Memories outside of me...

People coming to my house for the first time, have often called it a museum. 

They walk around for a while in that small space trying absorb the individual elements. It is not a disorganized mess. No, but it does have an abundance of stimuli - sights, sounds, colors, images. It is strange to many - the amount of stuff that is present in such small quarters without being an absolute clutter. 

My dad considers it a sign of wasteful accumulation, consumerist gluttony and a materialistic lifestyle. 

I think of it as storing memories outside of me. 

I have saved a lot of my experiences in the form of tickets, pamphlets, pictures, brochures, and books. I hold onto materialistic memorabilia simply because I learnt soon enough that I couldn't trust myself to remember it all. 

These tiny fragments of my experiences: that pamphlet from the play; the pine-cone from the hike; the figurine from that trip; the snow-globe from another; the photograph from elsewhere - they all seem to serve as keys to the wonderful days, hours or moments that I have had. They help me recall my memories more faithfully and accurately than I could ever do on my own. Strange as it may seem, they are the gatekeepers to my memories of my experiences. They are the keys that help me unlock my memories as they slowly get buried behind the dusty-cobwebs of time. 

I walk into my one room, studio-esque, home and I don't find it cluttered or overwhelming. I see the home in pieces, perhaps. Things catch my attention every now and then, sporadically and in elements. A book here. A pamphlet there. A photograph somewhere. These are things that are associated with specific memories. And under moments of duress, when the chips are down, my eyes wander and lock onto one of these. 

I drift for a few moments, dust off the memory and relive it briefly. 

I experience the very same sense of awe, joy, beauty, thrill or gratitude as I had months or years ago and I am ready to step out of my microscopic view of the problem at hand. 

Through the past, I learn to step back and out, and gain a better perspective on my present. The good times, calm my nerves and restrain my anxiety. With the memory, I also recall the wonderful people associated with my life - in one way or another - and I gain that valuable outside perspective during a crisis. 

My home is perhaps a museum but everything here is a part of my story. Everything here holds a story within it. Stories, that I don't always talk about, but they are stories that prop me up, when the tide is against me. Stories of friends and family, stories of adventure, of dreams getting fulfilled and of life in all its glory. 

In some sense my home and perhaps of anyone else too, is more revealing than I could consciously ever be. 

My home may be a museum to some but to me - it is a constant reminder of the best of me. It is a reminder of the glorious potential of life when the present is overwhelming. It is that perfect amalgam when the best of my past and future come together and help me to cope with the present. 

Hands we are dealt...

As a child growing up, I was never much of a card player. There were perhaps a couple of odd years in between when I used them as minor distractions with my brother playing games as unremarkable as, "who got the bigger card?." Yes, that mundane. 

In fact, I was one of the few kids who was more fascinated by the designs on the back of the card than the numbers, hearts, diamonds and clubs on the front. 

Increasingly, though, I can sense regret and remorse at not having spent enough time playing serious games with them. 

After all, all of life now feels like a game of cards. 

Sometimes even a house of cards. Delicately balanced, carefully executed, teetering on the brink of possibilities - ready to sway with every opportunity to either find a new balance or to come crashing down only to begin afresh. 

People seem to be bluffing with that bonafide poker face as I seem to unravel trying to read between their lines. 

I am not so deft with chance or luck and have grown up with the idea of working hard and biding my time. 

I did not learn through these childhood games, the art of playing with the cards you are dealt. I entered the world a little ill prepared I feel. 

Because, in reality that's what we are all trying to do - make the best of a given hand to try and get that elusive win. To deal with unknowns and to doubt the knowns. To read faces and to read between lines. To be prepared to win big or lose big. To be prepared to just accept and move on. 

Instead growing up in a world of books, words and colors, I became a dreamer, an idealist and a reformer. In wanting to make a difference, in trying to change the world and doing the right thing, in waiting for the right opportunity, in being transparent and straightforward - I learnt to hope and dream - against all odds, if I might add.  

But life is not like that. There is pressure and sometimes the stakes are high. People lie, deceive and cheat - all with that unmoving poker face. The cards are dealt at random and you can't always walk away from the table. You can wait for a while but how long will you stay out of the game. At some point, you have to start playing the cards you are dealt to make the best you can. 

Ever so often, this question haunts me nowadays. How long will I wait patiently and stay safe? Is it better to stay in the game and lose big or is it better to wait for your time? 

In life too, there may be a perfect set of cards but its not going to come your way ever so easily. One has to get in, get dirty and play the game or choose to sit out and stare at life passing by.

I wish I had played more - just to be able to gamble a bit. Just to be able to get rid of that fear of uncertainty. To be able to accept the hand dealt to me and not wait any longer. To be able to read people, their words and their eyes.

I wish I had played more if only to not tremble with fear and trepidation with every sway of the house of cards.