Īśvarapraṇidhāna (ईश्वर-प्रणिधान) literally means contemplation of the Ishvara (God/Supreme Being, special Self, divinity within the individual). Surrendering (pranidhana) to a higher source (Ishvara).
Since I spend so much of my time alone, playing with words on the computer, there are many days when I contemplate the limitations of language. I recently read an article about the importance of eye contact in the NYtimes. The article referenced the German word for- to look through someone as though they don’t exist. Now that’s a real thing and there is no real word for it in the English language. For me, there is a shuddering loneliness and truth to such a word, the cadence of the word even mimicked the feeling it was trying to capture. Ironically, I cannot find the article so that I can even retrieve the word. Maybe it’s for the best.
However, in search of that word, I found other, more optimistic, beautiful words that the English language is lacking. Here are a handful of my favorites.
1. Koi No Yokan
Japanese – The sense upon first meeting a person that the two of you are going to fall in love.
2. Waldeinsamkeit
German – The feeling of being alone in the woods
3. Wabi-Sabi
Japanese – it refers to a way of living that emphasizes finding beauty in imperfection, and accepting the natural cycle of growth and decay.
4. Nunchi
Korean – The subtle art of listening and gauging another’s mood. It could be described as the concept of emotional intelligence. Knowing what to say or do, or what not to say or do, in a given situation. (I think I have some good Nunchi skills)
5. Duende
Spanish – It’s original use was to describe a mythical entity that lives in forests, sort of like a fairy or a sprite, that possesses human beings and causes them to feel awe, fear, or a sense of beauty in their natural surroundings. Since being updated by the Spanish poet and playwright, Federico García Lorca, in the early 20th century, it is now used to refer to the mysterious power of a work of art to deeply move a person.
Ishvara pranidhana is also one of those words for me, and I think it is the thing I struggle with most in life. Ishvara pranidhana – Surrendering (pranidhana) to a higher source (Ishvara). Beautiful. It is the opposite, this haunting concept of looking through someone. Seemingly, it is the place of most connection, but also the place of most vulnerability.
When I lived in Nepal, I tasted this idea most fully. I remember being on the longest series of flights of my life, from Chattanooga, to Atlanta, to Cincinnati, to Frankfurt, to Panang, to Singapore, to somewhere in Burma, to Katmandu. I was alone and I remember looking into the mirror in the tiny airplane lavatory on the flight over the Atlantic. I stared into the mirror for a long time. There was no turning back. At that time, I felt like I was at a distinct fork in the road mentally. I could spend the next seven months scared and worried or I could surrender. I was so remote from the trappings of my ego and self, that it was really easy for me. It was like living in a dream. The only thing anchoring me was the necklace that my father had given me, a St. Christopher’s medal to wear around my neck, just like the one he wears every day.
I had also had the great fortune of meeting Andrew in Nepal. He picked me up from the airport. He was in his mid-forties and with white hair and a young face. He sort of reminded me of Steve Martin. He had worked for NGOs all over the world. He had a strong connection to Nepal and had returned to live and work.
What was amazing to me about Andrew was his ability to have fun in any situation and he had the laugh to back it up. His laugh was one of the laughs that bubbled up and over and was cross-culturally contagious. We would go on these epic walks through Katmandu visiting all of his friends in town. He was such an oddity, a pale white man with white hair who spoke Nepali, that he had many friends all over town. His friends would invite us in and serve us the most amazing meals you could imagine. Andrew was so funny that I would laugh so hard I would regularly cry.
About once a month, the communist party would shut down the bus system in Kathmandu. Buses would sometimes run on those days but the rioters would sometimes jump aboard and cause problems. Andrew and I need to be somewhere so he convinced me to ride the bus with him. About halfway through our journey, a group of young men jumped aboard, yelling and angry. They removed the bus driver from the vehicle and started driving the bus in the wrong direction. I was wide-eyed and rubbing my necklace feverishly. Andrew leaned down smiling with excitement,
“We’re hostages!” he whispered, giggling like a little girl.
We were. Our everything was in the hands of these angry teenage boys. Yet with Andrew there, I could not stop laughing. Andrew could not stop laughing. It was beyond the worst case scenario. The laughter was disarming though. It took hold of the environment. The boys lost their nerve and jumped off of the bus, running into the streets and alleys.
There was such power in Andrew’s type of surrender. And because of his light-hearted, joyful spirit, he would take everyone right along with him. Laughter, to me is one of the more powerful forms of surrender. It takes over your body. More please, I remember thinking to myself.
What was so easy there, in a place where I was stripped naked from my identity, my geography, my culture, is not so easy back at home. While I can taste glimmers of that childlike surrender that my friend Andrew embodied for me, I am hard-pressed to sustain it. There are reminders of it. Like for me, the moon reminds me of it. There is something innately playful about the moon, its light and the way it bounces off of things and then dances there. And there are words. I love words. For me, there is potent play and magic in a word. Words like wabi-sabi and Ishvara pranidhana, words illuminate things in a way, in such a way that you can’t look through as though they don’t exist. They meet you eye to eye every time.
Since I spend so much of my time alone, playing with words on the computer, there are many days when I contemplate the limitations of language. I recently read an article about the importance of eye contact in the NYtimes. The article referenced the German word for- to look through someone as though they don’t exist. Now that’s a real thing and there is no real word for it in the English language. For me, there is a shuddering loneliness and truth to such a word, the cadence of the word even mimicked the feeling it was trying to capture. Ironically, I cannot find the article so that I can even retrieve the word. Maybe it’s for the best.
However, in search of that word, I found other, more optimistic, beautiful words that the English language is lacking. Here are a handful of my favorites.
1. Koi No Yokan
Japanese – The sense upon first meeting a person that the two of you are going to fall in love.
2. Waldeinsamkeit
German – The feeling of being alone in the woods
3. Wabi-Sabi
Japanese – it refers to a way of living that emphasizes finding beauty in imperfection, and accepting the natural cycle of growth and decay.
4. Nunchi
Korean – The subtle art of listening and gauging another’s mood. It could be described as the concept of emotional intelligence. Knowing what to say or do, or what not to say or do, in a given situation. (I think I have some good Nunchi skills)
5. Duende
Spanish – It’s original use was to describe a mythical entity that lives in forests, sort of like a fairy or a sprite, that possesses human beings and causes them to feel awe, fear, or a sense of beauty in their natural surroundings. Since being updated by the Spanish poet and playwright, Federico García Lorca, in the early 20th century, it is now used to refer to the mysterious power of a work of art to deeply move a person.
Ishvara pranidhana is also one of those words for me, and I think it is the thing I struggle with most in life. Ishvara pranidhana – Surrendering (pranidhana) to a higher source (Ishvara). Beautiful. It is the opposite, this haunting concept of looking through someone. Seemingly, it is the place of most connection, but also the place of most vulnerability.
When I lived in Nepal, I tasted this idea most fully. I remember being on the longest series of flights of my life, from Chattanooga, to Atlanta, to Cincinnati, to Frankfurt, to Panang, to Singapore, to somewhere in Burma, to Katmandu. I was alone and I remember looking into the mirror in the tiny airplane lavatory on the flight over the Atlantic. I stared into the mirror for a long time. There was no turning back. At that time, I felt like I was at a distinct fork in the road mentally. I could spend the next seven months scared and worried or I could surrender. I was so remote from the trappings of my ego and self, that it was really easy for me. It was like living in a dream. The only thing anchoring me was the necklace that my father had given me, a St. Christopher’s medal to wear around my neck, just like the one he wears every day.
I had also had the great fortune of meeting Andrew in Nepal. He picked me up from the airport. He was in his mid-forties and with white hair and a young face. He sort of reminded me of Steve Martin. He had worked for NGOs all over the world. He had a strong connection to Nepal and had returned to live and work.
What was amazing to me about Andrew was his ability to have fun in any situation and he had the laugh to back it up. His laugh was one of the laughs that bubbled up and over and was cross-culturally contagious. We would go on these epic walks through Katmandu visiting all of his friends in town. He was such an oddity, a pale white man with white hair who spoke Nepali, that he had many friends all over town. His friends would invite us in and serve us the most amazing meals you could imagine. Andrew was so funny that I would laugh so hard I would regularly cry.
About once a month, the communist party would shut down the bus system in Kathmandu. Buses would sometimes run on those days but the rioters would sometimes jump aboard and cause problems. Andrew and I need to be somewhere so he convinced me to ride the bus with him. About halfway through our journey, a group of young men jumped aboard, yelling and angry. They removed the bus driver from the vehicle and started driving the bus in the wrong direction. I was wide-eyed and rubbing my necklace feverishly. Andrew leaned down smiling with excitement,
“We’re hostages!” he whispered, giggling like a little girl.
We were. Our everything was in the hands of these angry teenage boys. Yet with Andrew there, I could not stop laughing. Andrew could not stop laughing. It was beyond the worst case scenario. The laughter was disarming though. It took hold of the environment. The boys lost their nerve and jumped off of the bus, running into the streets and alleys.
There was such power in Andrew’s type of surrender. And because of his light-hearted, joyful spirit, he would take everyone right along with him. Laughter, to me is one of the more powerful forms of surrender. It takes over your body. More please, I remember thinking to myself.
What was so easy there, in a place where I was stripped naked from my identity, my geography, my culture, is not so easy back at home. While I can taste glimmers of that childlike surrender that my friend Andrew embodied for me, I am hard-pressed to sustain it. There are reminders of it. Like for me, the moon reminds me of it. There is something innately playful about the moon, its light and the way it bounces off of things and then dances there. And there are words. I love words. For me, there is potent play and magic in a word. Words like wabi-sabi and Ishvara pranidhana, words illuminate things in a way, in such a way that you can’t look through as though they don’t exist. They meet you eye to eye every time.
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