2021

Hello All! 

I hope you have been well in your part of the world.

Writing a newsletter every month makes me realise how quickly days skip and scuttle. We are in the middle of July and looking skywards for the first sign of monsoon clouds

This edition of Beanbag Musings took shape from my corner at home that is surrounded by books and plants. It is small and cosy. With a swivel of my chair I can reach my books or paints or simply look out into the balcony to be entertained by the bird and animal world. There is a constancy to my routine, yet underneath it, I feel the move of time as another leaf unfurls.
The rootedness of the plant in the soil that nurtures it is heartening to see.

Home Whisperer

‘A real home is always at once a particular place and the entire world.’ – Thomas Moore

I’ve lived in a number of interesting homes, thanks to dad’s postings to various parts of India. 

Each one was different in unique ways. There was this childhood home that had a wooden trellis and a creeper of purple passion flowers that meandered all over it, unchecked and wild. When it bloomed, the quality of the home changed. It became a magical place. The flowers were delicate like Chantilly lace and had a nuanced fragrance. Their multiple layers always fascinated me. I could count them for hours and always come up with a different number. This was also the place where I remember seeing my first snowfall and collecting snow in steel glasses to make mounds of different sizes. It was here that the monsoon rain changed a small stream into a raging river that broke all bounds and became ‘melted chocolate’ to my childish mind.

Other homes are in my memory for different reasons. It could be the multi-colored intricately designed flooring of one. Or the immense height of the ceiling of another. I still remember that. I remember how cool the stone felt to my bare feet in summer and how clean it looked after the morning mopping had been done. The phenyl in the water…What a smell! Most of all, I remember how I felt inside these homes.

 I have started thinking about home and shelter more now than I had ever done in the past. I’ve never known my home more intimately than I do now. Every crack, every aberration, every neat corner where the walls meet or don’t… I have mapped it all in my mind. It has been a safety net in these uncertain times. It’s reliable embrace of familiarity and comfort hold a new meaning after spending months within its folds almost without break. 

This phase in our collective lives will be remembered by all of us for different reasons. They might have been challenging and downright unbearable for some and pushing many out of their comfort zone completely. 

Quite like the lines we underline in a sea of words in an entire novel, there are small pockets of insight in a seemingly endless list of normal happenings in life that give a sudden spurt of growth to our way of thinking. For me, though, this phase of many months was one about adjusting spaces to fulfil new needs that were emerging. 

I repaired things around me and within myself. One step at a time. I was somehow more centered. I carried more of myself everywhere as opposed to leaving pieces of me all over the place. I was more present. Removing  things from a cluttered schedule had made space for fewer but more important things to come into life and stay there. I had no more excuses to not do them and I was grateful for this choice being made for me at home.

“The home is more than a box in which to live; it is a soul activity to be retrieved from the numbness of the world of modern objects. Each place of the house, each room, hallway closet, stair and alcove is a distinct structure that animates different aspects of soul.” 
– Robert Sardello

I found these beautiful lines in a book I took to reading after it surfaced rather dramatically during a bout of cleaning. It is titled ‘Spirit of the Home’ and written by Jane Alexander. It delves into psychology and Feng Shui of homes, it takes one down memory lane through interesting questionnaires wanting to help reach our real feelings regarding the spaces we inhabit or have lived in previously. It also talks about what it means to leave home or make one and what emotional baggage we bring to these processes and how to get rid of them.

I had thought that when we left a house, it left us too. The answer to some questions in the book made me realize how wrong I was.

The book urges us to sit quietly in the heart of our home and seek out what it wants from us … In our mind we have always been the homemakers, never looking at it from the other angle that our home makes us too… It might have certain desires and needs too…a windchime, perhaps? Or more music, less arguments….more laughter and sunlight?

It would feel awkward to many to do this, I felt odd as well. But then I figured, if I can talk to my plants and have discussions with my pet and feel a definite energy exchange, the same feeling must apply to my home. This place that gives so much and absorbs so many different vibes…I want to make it feel important and special, safe and pampered, because this is what it does for me.

I think every member living in a home is a ‘homemaker’ in some way or another…
I would love to be a ‘Home Whisperer’ having subtle conversations with this place that gives me so much more than it ever takes…

It would be interesting to read your thoughts about the topic of this months Musings, do share

We are working towards a Gouache Workshop scheduled for Saturday, 17^th July. It is an interesting medium to explore and I do hope everyone enjoys it! If you’re interested, check out The Beehive’s Facebook page for more information.

On a different note…
I have created a slim and slick space, ruled and plain, with original cover designs for writing, scribbling, ideating and well, musing.
Write back to me if you’d like to order one at contact@prenitadutt.com.

See you next month!

Hello All! 

Trust you have been safe and well during these challenging times. Many of us have had to rethink and redefine our priorities in some way or the other due to the situations we found ourselves in. 

As an art facilitator for adults with disabilities, we at AADI had to change our model of dispensing art classes from person to person interaction, to an online one. A large number of members join in for our Zoom art sessions now. 

After initial challenges, we have come upon a simple and workable plan which includes introduction, explanation and demonstration that the group has started looking forward to now. It has been a big learning for me as well. 

The idea for this month’s newsletter came about with a desire to simplify and re-focus on our individual choices. To revisit habits that have stayed with us without us even knowing.

My Cup of Tea

I was used to a well-laid out tea tray. Maybe, it had something to do with growing up as a disciplined, army officer’s daughter.

A beautiful kettle for brewing. A kettle that had been pre-warmed and now held one extra teaspoon of tea leaves for itself and one each for all the tea-lovers sitting around it patiently. 

This tray had a pristine white, hand-embroidered tray cloth and matching tea-cosies for the kettle and milk. Cups and saucers were porcelain or ‘bone china’. That experience of tea-drinking was straight backed, ‘edge of the chair’ kind. For slouching against the back of the sofa with a cup and saucer was out of the question. That meant a precarious act of balancing akin to centering a marble on a flat plate.

This experience morphed into doing away with cumbersome teacups and introducing the more practical mugs into the picture. The trays too became smaller and simpler as opposed to the large and decorative variety. 

The tray cloths also reflected a change in mood, becoming funkier and bolder.

Mugs started coming in a ridiculous variety of shapes and sizes. When some guests arrived unannounced the first instruction was to bring down the ‘matching set’ or a desperate question, ‘Do we have enough?’

The tray looked disciplined, even though the tea-drinking experience itself was somehow connected to memories of the most informal kinds. The ‘dhaba chai’ on road trips or the ‘hole in the mountain’ tea stall with rickety benches made of nailed slats of wood. Or glugging tea, the consistency of honey, achieved through over-boiling by a vendor at a tribal fair. 

Who can forget the image of a little boy in a stained vest and oversized shorts running with a metal stand holding six crudely made glasses of sloshing brew? The ‘cutting chai,’ Or that life-saving call in the morning, after an overnight train or bus ride…nostalgia at its best! Or the practiced art of piping hot tea precisely aimed into a mug from an arm’s length away! Another mundane act, elevated into an art-form ☺

The ‘kullhar’ chai with its earthy flavor is a personal favorite. The lack of a handle to hold, the fingers doing a delicate balancing dance to relieve each other of the scorching heat, is all an experience to enjoy once in a while.

I have a collection of mugs that have remained after a majority in the set broke or got chipped and now hold sundry money plants in different corners of the house. 

The ‘Last Ones Standing’ form a mismatched set now! An assortment of different colors and shapes and sizes. They make the tray look like a wild bouquet rather than a methodically arranged one! Now there is no stress about mugs ‘matching,’ because they don’t. ☺

Somehow, everyone is taken aback when presented with a tray laid out thus. Most are delighted to have a say in which color they would like and what quantity of tea. So, hands hover over the rebellious, in-disciplined tray, trying to make up their mind.

This assorted presentation represents a freedom of choice. A choice favouring relaxation of self-imposed rules in areas that could do with some fluidity ☺

It’s an invitation to indulge into your own preference and aid your own memories to resurface through this process… Now, I won’t impose my choice on anyone, should you visit, because what’s my cup of tea, need not be yours!

Dear, sweet Bobbie, lover of nature and meandering walks, biscuits and small talk, left after giving me whole-hearted company for thirteen years. Until he came into my life, I didn’t know the meaning of being dedicated and selfless. He taught me how to savour the small things, that’s one lesson I always want to remember, because he never forgot… 🌼🙏

“Effortless activity happens at moments in dance and in sports at the highest levels of performance; when it does, it takes everybody’s breath away. But it also happens in every area of human activity, from painting to car repair to parenting. Years of practice and experience combine on some occasions, giving rise to a new capacity to let execution unfold beyond technique, beyond exertion, beyond thinking…..”

Thoreau said, “To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.”

Ending this Newsletter with good wishes for you all
See you next month! Stay safe 🙂 

A warm hello to each and every one reading this Beanbag Musings edition!

 In dark times, the only light seems to come from those activities that give us some solace and peace. They could be the ones nurtured over years or those acquired as recent passions because of the almost surreal reality we all are facing these days. 

Today, I would like to talk to you about one such ritual I have turned to over and over again in different phases of life. It has tided me over many a tough moments by its constant presence. It has challenged me and frustrated me but we’ve stuck together through thick and thin.

This letter is just a small reminder about the importance of taking some time off for yourself. To do something that you would be happy with…That embroidery left midway…That book gathering dust in the shelf…That half-written story…That recipe folded neatly as a creased bookmark in a forgotten novel…All could benefit with some attention…
Hope you can bring yourself to give it.

I’ve been flitting from topic to topic, unable to settle on any one of them for this edition. 

Everything seems frivolous. 

I dive deep into my stash of memories, trying to pick out some that have remained with me, made a mark, changed me in some subtle ways. 

Halfway through writing about that, I drop it with complete disinterest. What is happening to me, I wonder? This was one space I could rely upon to help me calm down, give perspective, hope, humor, vent out. Now the lines still left to be filled seem like an onerous task to do. 

I remember that first time I started a journal…I remember the faith in the process…that if I had a pen and some empty pages, the thoughts would automatically come, how wrong I was!

I sat on my bed, a soft cushion supporting my back against a hard, wooden headboard. Yellow light streaming from a lamp on my left, encasing me in a bubble of safety and warmth. 

This was good, I remember telling myself. The house was asleep. I would not be disturbed. The words will tumble out and I would collect them in the pages of my new journal, scribbling at a furious pace. Yet, I sat there, frozen, riddled with doubt.

Would writing it down be a commitment? An implication? A witness statement, to be used against me by strangers? Will it be held against me if it fell in the wrong hands? Will someone mockingly read my childish sentiments out  loud to a large and attentive audience to my utter shame and horror? 

These thoughts were enough to dry up any enthusiasm I might’ve had of starting a relationship with ‘Dear Diary”. 

However, I loved writing. The process of putting pen to paper gave me too much joy to just give it up.

I started copying quotations I loved and phrases that stood out in stories. I wrote down entire paragraphs from books that I was reading because the process was so magical. Nimble fingers holding a pen, moving flawlessly in a languid cursive hand over paper. Leaving a trail of tangible thoughts. So very beautiful! 

Slowly, but surely, I started interspersing my own thoughts in between pauses of the words of others.

In doing so, I realise now, I developed a comfort with my diaries and journals. I never left sight of them. I built up a habit that I could turn to everyday, any hour of day. 

I started writing about specific anecdotes, the memory of which was still fresh in my mind. Or I went down memory lane to places that no longer existed, yet seemed so real. I wrote about people long gone, those who I admired but never had a chance to say good-bye to. 

They all came alive in my journals, bit by bit. Creating a world, I thought I had left behind, little knowing that it was all stored in me somewhere. It was waiting for me and it was a friend.
‘Let go, or be dragged,’ a practical saying goes…
‘It is not heavy, if you don’t carry it.’ Says another. 

Wise words, said by strangers but loaded with meaning for anyone who cares to really understand them. 

I seldom wrote about personal hurts or sorrows, but with the act of writing about other things, I changed my focus visibly and consciously. This helped me deal with different emotions without really confronting them head-on by committing them on paper. 

I realised that it’s not me…and I was absolutely fine with that. If there’s one thing that constant writing teaches you, it’s to be accepting of who you are and what you like and don’t like. 

To be authentic.

Just like in yoga, the mind calms down because attention is focused on each pose that one holds with calm and single-minded attention. So it is in writing too. After the scattering, comes the gathering and the centering. I have come to believe in the predictability of this process over time. 

One finds an ally in blank pages. A friend who is ever-present and ever-willing to share with you the glory of sunrise, the miracle of moonrise, the heart-break in the world or the trilling of a new bird, that one can hear but not see…. 

All these become little paragraphs in my journal. 

It soaks it all in. In doing so, it brings my attention squarely into this moment. This exact moment when the sun is just about to rise, the breeze is just picking up, the birds are just waking up and I am sitting cross-legged, trusting the process, as I have done countless times before…That if I can turn up with my pen poised on a new page, on a new day, a thought will flow through.

I have faith, that though on most days, they might not be worth recounting, on some days, they might just be. 

Therefore, I write on…

There are several beautiful quotes that have found their way into my diary recently –

‘You can rely only on what you put into something. Do not create fantasies or expectations outside of your realm of control. – Daily Zen 

This empowering quote is from Viktor Frankl, written in his 1946 book, Man’s Search for Meaning.

‘Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.

It’s a joy to be a ‘travel partner’ for those who are on this creative journey! Attaching below some super creative & imaginative work from a Summer Art Camp for children that will definitely brighten up your Monday! 

Leaving you with a page from my sketchbook..
See you next month! Stay safe 🙂 

Thank you for your warm and enthusiastic response regarding this newsletter, Beanbag Musings. My yellow bean bag faces a window that looks into some ‘success stories’ my green thumb has been instrumental in nurturing. It is my ‘go-to’ place for any reading, writing and sketchbook entries that I want to do. Therefore, when it came to choosing a name for this newsletter, ‘Full of Beans’ and ‘Beanbag Musings’ were close contenders ☺.

Between you and me, it is certainly our shared love for the written word and our joy in the creative process that has brought us together on this journey.

I want this newsletter to be a fun read, one that can turn into a conversation for some of you, therefore, please feel free to write back to me, should you desire and also pass it forward to others ☺.

Been There, Done That!

When three generations meet and you are smack in the middle, it’s a great feeling…!
Not quite here and definitely not there, yet. Just sitting on the fence on top of the proverbial hill😁…having a great view of both sides.

Nestled between Moms and dads, brothers and sisters, nieces and nephews, one feels cushioned and loved. 

On the small alter, incense releases its own beautiful fragrance, testament to a grateful heart that lit a lamp in the early hours of morning 🌸. The kitchen is redolent with aromas of some great family recipes being cooked. Everyone seems busy yet grounded in the moment.

Laughter drifts from various corners of this beautiful home where members are catching up with each other, one changes direction, not wanting to miss out on the conversation that is generating such mirth. On the other hand, one steers clear off of those warming up to a heated political debate.

Indeed, one is forever changing paths in a family reunion, wanting to meet up with everyone and miss out on nothing😁

The setting is perfect…Mountains on all sides and the grand, open sky, the perfect foil for them…Providing a different backdrop for every passing hour, it seems.

From a sturdy branch of a tree, hangs a swing with an old wooden slat…An instant reminder of childhood and freedom, fright and flight, mud-caked knees, bruised from falls and healing from all the lessons learnt. 

Of course, one had to swing high in memory of those carefree days…Grey hair or not!

In the evening, the birds come. Sure of food and safety in the corner reserved for them. Their chatter fills the air, enough to silence all of us.

We watch as Bulbuls, Sparrows, Blue Magpies and tiny Oriental White Eye flit around. The musical sound of the Magpie Robin that woke us up in the early morning hours, now mingles with the cries of the peacock. A melodious cacophony before the silence of nightfall.

I sit on a rocky outcrop, marvelling at the beauty and perfection of this world we live in. The order that nature follows is seamless. There is a purpose to everything, known or unknown to us. It is visible in the symmetrical, sun-browned cones that nestle in beds of pine needles. And it is apparent in the delicate green foliage heralding renewal and growth for every tree, bush and blade of grass.

Being on a break makes one realise that there are too many miracles unfolding underfoot and overhead…One life-time seems inadequate to relish all of them. One understands why a star-gazing app on a smart phone just doesn’t come close to the experience of craning ones neck to the mysterious sky, even if the names of the stars elude.

Sometimes, giving a personal identity becomes more important than an online search for the correct one.

It is in such times that one understands the importance of not knowing everything on ones fingertips, of keeping the phone on mute and absorbing the wisdom of slow conversations that quite often begin with, ’In our time…’

Soon, we’ll have been there, hopefully, we’ll have done that, and moved on with no regrets ☺!

Saw ‘A Life on Our Planet’ a British documentary film narrated by David Attenborough. The experience and wisdom behind his words cannot be ignored. Some of the scenes are heart-touching and others, mesmerising in their beauty.

At ninety-four years of age, one can only imagine the richness of life and variety of encounters he must’ve had. This documentary is his ‘witness statement’…And it cannot be ignored.

I miss the wilderness of what Dehradun once was. A small hamlet surrounded by hills and little blinking lights deep in the forests. The call of the jackals and the hooting of owls was the sound I went to sleep to, and that never scared me…At least not as much as the disappearing Sal forests and the constant honking through the night does.

Found a beautiful poem that speaks in ways that I feel but cannot put into words…

Lineage

by Margaret Walker

My grandmothers were strong.
They followed plows and bent to toil.
They moved through fields sowing seed.
They were full of sturdiness and singing.
My grandmothers were strong.

My grandmothers are full of memories
Smelling of soap and onions and wet clay
With veins rolling roughly over quick hands
They have many clean words to say.
My grandmothers were strong.
Why am I not as they?

Starting a newsletter at a time when the online space is flooded with so much content, was not an easy decision. It felt like I was feeding an insatiable dragon that was already gorging uncontrollably on everything that came its way by way of words, visuals, information… was I just pandering to a whim of mine?

However, I wanted a platform to share some of the things that give me so much joy… the idea of writing about that special feeling upon reading something uplifting or about anecdotes that touch life in a special way or sketching those easily overlooked pieces of nature and sharing them with more people delighted me… Hence, this newsletter 🙂

That March Feeling

The dust that has settled so comfortably on the blades of the fan needs to be removed. A spider might lose a home in the ensuing turmoil.

I am already searching for lighter fabric in my severely Marie Kondo’d wardrobe. The eyes want to see pastels and cotton.

The incessant, repetitive call of the Barbet takes over the morning stillness, and also takes me back effortlessly to school days and holidays, when one languished in the center of the bed amidst crumpled sheets, perspiration running down slowly because it was time for the daily ‘power cut’.

There’s a lightness in the air too, a loosening of sorts, as though the molecules of cold are dispersing and making space for the warmer ones.

This is going to change so much. The birds will change, birdcalls will change, memories will change and time out in the sun will change….People will change.

These are last few days of tea in bed.

I want winter to linger, I want to hold on to my fleece and the special darkness that only winter nights bring. I want to see the indigo of the sky and the silent, ghost like forms of foraging owls, as I tighten the burnt-orange, hand-knitted shawl around my shoulders and it hugs me like only something made by a mother can…

Thankfully, I can still do that for some time, till we are on the cusp of inevitable change… I promise to slow down… Relish… Savour… Replenish…

I promise to be… Just like March..

Sometimes, words ignite a warm glow within, making one believe that amidst all the turmoil, there is still so much beauty… Sharing a poem from Blue Horses by Mary Oliver..

On meditating.. sort of

Meditation, so I’ve heard, is best accomplishedIf you entertain a certain strict posture.Frankly, I prefer to just lounge under a tree,So why should I think I could ever be successful?

Some days I fall asleep, or land in thatEven better place- half-asleep- where the world,Spring, summer, autumn, winter-Flies through my mind in itsHardy ascent and its uncompromising descent.

So I just lie like that, while distance and timeReveal their true attitudes: they never heard of me, and never will, or ever need to.

Of course I wake up finallyThinking, how wonderful to be who I am,Made out of earth and water,My own thoughts, my own fingerprints-All that glorious, temporary stuff

Meanwhile, sensing the warmth, plants seem to be celebrating with a profusion of flowers and a riot of colour. No better time than now have a watercolour workshop on spring flowers!

Do share your thoughts on being on the cusp of seasons…

Here’s a downloadable sketch for you to colour…

Thank you for reading, have a lovely rest of the week! 

If you like what you read here,  you can dive deeper by visiting my website.