I am beginning to write this blog post at 2:39 in the morning. I hear the heater whooshing throughout the house, and I sit in a pool of soft light in my kitchen.
It's like this at the conclusion of almost every school semester - all the tension built up over months just whooshes out of me, and I end up feeling hummingly quiet and peaceful at some crazy hour in the night. I just want to write.
At times like these my mind wanders to my moments in India in the holy lands of Vrindavan and Mayapur. I feel as though I'm actually there.
In Vrindavan, I smell the tang of smoke and cow dung, a smell like no other place on earth. Temples rise from horizons in the rose-colored haze. In Mayapur, I gaze at a universe of stars, and the moon shines down upon fields of banana leaves and gilds them silver.
I sit here at my kitchen table in my pajamas, so far away from the holy lands, and yet I am so close. So close.
It's like this at the conclusion of almost every school semester - all the tension built up over months just whooshes out of me, and I end up feeling hummingly quiet and peaceful at some crazy hour in the night. I just want to write.
At times like these my mind wanders to my moments in India in the holy lands of Vrindavan and Mayapur. I feel as though I'm actually there.
In Vrindavan, I smell the tang of smoke and cow dung, a smell like no other place on earth. Temples rise from horizons in the rose-colored haze. In Mayapur, I gaze at a universe of stars, and the moon shines down upon fields of banana leaves and gilds them silver.
I sit here at my kitchen table in my pajamas, so far away from the holy lands, and yet I am so close. So close.
Vrindavan
Mayapur
