My friend sent me a very insightful article a few days back. The writer had nicely captured the essence of difference between routine and ritual. When we were chatting about it, my friend remarked, “I wish I could write like that. I can’t write because I can’t think so well’. She is an extremely talented person. She paints, she creates beautiful artifacts, and she does visual design as her profession. I would happily trade my meager writing skills for her kind of skills. I tried telling her that she thinks through her paintings and her creations. But she wasn’t convinced.
So I thought, why does she say that?
A scene unfolded in front me. Pandit Kumar Gandharva was singing. He wasn’t singing, the gods were singing through him. The audience was in raptures. It was many many years back, but I still recall what happened to me vividly. A feeling of complete abandon came over me. It was as if I was there and i wasn’t there. Nothing mattered. I felt so small that I existed only to feel it,
When read Henry Miller’s Rosy Crucifixion, and his Tropic of Cancer I felt the same way.
When you watch a sublime straight drive by Sachin, with seemingly no effort, you feel the same.
I had a thought. What you experience when you read a well written passage, listen a beautiful melody, or see a nice painting you experiences years of hard work, practice struggle, efforts to overcome setbacks in one final grand culmination. Everything has come together. Everything is perfect. It is God like. Mo matter who we are, we as individuals are frail and imperfect. Therefore we feel small. We feel humbled.
It is an exquisite feeling.