"My heart is ever at your service."

Those lovely words by Shakespeare reverberated within the walls of my fervent heart as I witnessed Shilpa and Jeremy's marriage ceremony last Friday - by far the most beautifully moving wedding I have ever been a part of (I've never cried so much!).

One specific passage from their ceremony struck me the most. Lara read a passage at the wedding by Anne Morrow Lindberg titled "Gift From the Sea." As alluring as the passage itself was the fact these same words were read by a friend at Lara's parents' wedding. Now here, decades later, stood their sweet daughter reading at her own friend's wedding. This passage I feel is more sincere and true than any other words that have ever been uttered. I have thought along similar lines but never have I seen it written so succinctly. Without further ado, I leave you with this selection. I hope it speaks to you as profoundly as it had to me:

"Gift From the Sea"

When you love someone, you do not love them all the time, in exactly the same way, from moment to moment. It is an impossibility. It is even a lie to pretend to. And yet, this is exactly what most of us demand. We have so little faith in the ebb and flow of life, of love, of relationships. We leap at the flow of the tide, and resist in terror its ebb. We insist on permanency, on duration, on continuity; when the only continuity possible, in life as in love, is in growth, in fluidity, in freedom. The only real security is not in owning or possessing, not in demanding or expecting, not in hoping, even. Security in a relationship lies neither in looking back to what it was in nostalgia, nor forward to what it might be in dread or anticipation - but in living in the present relationship and accepting it as it is now.

What's in a name?

"Who am I? I asked myself. But it was like trying to identify one particular cell that coursed through the torpid veins of my body." - Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man (I think).

The last few weeks have felt like such a hurdle – an omnipresent force hurling me into a dusky oblivion. My ego is taxed and I’m questioning myself in ways I haven’t done in a very long time.

I always knew I would change my name after marrying – it was never a question I’d be a Mrs. [husband’s name]. Never. But this whole marriage, name-change process – this cultivating a new life and family has left me feeling I’ve abandoned the old – leaving ‘Saritha Prasad Tirunagaru’ high and dry. I’ve left it all - my identity - without a proper burial. No eulogy or apology. How could I let it all go with nothing more than signing a DMV application?

I’m sure this sounds ridiculous. After all, I am me. But, dammit, I put a lot of work into creating the goodwill that comes with my name. Everything about me – this person with all her successes, failures, humility, quirks, neuroses – was developed under that old name. And I just cast it away indefinitely.

Although, lets face it, the true root of this seemingly inane emotional turbulence isn’t the name change. I love being a Mrs., and a Mrs. Nord no less.

Perhaps I wasn’t ready to “leave” my family so quickly. In traditional Indian culture, the girl generally lives with her parents until she marries, then moves to her husband’s home. Moreover, during engagement ceremonies, to symbolize her leaving her parents home, the bride sits with a plate of rice grains in front of her, takes handfuls of grains and tosses it over her shoulder – a very emotional ritual. While I wasn’t raised under strict Indian tradition, and while I haven’t lived at home in 10 years, getting married nonetheless made me feel like I tossed my old life and identity like those grains. I thought “this is it…. I’m leaving my home – my parents, my siblings.” And even more sobering: “I am not a part of that home anymore.”

Surely I am, but I now have a new immediate family, John. It’s exciting – but strangely disarming. I think of my parents, more specifically, my Mom: a 16 year old immigrant, newly married to a stranger, traveling 10,000 miles to America, not knowing any English, having to create, maintain, support a family while being thrust into a new culture with no web of support, equipped merely with the hope she could raise in an unfamiliar place healthy and happy children in the image of her past (Indian culture) and future (American ideals). And she did it. So well.

Am I that strong? Am I capable of raising and supporting a family under a spectrum of adversity? I can only hope I have even a speck of the courage my Mom had when it comes down to it.

Then of course, that damn bar exam rears its ugliness yet again. I thought preparing for it was the tough part. Rather, being done with it has rendered the ego quite weary. No routine, no job, no prospect of a job – feeling so useless, feeling I’ll never be a valuable societal cog; feeling I will never accomplish anything. “Is this what I really want to do?” “Why didn’t I just become an art therapist/psychiatrist like I always wanted.” “IT’S TOO LATE – stop asking those damn questions!! You’re not doing yourself any good.” “Stay positive…. just stay positive… its gotta work out right? Right? RIGHT?” “I couldn’t possibly have worked this hard for nothing." "Could I have?”

There are simply too many forces working against my confidence – whittling away at any sensibility necessary to stay focused. And so I nap….. a lot. I try and convince myself to relax because I won’t ever have this kind of free time ever again. If only I could enjoy it.

Its just change, I tell myself. Inevitable change. Perhaps too much at once for this frail spirit.