyous experience of the book. The movie left me feeling hollow, unexcited, heavily dissatisfied. Before anyone starts telling me that it would have been a different experience in the theatre, let me say this much. I know. Audio visually it would have been a thrilling experience, but the beauty of Pi’s life was not in its scenery. I have written about my impressions about the book, which you may want to read. I am reading a book right now, that is encased within spectacular views as well, and if it was made into a movie, there would be a similar danger of it being converted into a visual feast, with the story being lost in adaptation.

I don’t think a movie will be made from this book, though. Firstly it is written by Deepak Chopra. Too much controversy. The scientific world seems to hate him and his philosophy. There is a tendency to laugh at his rhinestone encrusted glasses. There must be a spiritual law somewhere, “Thou shalst not wear rhinestone encrusted glasses if thou wisheth to be taken seriously”. In my experience, those who like his books whisper it to people who they are sure would not laugh at them. Perhaps because other people lump the message together with the messenger.

Secondly, this book is “Muhammad – A Story of the Last Prophet”, and there is not much sympathy in the world for his declared, or self professed followers right now. The book is a fictional outpouring of the man that was Muhammad, and the words of God he spoke. There is an intermingling of history and story in the book, which to me is not important. How much of the history do we really know, anyway? Do we care? Again, is the message important, or is the messenger? There may be value in understanding the messenger, as that would put the message into context. It may also help decode the imagery of the era and person into words which can be understood by masses a couple of thousand years down the track. . But in the case of this book, as well as “Buddha – A Story of Enlightenment”, and “Jesus – A Story of Enlightenment”, Chopra has sought to create a man behind the myth, who is part history, part folk lore, part fiction. “Jesus” was an easy read, though soul seeking, and “Muhammad” is building up the same vibes in it. I look forward to finishing it.

If they do make a movie, (will they?) I would love to watch it, because I love the desert scenery. Only three chapters into the book, the evocative desert scenes are making me wish to see it in spectacular panoramic extreme screen and sound, and not just in a small sphere in my head. I would probably even be minded to forgive the director if they strayed from Muhammad and concentrated on showing the beautiful Arabic sands.

desert with camel riders

Photo credit :

Sylwia Bartyzel

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