A Poem About a Surfing Grandfather

'Tis the Season (yes, right now)

As we approach the end of March 2025, I realize I haven’t followed that yearly ritual, stepping outside to feel what’s actually happening in the natural world. Apart from a few winter walks, I've remained inside during these months, absorbed in my digital world, working toward a goal that’s important to me, but one that has kept me stuck on a computer screen and in my own mind. Despite my lack of attention, spring has been coming on gradually. The season is shifting, as is the natural world, preparing for the explosion of rich, green life. For most of human history, our existence has been intertwined with the outdoors, cognizant of nature’s cycles and rhythms, tracking the course of the sun and moon, watching dark skies and bright stars. We marked the seasons—not just the climate phases in our particular corners of the world, but also the passage of time and our lives. We grounded into our bodies, feeling Earth around us, regaining our perspective and our touch with reality. We remembered that our human time happened within the context of cosmic time, and we ourselves were the bridge, the nexus, the joinder. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit piecesoflightbydheepa.substack.com [https://piecesoflightbydheepa.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

A Poem About Hot Tea on a Cold Day

I traveled to Tampa last week and was immediately accused by its citizens of bringing Indiana weather with me. Who would have expected 30 degree temps in Florida, even in January? Well, I should have, because I actually looked at the weather report before I left. But some part of my brain rebelled and wouldn't believe that I needed to pack the same winter gear I was currently wearing. I threw in capris and sandals and tee shirts and of course regretted them all upon my arrival. In fact, I spent much of the weekend in my coat. But one afternoon, seeing the sun shining brightly again, I stepped outside, my still rebellious brain still expecting warmth. No such luck. As I shivered, as I felt the chill on my skin, it occurred to me how much I live within the confines of my own mind. Sitting inside the house, I write, I email, I research, I make calls, I check social media. Often, I have three active screens in front of me as I work, living my life in what's essentially a virtual world. So, as I stood in that cold, I tried to tune into the good fortune of having a physical body that's able to feel, see, and enjoy what the physical world was offering me in the moment. I asked myself, why am I fighting this? This is what my world feels like right now. And it's okay to be cold. Really. And then I went back inside. Though I'd accepted that it's okay to be cold, I also knew it was okay to warm up. So, on that brisk day in Tampa, I made myself a cup of tea, and it felt like the first cup of tea ever made. Sip by sip, it warmed me, inside and out. I have always loved tea, particularly masala chai, because every time I drink it, I feel as though the earth is handing me gift after gift for my own health and healing and nourishment and, of course, pleasure—not only those black tea leaves, but also the spices, the seeds, the roots of the physical world, all being ingested by me, as a physical being. As I drank, there were no screens, no spinning thoughts, no information crashing down and around me. I was just a human being having a tangible, visceral experience of the world. I'd like to share a poem about that sheer pleasure, published a few years ago in Tweetspeak Poetry. Ingesting Earth In my mortar, I broke cardamom, released the piney scent from its pods. I crushed cloves till they sliced the air bitter-bright. I ground peppercorns for their quick kindle; I snapped cinnamon for its slow burn. Into the mixture, I crumbled fennel to kiss me with licorice sweetness. I made this masala from Earth’s bounty— seed and root bark and berry herb and flower— and swept it all into water. I grated ginger-heat into the roil, then swirled in tea leaves, watched them unfurl, watched their dance. At last,I drank Earth down— with no milk to obscure Her clarity, with no sugar to distract from my whole tongue, alight. Thank you for your interest! Do you know someone else who might enjoy this podcast? Please do share it and also encourage them to subscribe. And if someone shared this with you and it resonates, please consider subscribing. In the meantime, I'm so glad you're here. Thanks for listening, and see you in a few weeks! -Dheepa This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit piecesoflightbydheepa.substack.com [https://piecesoflightbydheepa.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

I Still Believe

Over the past few days I've been hearing messages in texts, emails, newsletters, and media: people stating what they remain committed to, even in the face of disappointment — what remains true for them no matter what changes outside of them. I'd like to do the same — to dive down to that core of me and remember what lives there. I'd like to tell you what I still believe. * I still believe in trying to model what I seek from others and from the world. * I still believe in looking at the person in front of me and trying to understand the life story behind the words and actions.  * I still believe in extending kind gestures and words.  * I still believe in battling for our beautiful planet and every bit of sustenance it provides us. * I still believe in honor, decency, trust, and the infinite power of love. So, let's all get some rest. And then we'll continue to live toward the world we want. I'm holding you all in my heart.  This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit piecesoflightbydheepa.substack.com [https://piecesoflightbydheepa.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

A Poem About a Surfing Grandfather

I'm thinking about the power of music and song to anchor and even transform our moments. For me, listening to music while I'm in the car—if I'm honest, really loud music—turns everyday driving into such an experience of freedom. Listening to Latin dance music while I'm cooking changes that experience, too—okay, that's less of a pleasure, but it really helps with the tedium. For most of his life, my grandfather struggled with asthma, and it often left him home-bound and bed-bound. But I have such powerful memories of him sitting in a chair in a particular corner of our family home, listening to recordings of the classical South Indian music he loved. He especially enjoyed the improvisational sections, and at those times, his breathing seemed to loosen, and he'd sing along with the artists, his voice carrying through the house until he had to catch his breath again. In those moments, instead of being weighed down by illness, he seemed buoyant, mobile, free—and I always imagined him surfing on waves of sound.  This poem is entitled "Alaap," which refers to the improvisational portion of an Indian musical rendition. It was published in the literary journal, Wild Musette. Alaap At night, he chose one of his 1,732 cassette tapes (we counted), each mixed by his trembling fingers  on an 80s boombox, and he released the ancient melodies from the tongues of modern singers, and he waited  for the alaap,* when the artists surfed between word and melody. When he could no longer resist, Grandfather launched and followed them into those waves—but never for long because his breath could not carry him across the barrel,   and the air would leave him, mid-stanza, and his body  would lurch, and we would wait— does he need his inhaler? —until he broke the surface, caught a rope of breath, then moments later, launched again, paddled from his nubby orange chair through the grand foyer, up through the skylight, and into the swell, until, inevitably, he sank to the Oriental rug and the tyranny of an aluminum walker. They say Rebirth can bring justice, so surely, this time around, he is sovereign of the air and monarch of the movements that once eluded him, no mere starling, but a murmuration, no mere minnow, but an entire school of fliers —   surging, rippling, coiling like incense, leaping to light. *** Thanks so much for listening today. I'll see you in a few weeks!  This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit piecesoflightbydheepa.substack.com [https://piecesoflightbydheepa.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]

A Poem About an Ancient Dance

Once, during a graduate school interview, a dean asked whether I’d done anything unusual during the preceding summer. I shared that I’d trained for and presented a two-hour solo performance of Bharath Natyam. I’ll never forget his response, delivered with a frown: “Isn’t that just dancing for men?” As the daughter of an immigrant family in the U.S. at that time, the distance between the dean’s perceptions and my own reality was a familiar one. Nevertheless, I sat stunned for a moment, thinking of my years spent mastering footwork, cultivating balance, and learning to convey emotions and expressions. I thought of how honored I felt to have become a steward of thousand-year-old legends and philosophies. So, finding my voice, I explained this ancient storytelling tradition, as well as the athleticism, skill, and training it required. I described the sophistication of the concepts, and the layers of meaning it could convey—for example, the eternal cycles of creation and destruction, and the soul’s longing to merge with the divine. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit piecesoflightbydheepa.substack.com [https://piecesoflightbydheepa.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1]