It was a hot, dusty Rajasthan afternoon. I was around 11 and on my school playground. My best friend and I had probably intentionally strayed from the rest of the class when we saw something approaching, which at the time we could only describe as a “whirlpool”, but on land and made of dust. I don’t remember there being too many words exchanged between us, because it was understood that we had to run into it and we did. When I went home and recounted this new adventure to my parents, I was informed of its potential dangers. Not the response I was expecting. But I am glad I ran into it – a “dust devil”. Because much later, it would become a fitting metaphor for many of my life's situations and phases.
Let me tell you what being inside a dust devil feels like – it is a swirling, moving vortex of dust. There are no lines or boundaries and it is a homogeneous, dust-coloured mass. Even if there is someone else in it with you, you may not be able to see them. Things that are supposed to be on the ground, complying with gravity, could be seen flying around, but you may not have the senses to identify them. You can’t see anything beyond that column of dust and it is remarkably surreal.
A dust devil is formed by intense heating of the ground which forms a hot air pocket that rises rapidly and begins to spin as cool air rushes in. I have been in many vortices in my life and much like the dust devils are created by hot and cool air, mine are a creation of my own mind and my life circumstances.
When you are in a giant swirling vortex, everything that you think you know is the first thing that gets peeled away from you. Much like the otherwise gravity bound objects I saw flying around inside the dust devil, they become out of place, out of character, unidentifiable. I have found everything I have worked hard to build, failing in moments like this. My meditation practices have collapsed like a mound of mud dissolving in rain. Deliberately built work out and walking routines come to a screeching halt. Stepping out feels life threatening, because what if someone saw the dark cloud over your head?
But these experiences are inevitable, and we all live through them in varying degrees. Much like the dust devils they eventually pass. But what do you do when you are in it – the centre of the vortex? My default mode was to completely surrender to its force, letting its density wrap around me until I could not see anything beyond it. It became a perfect echo chamber for my harsh inner critic and I would agree with everything she told me. This happened over and over, as though I were living a loop.
It was only a few years ago that I found a practice that changed something for me. It is called “Letters from Love”, a project by Elizabeth Gilbert on Substack.
The aim is simple. you imagine the “spirit of unconditional love (SOUL)”. What is the spirit of unconditional love? – Elizabeth Gilbert calls it a love that knows all our fears, flaws, shame and struggles, and loves us anyway. You imagine what this love might say to you, and write a letter to yourself in its voice. I think of it as the all-encompassing love. The love that is the source of all kinds of love and us. Unwavering, ever flowing, the most accepting and the most loving love.
Writing to yourself in the voice of that Love can evoke many emotions including the feeling that it is fake and cringey. But that is all a part of it and you write while feeling all of that. You use the most loving words that you can think of and let love write them to you. As I continued the practice, I also kept reading letters from Elizabeth Gilbert and her guest writers, shared in my inbox. Each letter was like a reminder – that I am loved…unconditionally.
One of the letters I read early on was by Elizabeth Gilbert herself and it was written in response to an enquiry about being of service to others. A small portion from the letter stood out for me and has stayed with me ever since – “My love, I have said this to you before and I will say it to you again: I wish you practice universal human compassion. And any concept of or understanding of universal human compassion that does not include YOURSELF is not, by its very definition, “universal.”
I can’t quite explain what these two simple lines did for me. But it felt like they reconciled something inside of me. I have lived my life with the sense of being “outside”. Outside of groups, outside of family, outside of my own life sometimes and definitely outside of love – as though it was meant for everyone, but me. These two lines spoke directly to my two brains and simultaneously appealed to both of them. It made complete sense. I am not outside of love. I am in it too. Whatever degree of cringe I was feeling earlier while writing these letters was “uncringed” by these lines and I kept writing these letters to myself. Even if not regularly, I found myself gravitating towards this practice often. Sometimes the letters were sketchy, and other times, they just flowed out of Love. But it did not matter. Sketchy, messy, incomplete, beautiful – it was all enough to remind me about the presence of love in me and my presence in love.
I cannot talk about this practice without talking about a crisp March morning in Satkhol.
It was one of our early cacao immersions and we were pairing cacao with different experiences. This time, we decided to introduce this practice of Letters from Love. We had a group of the most beautiful, sensitive, resilient people participating. People who exuded life and have dedicated their lives towards arts, service and community work.
We started with cacao, letting it warm us in the lingering chill of early March and anchoring us in the present. We settled in the open, expansive state that cacao led us into and meditated on Love for a few minutes. After that, each of us wrote a letter from Love to ourselves. It was an honour to witness what unfolded. It felt like our hearts had cracked open and what was flowing through the crevice was a pure, uninterrupted, sparkling stream of love. There were teary eyes, choking throats and a vulnerability that I had never experienced before. Many would call these emotions messy and letting others see them even messier. But this is what I call purity – untainted by performance. Just people allowing themselves to receive love.
I came back with my faith in the practice reinforced and I have continued the practice ever since. It did not stop the dust devils of life. They still came and took me into their fold. It was still difficult and painful and aching. In those times, I was not able to keep up the practice. The idea of lifting a pen itself was repulsive. I still had the harsh inner voice with which I spoke to myself.
It would be easy to mistake that the practice did nothing for me. And yet, something had changed. It was the emergence of another voice – one challenging the voice that had spoken to me all these years and telling me that I was still loved.
Even in the lowest moments when I wanted to wish away my existence, that voice was still there. Telling me I was loved even when I thought the vilest of thoughts. I was loved even when I was covered in the muck of shame or buried under the weight of guilt. I was loved at my worst and I was loved at my best and I was loved every moment in between.
I have often heard people talk about life changing moments. Major shifts or turning points, but I could never point to anything similar in my experience. So, I believed that my life had not changed. For life to change, there had to be a big declaratory moment. Something defining and clear and a placard in the sky that would confirm that life had indeed changed. Since none of it happened, I could not point to any way in which my life changed. But when I was mulling over this piece, it occurred to me - isn’t this how life changes? In everyday practices and small changes that eventually lead to a more identifiable shift in how we experience life. I can quite certainly say that this practice has changed my life.
Now when the dust devils dance their swirling dance around me and I am at the lowest point of their vortex, it is a little less frightening. I am more deeply aware of the impermanence of it all. I may not be able to see beyond the dust, but I know that the dust is not all there is. I have a loving voice inside me that tells me that I have nothing to fear and I will always be loved. I think what this practice has done for me is allow me to accept and love my humanness - the beauty and messiness of it. I don't have to be at my best to deserve love. I don't have to be keeping up with my routines, doing well, or even liking myself very much.
Life could keep sending dust devils my way. I will still lose my bearings sometimes. But I am learning that I don't have to lose my place in love along with them.
Here is how I like to do this practice
I make myself a cup of cacao. Taking my time, paying attention to each step.
I sit in a quiet corner and sip it slowly.
Once I am done drinking my cacao, I sit in silence for a few minutes, tuning into the feeling of love.
Then I pose an enquiry to love. It changes each time. But it could be something like, “Dear love, what would you have me know today about feeling overwhelmed?” After a few minutes of silence, I start writing my Letter from Love.
The aim is not to get it right, but to simply write. The words may come easily, or they may feel awkward and unfamiliar. The letter may be messy, incomplete or full of doubt. You can write through all of that, without needing to make the experience into anything other than what it is.
Letters from Love is available on Substack, where a prompt is shared each week.
And if you find yourself in a dust devil of your own, perhaps you could begin with just one question:
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