The act of growing our own food begins with the soil, that dark and silent essence which holds in its depth, a life-giving force. Beneath the sun’s unyielding glare, the ground is broken, turned over by the blade of the plough. It yields reluctantly until the furrows run deep, exposing the earth’s richness.
The seeds are brought forth, small unassuming things, yet containing within them a quiet power. They are pressed into the soil with laboured hands. To plant is to trust in forces unseen, to surrender to the rhythms of nature. There is no certainty here, only intuition that the soil will accept what is given, that the sun will shine, that the rains will come.
As the seeds disappear beneath the surface, the earth is left to its own devices. The work does not cease. Weeds are pulled, water is carried, pests are warded off. The mounds become a world unto itself. And yet, there is a gratification in this toil, in the simple truth that what you give to the earth, it returns tenfold.
Upon maturity, the harvest begins. The leaves, herbs, beans and fruit are collected, cleaned and sorted with care. Some are set aside to cook, their destiny for our nourishment. Others are left to ripen fully, their seeds reserved for the next season.
We love green in all its becomings. It speaks of growth, renewal and nurturing power. It is the colour of life, of abundance, of earth in its tender and wild form.
The green canopy that cusps the land around its fringes like a nameless boundary secures home for our neighbouring creatures. Above it the Himalayas push up, their granite peaks thrust into the stark blue, breaking the verdant curtain with rugged drama. They are robust and still, breaking the soft lushness with their strength. The land stretches wide, a scene that does not change although everything in it is always moving. Our cultivated land, although in scale is modest and humble against this expanse, feeds us with glee and generosity. Back in the kitchen, we weave our way with all that is green. We work with what we have, turning it into something good, something that feels like the land itself. Simple, honest, true. Occasionally a little playful streak comes along and a green experiment erupts.
And just as the soil nourishes us, it consumes us when our time is up. Unspoken yet understood, it is a silent agreement between humanity and earth. We are nurtured in our days of strength and taken back in our time of rest. The earth consumes us as it has consume all who has come before us, breaking us down into soil we once tilled, the ground we once called home. In this quiet exchange, there is no beginning no ending – only the rhythm of birth, sustenance and return. We are passing beings meant to take only what we need, to leave little behind and to be gently folded back into the earth.
And it is with quiet sorrow that we remember our guru, Sharath Jois, who has been washed back into the beds of the river.
We first came together in Mysore, drawn there by the pull of ashtanga yoga back in 2007. Sharath-ji was a man who held to his purpose, the weight of lineage on his shoulders after his grandfather, Pattabhi Jois was gone. He walked his path with steady conviction, passing down the practice as it was meant to be passed, without frills or displays.
There is something about losing a living guru that leaves a person raw. It carves out a space in you that doesn’t quite fill back in. Yet we are left with immense gratitude that can be felt mutually and with no need for speech. Without Sharath-ji, we may never have found one another, or have a family, and Swara may not have come into being. He was a part of us, and inadvertently a part of Swara. An inextinguishable spark, he lit our paths, shaping us to places far and deep. And now a shadow, he resides, etched in our pysche – his beaming smile and quiet demeanour – the essence of Sharath-ji.
“Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.”
― Mary Elizabeth Frye
