My Sketchbook of Life

Every year I go on retreats. I realized few years back that if I do not forcefully separate myself from the daily life, I cannot truly relax and reflect. Owning a small business, I often work 12 to 16 hour days and also on weekends. So to take a break that I truly deserve, I usually do a ten-day silent meditation retreat couple times a year, and then squeeze in few three-day retreats in between to decompress and get my footing in the present moment. This month instead of a silent retreat, I went to serve on a Pali workshop where I cooked to my heart's content for the students. It was a great experience, I got to live in a luxurious ranch in Temecula, cook in a very modern and efficient kitchen, had couple helpers slicing, dicing, washing and cleaning after me, and most importantly, I was surrounded by kind, generous, and loving people who genuinely cared for me and everyone around me. It was a soothing balm for my heart and soul. I met some very wise women, we talked a lot, about life and everything else, and I also had quite a bit of time to reflect.

My Sketchbook Of Life

My life thus far can be divided distinctly into two phases, each lasting about twenty years. For the first twenty years, it was a very rigid discipline with no room for improvisation. I grew all right, because you cannot stop growth, but it was within very strict restrictive boundaries. There were no gaps what so ever. Ever seen a square watermelon? The next twenty years were different, yet same in many ways. When an elephant is shackled for most of its childhood, it grows up to believe that it cannot break the chain. That was kind of my case too, I was molded in a specific form and I did not know any different even when I had the opportunity. This is very hard for people to understand, so during this little time-off last week, I thought of an analogy. 

When we are little, we have often worked with sketchbooks. These come with pre-drawn pictures with color codes; 1= red, 2=blue, 3=green, etc. Kids are asked to color within the lines using the key, as precisely as possible. I too was given this sketchbook and box of colors. The sketchbook came from my environment - my family, my school, my culture, my society, etc., each drawing a picture of what is expected of me. And the box of colors, I might say, was my inherent talent and qualities, the specialties I was born with. They come in various colors indeed, there is anger, there is love, there is perseverance, there is effort, there is frustration, there is excitement; the list is long and varied. Each color has many shades too. In those first twenty years, however, the sketchbook was very rigid with specific scenarios drawn in each page with thick black lines. There was no allowance for experimentation. Everything was prescribed and not subject to change or negotiation - my career, my role as daughter/sister/student, my friends, my daily routine. Not only was the picture pre-drawn with clear dark lines, the intensity of the color in each space was also specified with a number. Each page was a year in my life, distinctly pre-configured. My only task was to read the legend and follow the rules, color within the lines and to the specified intensity. No trying out different colors other than listed, no mixing of colors allowed, not even accidental bleeding of color outside the lines. Any transgression from the rules had serious consequences - both physical and emotional, with plenty of tears in its wake. So over time, I learned not to rebel or go astray, mostly because of self preservation. It was too painful to flex a color that was not in the schedule. And because I did the same thing over and over, following the instructions so well, my sketchbook was really pretty. It showed exactly the picture as it was intended, perfect hues, no mistakes. Towards the end of the first twenty years, I started to see the beauty in the perfection, and slowly developed a resigned appreciation of the situation. Everyone admired the perfect pictures in my sketchbook, so it must be worth something. I wanted to test out a little, but the skill and training was in coloring to the key, so there was little confidence or courage to do anything else than the prescription. And I also learned to successfully suppress any such desire to experiment as well.

In the next twenty years, my sketchbook had pre-drawn pictures as before too. But I had somewhat of a choice in selecting that sketchbook - it had the pictures I thought I wanted. A beautiful home with a garden on an island with happy birds flying over it, a conference room with important people making important decisions, a relaxing bench on a hill overlooking the cityscape, wilderbeast migrating on the Serengeti, an elaborate feast set on the dining table, and so on. The drawings were beautiful, intricate, and very well defined with dark lines and fine lines.There was no color key, I could use any of the colors I wanted. There was no one there to monitor the intensity of the colors, that I was free to choose the shades and apply them to the intensity I desired! And I was ignorantly happy. I thought that this sketchbook was totally original, just because I could color it the way I wanted. Never mind that it was pre-drawn, I was just happy about that little freedom I had to choose the colors. And I had plenty of practice coloring and doing it right, so I did well. I colored with all my might, with all my passion, such that every picture was big and vibrant. Every line was clear and visible, every color was intense and bright. Anyone who would have to review the sketchbook would admire the perfect job I did, not a color gone astray, not a smudge anywhere, everything within lines, just as it should be. And there was a lot of praise on how good I was in choosing the right color for each box in the picture. There were many pats on my back and words of commendation. It did make me feel very accomplished and successful.

Today I stand at the edge of the next twenty years. And circumstances are such that this time the sketchbook has no pre-drawn pictures. It is blank, with clean white pages. There is not even an impression from the last forty years that remain on this sketchbook. It sits on my lap, pristine and clear. As I look at my color box, due to the heavy upheaval and intense agitation in the last five years in particular, many colors are bruised. They have been used with great vigor in the last two books, so some are spent. Some of the colors have gotten mixed up with the others and have lost their purity, they are smudged. Some colors are broken into bits, some are blunt and don't have their sharp edges anymore. They are all mingled in the box and no longer aligned clearly in neat rows segregated by their hues as they used to. But the box is still mine, and they are still my colors. I can take a neat cloth and clean them up. I can spend the time to align them according to their grades, should I choose to do so. All that is not hard, it will take time to do, but it is not impossible and can be done. Whatever is left, long or short, dark or light, the colors can be sorted and cleaned up. What is daunting for me is the blank sketchbook. I am being told that I can draw anything I wish, it does not matter what the drawing is, and I can go crazy with the sketches. There is no right or wrong way, or even a right or wrong picture. Each picture I draw will be just fine, as it is. There will be no one checking for proportions or content or match. I can draw a little house in Tasmania, or the Torrey Pines seascape, or a stadium full of people cheering. It is my choice. And, as I sit here with the blank book on my lap, I am not sure what my pencil will sketch. I am scared, apprehensive, not confident, and somewhat clueless. For forty years I have lived with this intense training to color within the lines, to mold to the pre-drawn pictures and do so with perfection; and now when faced with a blank page I am feeling as if I have been pushed onto the stage to get up and speak and all the bright light is on me and the eyes of the audience too, and I don't know what to do! My improv training tells me to just stand up an say the first thing that comes to mind, trust my "gut" and it will weave a new story-line. There is no expectation to worry about, no voice to listen to but my own. But there is doubt, and there is fear. There are ideas breezing through my head, yet it is also very blank. What do I want to draw? What do I have to say?