There is a large streetlight by my home where two dirt lanes intersect. Several years ago, the light had pulled free of its support, and in the wind, an irregular banging of its metal parts could be heard. My home is at the back of an undeveloped field, appreciatively isolated from the sounds of people’s activities. I write in quiet, and prefer quiet in my compound. However, the situation had become more serious. The big, pear-shaped bulb was now swinging freely and could break with a scattering of glass where my tires and other tires pass. Dangerous.
In America, I had assumed responsibility for the details of my homes, but here my property manager handles the details, many of which are conducted in Marathi. At the time, he had contacted the proper authority, and a response came that the light had been secured. Had it? No. I surrendered to living with the situation.
Several years have passed since then. Last week, I paused in the compound, while weeding, as I realized that I had been listening for the sound the metal parts make—it was windy. I hadn’t heard it. But simultaneous with that thought, there it was. Only I heard it in a new way. I was missing the banging now because at some point, it had become comforting—as comforting as a buoy bell to a ferry boat captain or the flapping of flag lines on a pole to a couple on a country road or the welcome croaking of a frog when spring’s arrival has been delayed.
My realization is, “Letting go of a situation may, in time, open the mind to new realities.”