05 September 2023

Those made of love will fly

['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is the 214th article in the new series that began in December 2022. Links to previous articles are given below]      

They were tiny at the time. They would grow and pursue destinations unimagined in that tiny-time. They would become something of who they want to be that obliterated who their parents believed they would become. In time they’ll get closer to preferred destinations or may start off on some other path as yet unknown or unloved.

Back then they were tiny. Tiny but not so tiny that individuality could not be observed. The error of the observer imprinted itself on the observed, naturally, but then again some of it was unmistakable. One was made of dreams and the other made of love.

Made for love, both were, of course, but just as the one was dreamy and often lost in thoughts that seldom translated into words but would leave a trace as a smile and a tear, the other was, simply, all cuddle. She didn’t have to demand and never objected either.  So she was made of love. She was made for love. Love of the cuddling type. The other was loved from a distance. She exuded enchantment that called for distant appreciation.

She was made of love and made for love but at the time she was given that moniker she was probably too young to know what it meant. Anyway, she wasn’t too conversant in English. So she offered an alternative: ‘mama made of love nevei appachchi, mama bird of love (I am not “made of love,” father, I am “bird of love”).’ She probably didn’t know what ‘made’ and ‘love meant,’ but probably knew the meaning of ‘bird.’

Children dream. They imagine. And in their imagination they can be who or what they want to be, whenever they like, wherever they happen to and whoever happens to be around. Children, when loved, are invincible. They are unfettered. Made of Dreams, Made of Love: these are just names. Terms of endearment. Either way, they can fly if we let them and if they so wish. They are birds, after all.

They fly when no one wants to listen to them and they decide to talk to their stuffed toys, pets or, if they have no toys or pets, the creatures around them, animate and inanimate. They talk to squirrels, ants, butterflies and birds. They talk to trees, plants, leaves, flowers and pebbles. They create imaginary friends and alternative relatives who listen to them, offer advice, comfort them and take them to happier places. And if they don’t have toys, they make toys of their own. So in these and other ways, they fly, not so much because they are loved but they love.

For kids loved and loving, characters are willing to step out of books and tales. They stay long after stories are told and books are put away. They are secret companions present but invisible to adults who have plugged their imagination springs and have tightly embraced the popular untruth that only that which is tangible at all times is real. And they fly with these friends.  

And then they grow up. They are no longer tiny except in the memories of those who knew them when they were small.  They grow up and they sometimes outgrow their secret friends. They lose language and can no longer talk to ants, squirrels, birds and butterflies. They no longer share sorrows with blades of grass and are no longer comforted by a the sturdy trunk of a tree.  

Like their parents before them and like all parents, relatives who are very old and ancestors who have passed on, they start losing eyesight and imagination. The wings fold and become part of their skin. They can no longer fly or rather they forget they can.

But this is known: they are still made of dreams and they are still made of love. They remain birds of love. They can fly.  

And sometimes when all seems lost or unbearable, almost as though they’ve recovered their tiny times, they recover memory of doorways that took them once to valleys and hills no one had ever visited but which was an alternative home to them.

The storms that seem beyond their strength are but intemperate queries that don’t deserve answers. The barbs, the taunts, the glance calculated to irk and trip are no more potent that nidikumba — easily put to rest with but the slightest touch. Such things are re-recognized.  

A father, not unworried but proud and remembering a little child who didn’t know ‘made’ or ‘love’ but knew ‘bird,’ could say, ‘soar!” Perhaps he won’t. But there will be flight. So it is written in ‘The Love-Bird Book’ jointly authored by an adoring father and a cuddled daughter a long time ago.


Other articles in this series: 

Profit: the peragamankaru of major wars

Helplessness and innocence

The parameters of entirety

In loving memory of Carrie Lee (1956-2020)

Mobsters on and off the screen

Transfixing and freeing dawns

We're here because we're here because we're here

Life signatures

Sha'Carri Richardson versus and with Sha'Carri Richardson  

A canvas for a mind-brush

Sybil Wettasinghe's shoes

Love is...

A stroll with Pragg and Arjun along a boulevard in Baku

Meditation on tree-art

Daya Sahabandu ran out of partners but must have smiled to the end

Gentle intrusions 

Sleeping well

The unleashing of inspiration

Write, for Pete's sake

Autumn Leaves Safeness

 Sapan and voices that erase borders

Problem elephants and problem humans

Songs from the vaekanda

The 'inhuman' elephant in a human zoo

Ivan Art: Ivanthi Fernando's efforts to align meaning

Arwa Turra, heart-stitcher

Let's help Jagana Krishnakumar rebuild our ancestral home

True national anthems

Do you have a friend in Pennsylvania (or anywhere?)

A gateway to illumination in West Virginia

Through strange fissures into magical orchards

There's sea glass love few will see 

Re-residencing Lakdasa Wikkramasinha

Poisoning poets and shredding books of verse

The responsible will not be broken

Home worlds

Ownership and tenuriality of the Wissahickon

Did you notice the 'tiny, tiny wayside flowers'?

Gifts, gifting and their rubbishing

History is new(s)

Journalism inadvertently learned

Reflections on the young poetic heart

Wordaholic, trynasty and other portmanteaus

The 'Loku Aiya' of all 'Paththara Mallis'

Subverting the indecency of the mind

Character theft and the perennial question 'who am I?'


A degree in people

Faces dripping with time

Saji Coomaraswamy and rewards that matter

Revolutionary unburdening

Seeing, unseeing and seeing again

Alex Carey and the (small) matter of legacy

The Edelweiss of Mirissa 

The insomnial dreams of Kapila Kumara Kalinga 

The clothes we wear and the clothes that wear us (down) 

Every mountain, every rock, is sacred 

Manufacturing passivity and obedience 

Precept and practice 

Sanjeew Lonliyes: rawness unplugged, unlimited 

In praise of courage, determination and insanity 

The relative values of life and death 

Feet that walk 

Sarinda's eyes 

Poetry and poets will not be buried 

Sunny Dayananda 

Reunion Peradeniya (1980-1990) 

What makes Oxygen breathable?  

Sorrowing and delighting the world 

The greatest fallacy  

Encounters with Liyanage Amarakeerthi 

Beyond praise and blame 

Letters that cut and heal the heart 

Vanished and vanishing trails 


A forgotten dawn song from Embilipitiya 

The soft rain of neighbourliness  

The Gold Medals of being 

Jaya Sri Ratna Sri 

All those we've loved before 

Reflections on waves and markings 

A chorus of National Anthems 

Saying what and how 

'Say when' 

Respond to insults in line with the Akkosa Sutra 

The loves of our lives 

The right time, the right person 

The silent equivalent of a thousand words 

Crazy cousins are besties for life 

Unities, free and endearing 

Free verse and the return key

"Sorry, Earth!" 

The lost lyrics of Premakeerthi de Alwis 

The revolution is the song 

Consolation prizes in competitions no one ever wins 

The day I won a Pulitzer 


Ella Deloria's silences 

Blackness, whiteness and black-whiteness 

Inscriptions: stubborn and erasable  


Deveni: a priceless one-word koan 

Enlightening geometries 

Let's meet at 'The Commons' 

It all begins with a dot 

Recovering run-on lines and lost punctuation 

'Wetness' is not the preserve of the Dry Zone 

On sweeping close to one's feet 

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California

To be an island like the Roberts... 

Debts that can never be repaid in full

An island which no flood can overwhelm 

Who really wrote 'Mother'? 

A melody faint and yet not beyond hearing 

Heart dances that cannot be choreographed 

Remembering to forget and forgetting to remember 

On loving, always 

Authors are assassinated, readers are immortal 

When you turn 80... 

It is good to be conscious of nudities  

Saturday slides in after Monday and Sunday somersaults into Friday  

There's a one in a million and a one in ten 

Gunadasa Kapuge is calling 

Kumkum Fernando installs Sri Lanka in Coachella, California 

Hemantha Gunawardena's signature 

Pathways missed 

Architectures of the demolished 

The exotic lunacy of parting gifts 

Who the heck do you think I am? 

Those fascinating 'Chitra Katha' 

The Mangala Sabhava 

So how are things in Sri Lanka? 

The most beautiful father 

Palmam qui meruit ferat 

The sweetest three-letter poem 

Buddhangala Kamatahan 

An Irish and Sri Lankan Hello 

Teams, team-thinking, team-spirit and leadership 

The songs we could sing in lifeboats when we are shipwrecked 

Pure-Rathna, a class act 

Jekhan Aruliah set a ball rolling in Jaffna 

Awaiting arrivals unlike any other 

Teachers and students sometimes reverse roles 

Matters of honor and dignity 

Yet another Mother's Day 

A cockroach named 'Don't' 

Colombo, Colombo, Colombo and so forth 

The slowest road to Kumarigama, Ampara 

Sweeping the clutter away 

Some play music, others listen 

Completing unfinished texts 

Mind and hearts, loquacious and taciturn 

I am at Jaga Food, where are you? 

On separating the missing from the disappeared 

Moments without tenses 

And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have) 

The world is made of waves 


The circuitous logic of Tony Muller 

Rohana Kalyanaratne, an unforgettable 'Loku Aiya' 

Mowgli, the Greatest Archaeologist 

Figures and disfigurement, rocks and roses 

Sujith Rathnayake and incarcerations imposed and embraced 

Some stories are written on the covers themselves 

A poetic enclave in the Republic of Literature 

Landcapes of gone-time and going-time  

The best insurance against the loud and repeated lie 

So what if the best flutes will not go to the best flautists? 

There's dust and words awaiting us at crossroads and crosswords 

The books of disquiet 

A song of terraced paddy fields 

Of ants, bridges and possibilities 

From A through Aardvark to Zyzzyva  

World's End 

Words, their potency, appropriation and abuse 

Street corner stories 

Who did not listen, who's not listening still? 

The book of layering 

If you remember Kobe, visit GOAT Mountain 

The world is made for re-colouring 

The gift and yoke of bastardy 

The 'English Smile' 

No 27, Dickman's Road, Colombo 5 

Visual cartographers and cartography 

Ithaca from a long ago and right now 

Lessons written in invisible ink 

The amazing quality of 'equal-kindness' 

A tea-maker story seldom told 

On academic activism 

The interchangeability of light and darkness 

Back to TRADITIONAL rice 

Sisterhood: moments, just moments 

Chess is my life and perhaps your too

Reflections on ownership and belonging 

The integrity of Nadeesha Rajapaksha 

Signatures in the seasons of love

To Maceo Martinet as he flies over rainbows 

Sirith, like pirith, persist 

Fragrances that will not be bottled  

Colours and textures of living heritage 

Countries of the past, present and future 

A degree in creative excuses

Books launched and not-yet-launched 

The sunrise as viewed from sacred mountains 

The ways of the lotus 

Isaiah 58: 12-16 and the true meaning of grace 

The age of Frederick Algernon Trotteville 

Live and tell the tale as you will 

Between struggle and cooperation 

Of love and other intangibles 

Neruda, Sekara and literary dimensions 

The universe of smallness 

Paul Christopher's heart of many chambers 

Calmness gracefully cascades in the Dumbara Hills 

Serendipitous amber rules the world 

Continents of the heart
The allegory of the slow road