Category Archives: Dreaming

My Mom, and my Garden dreams

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March 13th, 2014. Twenty five years ago, today, my Amma, mom, passed away.
Sitting by the lake, watching the evening sun casting a silvery glow on the frozen waters, I remembered my mom’s silvery, wavy long hair. Wisps of hair always fell over her eyes as she leaned down to tend to her roses, and she tried in vain to tuck them away behind her ears. When I teased her about her naughty curls, she laughed; a soft bubbly laugh, not loud or buoyant, but hearing her laugh made you laugh too. Now, I think of her and laugh to myself knowing how she loved her roses.Mom and her sister had strong gardening genes they have passed on to me. I do thank them.
I took my pen out and started planning my summer garden.
1. I know my daffodils, hyacinths and tulips will return in spring to grace all corners of my garden.
2. I am hoping my roses have survived this harsh winter. If not I may have to replace them.
3. For my annuals, Verbenas are a must. Maybe instead of my usual Petunias, I will plant Dahlias this year. Red geraniums and Sweet Alyssums will certainly brighten my front walk.
4. Tomatoes, Potatoes, Cucumbers and red Spinach in my vegetable garden…..
By now the frozen lake was not silver any more. The sun had set, and the moon had not risen. One by one the lights from the homes on the opposite shore came on, casting long reflections on the darkening ice on the lake.
I looked up at the stars, now shining bright, and send a prayer and a thank you to mom, for my garden dreams.
Lake Geneva, WI
March 13th, 2014

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Shaku’s last dream in 2012

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Shaku’s last dream of 2012

The last dream of this past year came to me on the early hours of December 31st, 2012.

The sorted clothes filled two baskets, and a third held the bed-linen I had just taken off my bed.
I grabbed a basket of clothes and approached the laundry room which is on our first floor. From the corner of my eyes I saw Raj walk by carrying the second basket and go towards the basement.
“What are you doing?”I hear myself ask.
“I am helping you with the laundry. You don’t have to do it all by yourself.” He answers.
He proceeds to the basement steps, (apparently we have a duplicate set of washer and dryer in the basement,) and soon I hear the washer running.

I sat up in bed, wide awake. What just happened?
It hit me that after a hectic week of holiday get-togethers, and Christmas celebrations, my laundry had piled up and it was the first item on my to-do list.

Raj doing laundry? But, he is not really here.
In the sixties, when we lived in the hospital apartment we washed our clothes in the nearby Laundromat. It was a weekend ritual that Raj, me, our friends Padma and Shanmugham rolled our wire-basket laundry cart, and two strollers holding our daughter Devi, and their son Kannan, and walked a block and a half to the Laundromat. Once we were there, we took turns, one of us watching the two little ones, the others loading the washers, and then transferring the clothes to the driers. We sat on the park benches by the sidewalks, eating Jay’s potato chips, drinking Pepsi and talking about future plans when we would have our own washing machines. In summer, ice cream cones replaced the potato chips.

There is more to the story.

Shanmugham was going to be a Surgeon. He already signed up to assist in any surgery going on at the hospital, and hence on more than half our laundry dates, he got paged and left the chores for the remaining three adults to handle.

Maybe being young and carefree, maybe being true friends bonded together only by love for each other, I do not remember any one of us complaining about him deserting us. Raj, Padma and I just completed the task at hand and returned to our apartments. Living in apartments across the same hall, we helped each other put away all the clean clothes. I remember Raj always cleaned the children’s faces, changed their clothes and got their bottles before we put them down for naps.

Then we sat down to watch our favorite TV programs on our black and white television set.
My last dream of last year has effectively taken me back to 1965 and 1966.

I am certain Raj is assuring me I won’t ever be alone.

Me as a Memoirist

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A family photo, 1956

Me as a Memoirist.

How I keep memories alive.

I am fortunate in that I often dream of people from my past.  I dream of the life I shared with them, and I dream I am doing the things I wish I had done with them.

In my last dream Daddy was here in Chicago, walking with me and my grandson in Millennium Park.  In my dream we laughed and talked, and he and his long white beard were the same as when I left him and India 48 years ago.  I could only see wisps of my own hair, and my 12 year old grandson was vivid in the picture, skipping along beside me, talking to Sivaraam Appoo, that is what he would have called his great grandfather, my dad, if he was here now.

My Dad has been gone for forty years.  My dream evoked memories of the time he and I walked the Botanical Gardens and Zoo in Trivandrum, South India, where I lived until I was twenty three.  I close my eyes, and I can hear his rich, vibrant voice telling me I could be, and could do anything I wished in life, if I believed in myself.  More so, he instilled in me the belief that the divine power of God is within each of us.

This dream not only triggered memories of Dad, but made me look up other stories from my past I had already written.

I plan to share them, soon.

Dreaming

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I have two different kinds of dreams, most of us do.

One I dream when I am asleep, and the other when I am awake. It is in the way I live my life in the times between my dreams that I define myself.
I have found it important that I take heed in both types of dreams. They have taught me lessons in understanding myself, face the ups and downs in my life, and helped to find a fine balance in my life.

What is Shaku Dreaming?

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The Himalayan Mountain range, as I saw it in 2011

The Himalayan Mountain range, as I saw it in 2011

I had been dreaming about bathing in the holy waters of Maa Ganga since I was 11 years old.
In 2011 I was able to travel with a group of pilgrims, including family members to Gangotri, where the River Ganges originates from the Himalayas. I was blessed and energized by the power of her rushing waters.

My Pilgrimage to Maa Ganga, or Mother Ganges (as we call the River Ganges,) took me to the slopes of the mighty Himalayan mountains wherefrom four tributaries of the River Ganges flow down to nourish the plains of North India.
My memoir, Song of the Mountains, documents my spiritual voyage in the Himalayan Mountains.

My blog of this memoir can be read at http://songofthemountains.wordpress.com