I am twenty-nine, walking a partly paved road in southern India. Without knowing it, I have embarked on a pilgrimage: of my family, of my ancestors, of my Self. I seek the secrets of this ancient land but find my mind too noisy, my heart entangled with pain, confusion, and regret. So I walk until it passes, seeking as each wave of the ocean seeks the shore.
I walk. The day is hot, but I have grown accustomed to the heat. My feet are bare, but I am not weary. In a shoulder bag, I carry a bottle of distilled water. I think I am walking to find a master of ancient martial art, but I do not yet know who or what I am truly seeking. It is not a destination but a path, not a person but a presence.
When I return from this journey, I am changed. A transformation takes place. I am not yet able to recognize what I have lost or gained, held onto, or surrendered. It is a path that leads me to myself, one which never ends.
In the pre-dawn light, I wake. At an instant, I am up and sitting at a small table, under a window that looks out to the sea. The sound of the waves is near but distant. From a deep-seated memory, words rush forth, from my heart through my hand into my mind.
Stories to help me discern what is true. Stories of loss and love. It will take many years before I awaken to the meaning of these stories before I can make sense of their wisdom and truth.
Despite my attempts to silence the world, the echoes of lost lovers and distant brothers reverberate within me. It is in forgetting that remembrance is possible. It is through the mind’s noise that one begins to seek silence.
When I finish writing, the stories complete, I find a new voice. But knowing what to say and saying what you mean are two points as distant as the mind and the heart. After a lifetime within the disturbances of the mind, my heart remains unexplored, uncharted territory of my life, my own existence; an excavation through each breath.
As my heart is freed, my breath becomes clear. This is only possible through each moment, separated by the divisions of my mind. Like a turtle withdraws its limbs into its shell, through my breath my senses turn inward, withdrawing into eternity.
It is here at the land’s edge that my story begins: the anger of brothers divided and of mothers’ great love, of the patient silence of a father. I do not know what is mine and what is my father’s, or what is my father’s and what is my ancestors. I do know peace will remain a dream until I am reunited with myself.