"Shivoham, Shivoham": another facet of Maha Shivratri

Time has flown by so fast. Another Maha Shivratri is upon us, this one without the woman, who for me is synonymous with Maha Shivratri. Dearest, precious, beloved and most respected, dearly departed, Dr. Shailaja Nadkarni. 

For the first time since the Prana Pratishtha/ consecration of the Deity of Lord Shiva in His house at Kaivalya, Shalajaji will not be officiating the ceremony. It is painful enough to think about it, so perhaps it's just as well, that I am far away across the oceans; yet not quite removed from it. 

It was Shalajaji who swept us into the Chinmaya fold, as she did anyone so inclined and whose paths crossed with hers. Her love for and devotion to the cause of her beloved Swamiji, accelerated the significance of the Mission on the Orlando landscape. While the congregation rose in numbers, it was the spiritual rising of its members that would not have been, but for her loving guidance, persistence, and compassionate leadership. 

For so many of us, and I shamefully speak for myself, who is so far removed from organized religion, Shailajaji was an emancipator of lost souls. Like acorns we lay on the forest floor, buried underneath the debris of mindless distractions, oblivious of that shaft of life-giving sunlight beyond the canopy of the trees. Shailajaji came with her caring, and peeled away the restraints of ignorance, directing us towards the pursuit of enlightenment. 

Beyond the chanting, and beyond the fasting, beyond the rituals, lies a deeply embedded truth about the nature of the true and holy relationship of our souls with Shiva, and which we consistently overlook. It is expressed in Adi Shankaracharya's Nirvana Shatakam. Before we can celebrate anyone or anything, should we not know who we are, and strive to live that truth? 

We each have to read it, sing it and meditate upon it, for our enrichment. This is my way of celebrating Maha Shivratri this year. Striving to be worthy of reciting, "Shivoham, Shivoham."

Resources:

1) According to the website, Mahakatha.com, (https://mahakatha.com/nirvana-shatakam-mantra/) "Adi Shankaracharya's Nirvana Shatakam is an ode to Lord Shiva." The transliterated lyrics with explanations are available at the link. 

2) There is another version here: (http://stotrarathna.blogspot.com/2009/07/adhi-shankaras-nirvana-shatkam.html) which I find more endearing. More endearing because the story behind it is more challenging, the kind that will make us grow. It is from PR Ramachander's translation, who writes, "There is a story that one of his disciples started saying Shivoham like the Acharya without understanding its significance. The Acharya visited the black smith’s house and happily drank one tumbler of molten iron and ordered the disciple to do so. Naturally he was not able to it. The Acharya told him that as for himself the molten iron or ice cold water are not different because he has realized that he is no different from Lord Shiva, and till the disciple attains that state, there is no point in his repeating Shivoham i.e “I am Shiva”

Mano budhya ahankara chithaa ninaham,

Na cha srothra jihwe na cha graana nethrer,

Na cha vyoma bhoomir na thejo na vayu,

Chidananada Roopa Shivoham, Shivoham. 1

Neither am I mind, nor intelligence ,

Nor ego, nor thought,

Nor am I ears or the tongue or the nose or the eyes,

Nor am I earth or sky or air or the light,

But I am Shiva the all pervading happiness,

Yes ,I am definitely Shiva.

Na cha praana samgno na vai pancha vaayur,

Na vaa saptha dhathur na va pancha kosa,

Na vak pani padam na chopa stha payu,

Chidananada Roopa Shivoham, Shivoham. 2

Neither am I the movement due to life,

Nor am I the five airs, nor am I the seven elements,

Nor am I the five internal organs,

Nor am I voice or hands or feet or other organs,

But I am Shiva the all pervading happiness,

Yes ,I am definitely Shiva

Na me dwesha raghou na me lobha mohou,

Madho naiva me naiva matsarya bhava,

Na dharmo na cha artha na kamo na moksha,

Chidananada Roopa Shivoham, Shivoham. 3

I never do have enmity or friendship,

Neither do I have vigour nor feeling of competition,

Neither do I have assets, or money or passion or salvation,

But I am Shiva the all pervading happiness,

Yes ,I am definitely Shiva

Na punyam na paapam na soukhyam na dukham,

Na manthro na theertham na veda na yagna,

Aham bhojanam naiva bhojyam na bhoktha,

Chidananada Roopa Shivoham, Shivoham. 4

Never do I have good deeds or sins or pleasure or sorrow,

Neither do I have holy chants or holy water or holy books or fire sacrifice,

I am neither food or the consumer who consumes food,

As I am Shiva the all pervading happiness,

Yes ,I am definitely Shiva

Na mruthyur na sankha na me jathi bhedha,

Pitha naiva me naiva matha na janma,

Na bhandhur na mithram gurur naiva sishya,

Chidananada Roopa Shivoham, Shivoham. 5

I do not have death or doubts or distinction of caste,

I do not have either father or mother or even birth,

And I do not have relations or friends or teacher or students,

As I am Shiva the all pervading happiness,

Yes ,I am definitely Shiva

Aham nirvi kalpi nirakara roopi,

Vibhuthwascha sarvathra sarvendriyanaam,

Na cha sangatham naiva mukthir na meya

Chidananada Roopa Shivoham, Shivoham. 6

I am one without doubts , I am without form,

Due to knowledge I do not have any relation with my organs,

And I am always redeemed,

And I am Shiva the all pervading happiness,

Yes ,I am definitely Shiva

Posted by Raja Thatha at 5:35 PM  

My Grandfather's boats

It was a short walk to the boats. Down the hill, around the bend and the river would rise to meet the eye. The rest of the way was ours to traverse. Sometimes we did, often we did not. But contact was made every time, every time we walked to the river, there was conversation.

Often we sat together on the sloping hillside, watching the river carry away the boats. Holding hands sometimes to steady myself on the incline I would let go of his secure grasp only after we had sat down. Then he would do what he did best, put his hand across my shoulder and talk to me. It was a feeling I have since wanted to recreate. I never wondered where they went.

We all go down the river of life, on our own adventures. We carry our memories with us, as fuel and for sustenance. 

OCTOBER 16, 2019

At around this time of day, on this date, four years ago, all that remained of her was a heap of possibly still warm ashes. I was not there to witness the raging fire hungrily consume her, nor see her smouldering remains. If anything, I would have very much liked to be there by her side, in those last few moments before her ashes turned cold. She did not like being alone, especially as she grew older.

When this day comes around again, nothing can offer any solace to the longing that consumes my aching, sorrowful heart. It feels so hollow, yet is so filled with her memories, that while I am mournful, it is bereft of sadness because there is so much to celebrate about her life. My dear precious Mother. Four years later the tears flow, as they have not done since the day she passed. For some bizarre reason, four years later, I still draw a blank when it comes to her date. Till last year, I was confusing the month between September and October, and still mix up the date between the 14th, 15th, and 16th of October. I have to ask family members in India, and did so again this year. When will closure come, does it, ever?

Woke up this morning with strange dreams, and almost immediately remembered what day it was. Had an uneventful most of the day, and left early for my 3:00 pm with JoAnn. After my appointment, while it was still early, I put in a few places in Google Maps, to knock off a few errands pending from earlier in the week. Then decided instead, to just go home.

The car, however, drove me to Cranes Roost Park. The same car that took her to the airport as she departed from here, after her last visit to America. That day, if I could live it again would be vastly different. I was distracted and disorganized. Sweet Susan saved the day. If I had any sense my days with her would have been different, and I would not have let her go.

Cranes Roost Park was my mother's favorite place in all of Florida, and it is one of mine as well. It is a huge man-made lake with a walking path around it, and at one end, there are gardens with a musical fountain in the center which puts on a light and music show on the hour in the evenings.

My mother was an enthusiastic walker and Cranes Roost afforded her that delight, and then some. She loved watching the turtles and the huge fish jump out of the water as they jostled with each other and the turtles to catch the bread or other food directly in their mouths before it could hit the water. The walkers and joggers and other people, in general, kept the fish and the turtles well fed, delighting in this unorchestrated aquatic show.

Mummy discovered Cranes Roost on her visit in 1997. She made it a sacred routine to go there every day at the crack of dawn to welcome the sun as it rose in the pale blue Florida sky, breaking the cool spell of the night, and ushering in the humidity which coupled with the heat is elemental to Central Florida living.

I remembered Mummy had made friends with a Senior couple who lived in the 55+ Community next to our apartments. They took her to the Winter Park Chamberlins Health Food store, (now an REI) by bus, and she was so stoked about it. She came and told us how the bus left from outside the Sears (now closed) in the Mall, and it cost just 50 cents and her friends had very kindly paid for her fare. The couple went every week, and Mummy frequently went with them, sometimes to the smaller Chamberlins in Altamonte which is still there, and when I visit, I am often reminded of her.

I was thinking of Mummy, as I walked around the lake today. Mulling over her favorite memories, the stories she liked to tell most, and the things she did, the people she loved, and her strength in the face of harsh adversity. Every step I took at Cranes Roost, was deliberate and with meaning. Twice it rained. I was getting wet, but luckily I had the hat to protect me. Twice I paused to let the rain pass, sitting once on one of the black metal benches under one of the 'tents' along the walking path when it goes over the water. She perhaps sat here too, when maybe it rained on one of her walks or was it the sky paying homage in memoriam?

As if on cue, the sky suddenly blazed a rich yellow. The sun hung low and it shone very brightly, suddenly looking bigger on its way down. I saw the Sun as it set, on this, her day. It made a spectacular show of the skyline, as it headed off to rise in India, where its rays will fall on the ground upon which my mother became ashes, dust to dust, on the land where she lived, and worked and walked, and fed the birds and talked to the trees, and went on pilgrimages, and rejoiced. The sun has risen on a new day in India, the beginning of another year from the date of her passing. My dear precious, beloved mother. She was my mother, she was my father, and she was my Rock.

As I was leaving Cranes Roost, I saw a mother-daughter with arms interlocked, and I was reminded of my time with Mummy when as a teenager, I waited for her to come home from work, and we took our dog for a walk in the evening. On my approach to SR 436, I saw the bus pullout from the same spot where she would have taken it. Small coincidences, or little signs that tell me she lives on in me, in memory and in all I am and all I do. It is of little comfort. It is also a big reminder to live in the moment and to cherish every bit of the present. To be grateful for being loved so much, that when the bestower of that love is gone forever, your heart breaks like nothing else even matters, even though intellectually you know that this too shall pass, and you will be reminded you are the richer for having been loved. After all, where else do we learn how to love?

And so it goes, four years have passed, gone by effortlessly, as life goes on. I came home and sat on 'her' bed. Her pictures are still up in 'her' room. Her paintings adorn the walls of my house. I miss you, Mummy. Thank you for being my mum. I miss you every day.

Your ever loving daughter,
Veenu


Text and photos Copyright Veenu Banga 10/16/2019

Sunset at Cranes Roost Park on 10/16/2019

Portion of the walkway around the Lake 

The sky after the Sunset on 10/16/2019. The Altamonte water tower enjoying a great view. 

The ducks calling it a day

Another view

The lights come on

A closer view

Another day to be grateful for, a day lived in health and gratitude for much that we are given. 

Hear and now

https://youtu.be/YozeWD8q2VY

Hear and now..this is perhaps the most important thing (s) we need to know about music. 

The Power of the Energy of the Collective

Weeks before the Maha Shivratri day, the Chinmaya Mission sent out a flyer with the day's Program. It was scheduled for a 6:00 am start. This year, I intended to attend all the pujas, never mind my embarrassment with not knowing the mantras and rituals which even some of the children seem to slide into effortlessly! 

My internal body clock must have made a note of my resolution, because come Maha Shivratri day, I was up at 4:00 am feeling refreshed. It was the golden hour and the Temple called. Old habits and inhibitions die hard and instead I sat and journaled, not listening to my small voice which I felt growing fainter with disappointment. 

Finally the urge became too strong to resist, and I left late morning, thinking I will arrive before the activities conclude for the morning session and make my small donation. Besides, I wanted to take the loquats from our tree which I did along with some apples. It will also be an opportunity to partake of the Mahaprasad, the divine feast. 

I arrived to the sacred fire leaping and dancing to the holy chanting by the priests. It is just wonderful to be present for the pujas whether or not one participates. Handing over my small offerings to the amazingly dedicated volunteers, I sat down at the edge of the outermost circle of people, and made a brief but polite interaction with the woman next to me. 

Soon enough, the puja concluded and we all performed the Parikrama and then went for the Aarati in the main hall, where an announcement was made about a special Linga reveal at midnight. It sounded magical, and stirred a deep longing in me to attend. After the Mahaprasad, and a quick stop to pick up some books I returned home. 

The second part of the celebrations were to begin at 3:00 pm and last into the night. Several of the devotees were fasting and special meals were provided for them. Some women had brought a change of clothes so they could take rest in the afternoon, in the temple itself. The devoted are a class apart, and I am in so much awe of them, having personally never had a regular religious routine after my late twenties, which I wish wasn't the case. When you return to religion as an older adult, especially after straying due to disillusionment, it is not easy because somewhere the thread of continuity is broken and one's sense of self feels inadequate, and doubts return. 

With the best of intentions of going back to the temple, something in me hesitated and kept me home. By early evening I decided to sit for a quick meditation. It was an unbelievable meditative experience, even though there was no special effort on my part. The fragrance was so strong that I was reluctant to open my eyes, fully knowing that if I do, it would go away. Between my blissfully closed eyes, a contented smile and inner sense of peaceful joy, I tried to guess what it was, continuously thinking lotus, and consciously sniffing while taking in deep breaths trying to capture this out of the world sensory pleasure inside me. Just the thought of that meditation transports me to the possibilities. It was so special and so powerful, it is indescribable. 

I cannot explain in words my feelings afterwards either. Except, what did I do? I kept pushing back the time when I would leave to go for the midnight Darshan. At 7:30 pm I looked at the time, then again at 9:00 pm and frequently after that. When I went to bed around 11:40, I knew I was going to regret my not having gone back for the midnight hour reveal. I do, very much so. There are no reasons, no excuses, and no answer as to what restrained me. It was not tardiness. Probably a lack of wisdom? Perhaps my only saving grace is that I acknowledge I should have acted upon my deep urge and gone for the midnight Darshan. 

Maybe I'm not quite there yet with the temple going, but that's a huge punishment I inflict upon myself. It is a place for spiritual cleansing, and of spiritual empowerment. It was the Energy of the Collective, the Puja and their participation which came back with me as a gift of that sublime meditation. 

Veenu Banga
March 08, 2019.

Music: an opportunity of self discovery?

There's opportunity to discover things about ourselves, that we frequently fail to be aware of at an assuredly Conscious level. These opportunities are available to us all the time. Most of the time, we may not notice that particular 'knowledge' to be a part of us, as in having influenced us, or if we do, we don't associate that with saying something about us. For me at least, I think. 

This post has to be dedicated to Rangsook, a gifted Curator and Museum Administrator. She is the reason, I made this 'musical' discovery about myself, and articulated it in response to her inviting me to join them at an Anoushka Shankar Sitar Concert, coming up in Gainsville on March 18th. I responded with:
"Rangsook, I’m not a huge fan of the sitar, unless there’s lots of good tabla with it. I much prefer Shehnai, and adore Bismillah Khan. Also Flute, I suppose I have a weakness for the wind instruments rather than string. Like string if accompanied with piano."

Even as I wrote that, I realized that while it was true, I had never verbalized my preferences about musical instruments. I just listened to whatever it was I was 'into' at any given time. I suppose, it was because I have no education in music and never considered myself qualified to have an opinion about one instrument or another. 

I think of this as a weakness, and feel we are entitled to our preferences, and should be assertive about them. That makes us who we are. As you can tell, this awareness comes from a new found sense of confidence. In my mid 60's, I'd say it's about time. 

This Flute issue has stayed me for the last few days and I pondered further, as to why it never occurred to me sooner to proactively pursue my preferences, and voice my opinion about my musical instrument preferences! Though in all honesty, sometimes I do, having attended Andrea Bocelli's concert last month, (not cheap) and thoroughly enjoying it. 

To get back to the Flute. My thoughts went back to one late afternoon, as I sat in the Hindu temple in the lingering light of a mellow Florida winter. It was at a sad time in my life, as someone very dear to me lay dying on another continent, and all I could do was pray for them. Helplessness brings tremendous guilt and at such times, one can only seek the Savior.  

I sat in the middle of the Prayer hall, so all the Deities on the three sides of the room, could hear my prayers. 'Vaishnav Jan', played on the flute, and it filled me with a sense of longing to be with this family member, as the vocals of this song are an apt description of their personality. While tears streamed down my bowed head, there was a moment, when I knew their time on this earth was over. I left with a sense of sadness and sorrow and within minutes, just as I was pulling out of the temple gates, I got the phone call. 

To come back to the present, interestingly I noted that the music I'm 'into' these days, or what I've been listening to now, does have a strong flute element, and I had noticed that when I first heard this singer and composer, that he uses flute quite frequently. One is "Meetha, Meetha". Shivpreet Singh is accompanied with Flute/ Bansuri by Prasanna, who is just amazing. I would go to his concert if he ever came to town. 

However, I'm not totally averse to string, as I discovered while listening to Shivpreet Singh sing "Ek Ek Raghunath". He has an amazing voice, which makes you forget that there are techno sounds in there too. I would never imagine enjoying that, but the fact that he has elements of the classical in his compositions makes them enduringly pleasurable. 

While mulling over musical instruments, it occurred to me that maybe the Flute and Shehnai speak to me more because they use breath. Breath comes from within and close to the heart. While all music comes from the heart, flute comes from Breath, the essence of Life. 

Strings are manipulated by the fingers, and nothing wrong with that, we survive with the use our hands. Even to make a flute, we would need hands. Hands do all kinds of work, and good deeds and bad, and therein lies the choice. Maybe that's why the gopis were enchanted with the sounds from Krishna's flute, it made a heart to heart connection? 

Veenu Banga
March 8, 2019.

The End is only a Beginning (or how Port Isaac hijacked Land's End!)

"Land's End 2018- New York 3147, John O'Groats 874." Even the Land, where it ends, proclaims the fact, that the The End is only a Beginning. You can begin a whole new journey, and can go many ways. Sail away 3174 miles to New York, or if you're a landlubber, go to the other end of the Land, aka the Starting Point, John O'Groats 874 miles away. Land's End is also where the English Channel converges with the Atlantic Ocean. So really, there are lots of options.

"On ne découvre pas de terre nouvelle sans consentir à perdre de vue, d'abord et longtemps, tout rivage." or "One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight, of all shores, first and foremost." So said French Nobel Prize-winning author André Gide.

That being said, the shore is constantly changing, and just as one never crosses the same river twice, one never returns to the same shore. Life moves on, and the world is constantly changing. Any person who has been away from their motherland for some length of time can testify to this actuality, which however, is a discussion necessitating its own blog.

Anyway, to return to the point on hand, one has to but reflect upon the numerous times in life, when after much misery and dejection, ultimately we dust our injured egos, and get up and move on. Each beginning has an end, but not without an opportunity to open other doors. Metaphorically too, therefore, we make new beginnings from the endings we encounter in our lifetimes.

The last five days in December, found us in Cornwall, in an attempt to escape the colder Midlands. We rang in the New Year at a cozy, and comfortable modern Airbnb apartment, built into a converted stone Manor House, in Bodmin, having decided on the town as our travel base, due to its location being central to the places we had wanted to visit.

We started with Land's End, furthest South, and being "Doc Martin" fans, Port Isaac of course, and The Eden Project, which we never got to, because the outdoors were quite seductive, and Oh! the Energy, especially in Port Isaac, is both intense and magnificent, like an embrace from the Universe, bringing you the 360-degree horizons, and then wrapping them around you, lulling you to Joy.

Port Isaac seemed to have a heartbeat all its own. The cove, with its thickly pebbled beach, the Ocean stretching far out, the cliffs, in places richly browned to black, and in some places interspersed with green, and one craggy cliff in particular, unobtrusive, yet inviting the eye to linger, seemed like a nesting area or nursery for mama seagulls congregated there haphazardly, like large groups of women looking for bargains in a Sunday bazaar.

Then there is the backdrop of the mountainous hilltops, with homes nestled sparingly on the hillside. A large white Mansion, called "Khandala", possibly in reminiscence, after the hill station of the same name in the Western Ghats of Maharashtra in India, is built from the spoils of Tea Gardens. It calmly overlooks the modest house down the hill, which serves as Doc Martin's surgery when the British TV show shoots in Port Isaac between March and May.

There are other midsize homes, and tiny homes, and large homes, and Bed and Breakfast places, and larger hotels, and churches, and nooks and crannies, and stone walls, laden with thickly growing moss, and paid public toilets in an old stone building with a slate roof almost at street level, narrow lanes, cafes and Cornish Pasty shops, and cawing seagulls overhead, all gloriously coexisting in these awe-inspiring and stunning surrounds, as if each blade of grass, every blob of moss, all the flying seagulls, the slate tiles on the roofs and the doors and windows of the houses, with their flowering window boxes, the roughly hewn stones on  buildings, the steeples on the churches, the signs outside the shops, the formidable cliffs, and the swaying wheat in the fields as we drive into town, was all meticulously painted in place by a divine brush, except they are so real, that you can reach out and touch them. I did. I caressed the bright green moss on the side of a stone wall on my right, as we walked downhill from Doc Martin's Surgery, feeling the lush rich emerald green thickness bursting with life. Having lingered while I felt the moss, I happily walked on, but then all too quickly, returned to take pictures. I wished I could have stumbled upon this thick carpet of moss on the ground, in a tree covered secluded spot so I would have laid down and closing my eyes, rested my head upon its comforting robustness.

We spied a little shop called Just Shellfish, hidden into a side wall, of what looked like a deep boatshed, with fishing materials and lobster traps lying around in heaps at the back. Lobster traps are seen everywhere around town, and there was even a Christmas tree sculpted with them. There was a sole woman in the Shellfish shop and her sign said she was "Open from 10:00- 2:00ish," with "till 2019" for added wit. She was holding a large strainer and was pulling out a crab from a boiling cauldron. The contents of her strainer were still steaming as she carried the huge lobster to her work table, and almost immediately starting working on it, plying the instruments and a sharp, long pin-like thick needle to nudge out the meat, with surgical precision, donning blue gloves.

A couple with a young son, sipped lobster soup in paper glasses while waiting on their lobster being prepped. The lady, between sips, told us they had owned a house just up the street, "but not anymore." In the glass case were signs of Sold Out, except in the top shelf corner, was a small section of five remaining little plastic cups containing 100 gms in each, of what looked like crab ceviche, but was called something else. We decided to try that, and also ordered the soup.

With the Lobster couple taken care of, we were issued a polite and unnecessary (because we had enjoyed watching her, and chatting with the couple) apology, to be kept waiting, and served the thickest meatiest yummiest lobster soup (not bisque) I have ever tasted. It still smelled of the sea.

She suggested adding some vinegar and lemon juice to the lobster meat bits, which gave it a ceviche-like taste, but this meat had been steamed. It was not something made in house, she clarified. I liked the top bits more than the bottom bits where the flavor of the vinegar and lemon juice was too strong for my preference for the purer tastes of foods.

We walked around some more and discovered gift shops and handmade goods shops, and the usual souvenir and postcard stores. On spotting a familiar looking storefront, we went in. I bought an ice cream cone inside. It is in reality, a Candy store, that serves as The Pharmacy in the TV Series! Thus the familiarity.

Still eating my ice cream, we walked diagonally across to the parking lot of the TV Show's The School House just up the road, which is a hotel of the same name, in its off-screen life. One of our party went to check on dinner reservations, while the rest of us enjoyed the views from this considerable height overlooking the harbor and the stately homes, including the imposing whitewashed Khandala, across the water on the lush green and steep hillside.

The locals are polite and used to visitors, and the tourists were everywhere on this New Year's Eve, despite it officially being the off-peak season, winter. We are told many of the houses around the town center are holiday lets, but one clearly spotted the residents, going about their daily lives; an elderly lady pruning rose bushes in the front yard, or kids calling in the dogs that ran out while the young mum rearranged some Bric a brac in her front porch which had a baskets of toys and such. An older man carried what seemed like two large black trash bags down the hill.

By the side of one of the mostly residential narrow lanes, ran a vigorously gurgling brook, which I followed down to the colorful pebbled beach in the cove, where it went and merged with the Ocean with effortless aplomb. Indeed this vibrantly flowing brook tumbled along so full of joy filled conviction, and inviting, that one felt compelled to ruffle its waters and pick pebbles in its path, both of which I did, my leather shoes notwithstanding.

In comparison, the calm waters of the beautiful cove had kids and adults both young and old, and a few dogs as well, playfully indulging on the water's edge. The cove is home to fishing trawlers, which having had brought in their crustaceans and such, lazed and very gently bobbed on the water's surface, a  comfortable distance from the shore, close to the breakers, beyond which lay the emerald waters of the sea. The afternoon thus peaked towards sunset.

The eating houses were closing for a break before reopening for the evening of the Big Night with the famous Port Isaac New Year Eve fireworks. It seemed this was to be our last chance to try the 'world famous' Cornish Pasty, which we did. Both the Vegetable Pasty and Cheese and Onion Pasty were large, succulent and flavorful. So that was the end of our spread out three-course walking lunch, with dessert eaten in between the starters of soup and ceviche, and the Pasty as our mains.

It was still very early evening, and we had discovered that all the pubs and restaurants were booked out for dinner. We decided not to stay for the Port Isaac New Year's Eve fireworks and took a different path back to the car park. Instead of going back through town, we took a left diversion in the road, walking back atop the cliff face, with sheer drops to the water, and looking far out to sea on our left, and with homes on the right, perched up along the motorable service road, with cars parked in the driveways. Children's faces peeped out the windows. Out on the terrace of another home, a young couple on chaise lounge chairs, with heads covered, with faces barely visible due to the thick blankets wrapped around them, had settled in, perhaps to watch whatever they could of the last sunset of 2018, on this somewhat overcast day.

We left just as day was getting done, and the town was getting ready for the last sunset of the year. Driving out of town, we noticed the public bus ahead of us and allowed it to lead us away from this magical land, after a very special day.

Very special indeed, the day, the place, the people, the heightened and all-embracing powerful Energy of Port Isaac which effortlessly hijacked this post from Land's End. So, we go with the flow, that's what a balanced Energy is about. Plus, isn't the end only a beginning, which will bring us back another day?