IBPaterson

12/03/2026

Climbing Neelkanth Mahadev

Barefoot, fenced in, and guided by a young, charming guru.

Shree Neelkanth Mahadev Temple clings to the mountainside. Shiva’s mythological story—poison and salvation—is etched into every stone. Visiting the temple on an auspicious day was a popular choice, and the taxi return journey took longer than the walk up.
Colour and devotion everywhere.

Gmraduation day at the ashram: certificates, saris, Bollywood dancing, much joy and some sorrow to say farewell to new friends as we scatter around the globe.

11/03/2026

Shiva’s Rishikesh

The Ganges winds through Rishikesh. Shiva watches silently.
Parmarth Niketan Ashram glimmers with ritual and reflection. Here, spiritual stories are lived daily, not just told.

Order from seeming chaos. Somehow it just works.

10/03/2026

Flow Over Schedule

I planned to post in order, but India has its own rhythm. Flow wins.
From a cup of masala chai and paneer paratha to capturing motion in abstract photography, I’m collecting sparks that will become future paintings.

The Ganges descends as a goddess, purifying everything she touches—heaven, earth, and the depths below. Motion, breath, water—everything connected.

09/03/2026

Rishikesh Beginnings

Orange, ochre, and infinite devotion. In Rishikesh, Sadhus, Swamis, and Sannyasis move through streets that pulse with life—and cows, monkeys, and dogs wander freely alongside.

Learning yoga here demands precision. Some poses are easier without legs—sometimes, adaptation is everything.

A reminder: the power of breath and alignment is profound. Who knew the body and mind could awaken so quietly, so deeply?

24/01/2026

16/01/2026

Yoga on the beach beside the Ganges.

13/01/2026

1987

The first time I came to India was in 1987.
I was backpacking then, travelling by train and bus, collecting impressions.

This time I’m here on a yoga course that leads to a teaching certificate.
I have no desire to teach.
What I want, much more strongly, is to remain a student.

A student of yoga in its wider sense.
Of the eight limbs, not just the shapes we make with our bodies.
I’m here for the long apprenticeship.
For the slow work of noticing what changes, and what doesn’t.

Since 1987, some changes are beyond belief.
Technology. Speed. Phones and screens.

And yet, so much feels untouched.
Street animals and humans still move through the same spaces, negotiating life without an obvious hierarchy.
Humans, cattle, dogs, monkeys, donkeys, horses. Everyone is getting on with life.

I remember other pre-dawn starts.
An Indian road trip, climbing into the mountains, hairpin bends and a certain disregard for gravity.
Then the final ascent on foot. Three hundred-plus steps. This time to the Mata Balkumari Temple near AnandVan. 

At the top, the sun appears above the horizon. No spectacle. No announcement.
Just light doing what it has always done.

The differences are small but telling.
Crash barriers now line the edges of the precipice.
Less welcome is the buzz of a drone, slicing through the stillness of sunrise like an irritating insect.

11/01/2026

Having a chat with one of the locals.

06/01/2026

Offering Light

In January, Rishikesh is almost windless.

The Himalayas hold the air steady as the Ganges leaves the mountains and begins its long journey south.

At sunset, that stillness fills with fire.

The Ganga Aarti continues much as it has for centuries. A devotional ritual of offering light (fire) to the sacred Ganges River, personified as the goddess Maa Ganga.

Not staged, not explained. An ancient evening ritual offered to the river itself. Flames rise. Bells sound. Smoke lifts, then slips downwind, revealing the smallest movements of air the mountains allow.

Here, the wind barely announces itself.

It shows up in smoke, in ash, in the way flame leans and steadies.

Different land, different wind.

Still shaping what can be seen.

Some places teach you how to look.

06/01/2026

Offering of Light

In January, Rishikesh is almost windless.
The Himalayas hold the air steady as the Ganges leaves the mountains and begins its long journey south.

At sunset, that stillness fills with fire.
The Ganga Aarti continues much as it has for centuries. A devotional ritual of offering light (fire) to the sacred Ganges River, personified as the goddess Maa Ganga. Not staged, not explained. An ancient evening ritual offered to the river itself. Flames rise. Bells sound. Smoke lifts, then slips downwind, revealing the smallest movements of air the mountains allow.

Here, the wind barely announces itself.
It shows up in smoke, in ash, in the way flame leans and steadies.
Different land, different wind.
Still shaping what can be seen.
Some places teach you how to look.

02/01/2026

The Practice of Paying Attention.

I’m reading The Creative Act by Rick Rubin again. It’s a book that doesn’t resolve itself. Each return exposes something I missed.

He writes about creativity as something we tune into rather than produce. About attention. Sensitivity. Becoming an antenna rather than a generator. Creating space so what’s already there can be noticed.

That way of thinking mirrors how I work with attention and perception.

I’m running an experiment on myself. Can attention be trained? Can sensitivity be sharpened? Can the antenna be adjusted, like trim on a sail, so it responds intuitively to what’s already in motion?

At home, that responsiveness dulls. Familiarity breeds automation. Over Christmas, output dropped away—short days, low light, predictable inner weather. Even writing became a task rather than an enquiry, and the posting rhythm broke.

The wind offers a useful counterpoint. It’s everywhere, but it never behaves the same way twice. Its force and texture depend entirely on where you stand. You don’t control it. You learn to stand in it, to read it, and to appreciate both the intensity of a storm and the quiet of still air.

I’m in India to catch a different wind. To feel how it moves across land, bodies and breath. And to observe what that does to my own levels of energy and precision.

I’m about to begin a 200-hour yoga course in Rishikesh. Not as a fitness project or escape, as a disciplined way of working with attention, perception and constraint.

This is the experiment.
If I work consistently with visible forces, the physical ones, can that recalibrate how I respond to the less visible currents that shape creative work?

No conclusions.
Only better data.

24/12/2025

Bliss in the Stillness

Christmas Eve in the city, and I find myself looking for stillness rather than escape. Yin and yang feel literal today. You cannot have wind without stillness, and this morning the balance has tipped. High pressure has settled, cool air sinks, and the clouds thin. Without warm air rising, there is no pressure to equalise, so the air rests. The wind hasn’t disappeared. It simply has no reason to move.

That outer stillness sharpens my awareness of my inner one. Since my parents died, Christmas has become a solitary affair. Not something I would have chosen, but something I have learned to accept. Acceptance carries its own quiet structure. Within it, a steadier peace emerges and within the peace lies bliss. An exercise in inner stillness, practised rather than sought.

This is where the work keeps circling back. I often ask how to paint the wind, how to photograph it. But on a day like this, the more complex question is how to capture stillness. Not a frozen moment or an empty street, but the felt experience of brief pockets of calm in a city that runs on constant motion, interrupted only briefly.

Perhaps that’s why I’m paying such close attention. This calm is temporary. Next week I fly to India, where seeking stillness will take a very different form. The thought brings butterflies. Not anxiety. "Butterflies in your stomach" is an older description, one I grew up with, and it feels more accurate. The same bodily sensation now gets labelled anxiety far too quickly, when it can just as easily signal anticipation, excitement, or readiness. 

Stillness today. Movement soon. Different states of the same energy.