It is rare indeed for us to be able to stand naked in front of the world without the fear of ridicule. Sometimes we can do it with our partner or our best friend but most often we cover parts of ourselves and dress up others. We don't want to offend and are afraid we might expose ourselves to criticism or judgment. There is this conundrum when one attempts to write a life story. It revolves around this issue of exposure. I suspect that its the reason why mother never wrote her books herself. Hesitation, turned into procrastination, confusion and finally resigned acceptance that I would do it for her.
Now I am faced with the daunting process of selecting the morsels out of Oma's life that depict her essence. By what measure do I make such a selection? On what basis do I include one and discard another? Lost for words, I found myself in the treatment chair tonight contemplating this very question. I rubbed some Lavender-spike oil on my feet and tilted back to watch the evening sky turn from dusty blue to black. The twinkle lights around Sanat Kumara filled the room with that golden glow of familiarity. And then I heard Oma's voice in my heart.
"This is not my book," she reminded me. "It is your book about my life and the lessons that you learned through our friendship. Revile those details that speak to you and don't concern yourself with the consequences. The sun does not care upon whom it shines. Some will get sun burnt, some will gain new strength from its warming rays. Do not concern yourself with my honor for I have nothing to loose. God and I are at peace with each other and we have nothing to prove to anyone. So go ahead, write what makes you happy, share what you dare. Trust."
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