Impermanence of moving parts

 Arun Kumar

A secret of fulfilling life is recognizing, and being at peace with the impermanence of its moving parts

Last month, we spent a week in Lisbon. I was there for a work trip, and J., on a vacation. And now, only a month after we returned, I have an urge to go back. It feels like that when we left, and dropped our keys in the return box at the hotel, something was left unfinished.

Perhaps we did not get a chance to have an unhurried evening sitting on a bench on the boardwalk along Parque Das Nações and watch the dusk descend gradually and see lights in the city behind come aglow, one by one first, and then in droves. 

It feels like that before leaving, we did not get a chance to feel the spaciousness of time and say a proper goodbye. 

Leaving Lisbon was not the same as leaving Geneva back in August where on the last evening we sat on a bench under a tree along the lake and had an unhurried evening. For a few moments, we felt the indefinable grace and connectedness that life sometimes brings. 

Leaving Geneva felt like a natural part of being there, and for that matter, of living.

Not so for Lisbon. Leaving Lisbon was a blur; a rush through the airport to the boarding  gate. 

And now, I feel the urge to go back, and this time before returning, slowly close the gates, hear the latch click, and whisper that it was wonderful to be here and to be with you. The next time, when returning, I will have the sublime feeling that I may not return again, but it is okay. 

A secret of fulfilling life, after all, is recognizing, and being at peace with the impermanence of its moving parts - hairs imperceptibly turning gray; joints beginning to ache; skin starting to fray; or, visiting Lisbon for one final time.

Impermanence of moving parts

A lesson when summer  begins to slowly turn into autumn,

like hairs imperceptibly

turning gray,

is that,

a fulfilling life, after all,

is learning, 

and to be at peace with

the impermanence

of its moving parts.

Finistophobia

Somewhere within, lurks a fear of endings or of their anticipation.

What would be beyond,
when a poem ends

thoughts wonder?

An emptiness?

A rhythmic ticking of clocks?

Long hours of boredom

punctuated by brief respite

of unappetizing lunch,

and then, dinner?

The heaviness

of the thought of
repeating it
all over again, tomorrow?

Is there a name for this fear

that one can inscribe

on an index card and carry?

Google tried, 

but failed.

Perhaps, we could name it

Finistophobia - 

an emotion of fear
generated by
anticipation of endings
often followed by 

a sense of a never “ending”
emptiness. 

Blurred promises

Our love is pious you had once murmured,

these lips will not cross
invisible lines
drawn in the sand, 

but then,

on a seemingly
innocuous day,

our fingers brushed
reaching for the tumbler
in a moment of thirst.

Water poured
and the lines blurred.