Steal

In the dream, we had to steal ourselves from each other. Our gaze held for a moment of eternity, my hand clutching his forearm in a beseeching gesture reflected in my dark eyes, and his struggle not to take me in his arms was just as evident in his expression. Such was our passion, strong yet barely contained. The train charged on relentlessly, oblivious to us and noisy, and the compartment in which we sat side by side was a little dark compared to the early morning sky that was visible outside the window he sat next to.

I looked at my right into his light brown eyes and noticed that his thick dark hair was falling messily around his face and in a way that made him look more handsome. “Please”, I said to him in a pleading whisper. His finely carved facial muscles seemed to work in response and his eyes pierced mine in a soul searching stare so intense it was dizzying. I knew he was caressing my face with his eyes, knew he was kissing me to my very deepest ends without touching me, and it was agonizing and beautiful at the same time. His control was just as strong as his desire, and just as enticing.

But even our passion couldn’t deter the train from its destination, and the brisk movements of other passengers throughout the train, whatever their earnest quests may be, made us seem like a tiny dot on the map of existence. So I broke the stare that seared me and looked ahead and concentrated on getting ahead, along with the train that couldn’t give in, like me, and wouldn’t stop.

Interference

Have you ever looked at an old picture of yourself and thought, “I miss you”? I catch myself doing that with my childhood pictures; the ones I look happy in and with lots of family. I miss that carefree lightness of spirit and absolute certainty of what is and what is not desirable. The absence of doubts and ease of laughter, the simplicity of the world back when.

 

Nevertheless, in many ways, I’ve been my own worst critic and punisher. If there is something I really regret, it is not cutting myself enough slack as a child – I knew what I had to do always, did it as best I could, and when it wasn’t good enough I would beat me up. Losing at a game of cards with my cousins, it was me I was mad at, not anyone else. “How could you be so stupid, why aren’t you doing better?” I would tell myself. And I am not entirely sure my parents made me that way, it’s probably some inherent quality I was born with, some internal propensity for self-reproach that is not necessarily acquired during early childhood.

 

The “voices”, I’ve come to call it. They were strong at childhood, quieted down during most of my teenage years, and then resurfaced with force during college. Then, I met the work force and it was a happy acquaintance; the voices generally quieted again, despite some quick snappy appearances they made at certain points of my 11-year relationship with work.  Admittedly, this is the first time that I actually sit down to look closely at the development of the voices. Am I late? There’s no such thing as “too late”, but honestly I wish I had the clarity of mind (and courage) to analyze this sooner.

 

Looking at the basic timeline drawn above, it looks like staying productive helps to soothe the reproachful voices. Also if I remember correctly, all the phases when those voices were silent (relatively speaking) were associated with patches of high self-esteem and confidence. Feeling useful, appreciated and confident – and I must add feeling confident about my body image – generally helps. I was a chubby timid child who couldn’t run or make enough jokes out of shyness. The fact that I got straight A’s made some kids jealous and distant too. My twin sisters were their own best friends, their own compact unit. Getting through to them was hard and unsatisfying on many levels during our childhood years. The result was a kind of loneliness that was gone only through books.

 

A book wouldn’t call me names or decide I was too slow to play hide and seek. I bought my first novel when I was nine, out of my own pocket money. The candy I sacrificed for it! But of course it was worth every lost jelly bean. I was fascinated by the formation of letters into words and words into sentences; sentences that could be short or long and went on to make paragraphs and pages of ideas and thoughts and events that may or may not have happened in real life. Words that are a creation of someone’s mind, a precious product that wasn’t there until it was. Characters , places, adventures, impossible things that were made possible on paper, dreams, reality, feelings, thinking processes and speech patterns of people who reminded me of myself. I couldn’t be alone when I was with them, they re-assured me that I wasn’t that different after all.

 

And then there was the world where not only humans existed – the world where gnomes, goblins, elves, fairies and pixies lived. A realm where imagination was not bound by any laws of physics, or constricted by the dynamics of selfish human behavior; nothing was off limits in that world. I would read my favorite fantasy book and go to school the next day cocooned in the realization that the world had more to it than the jeers of unfriendly classmates.  And so I was hooked – an addiction to books and the written word ensued. I would save money and buy a new book at the rate of once every two weeks, sooner if I could (it meant a whole lot less jelly beans).

 

But, back to the “voices”. They weren’t quiet enough during that phase, and I realize the reason must have something to do with using books as an escape and an excuse for not facing up to situations. Like taking a painkiller instead of seeing a doctor and taking the right medicine. While books were soothing and blissful companions, I hadn’t quite mastered through them the art of self-confidence and healthy confrontation. They were only a painkiller. Was I too young to understand that alone? Absolutely. Do I have grudges toward my parents for not being more responsive on that front? No. For one thing, they are simple straightforward people who saw life in its most basic shades; it’s not their fault I saw more variations and felt strongly about each, even as a child.   

 

But then some maturity sets in during adolescence, and of course I meet Zamzam, my now best friend of 24 years who I met when I was eight but never really started to like till I was 11.  With her, I found true companionship at school, and through the strength that friendship gave me, I found the courage to speak up and speak out. She was the complete opposite of me when it came to self-expression. While I was naturally soft-spoken and timid, she was outrageously loud and outspoken. She made friends with everybody in minutes, or dire enemies in the same amount of time, depending on how people received her frankness. But she was noticed always! I was so attracted to that boldness of spirit and the “who cares what people think” thing going on with her. It was the type of freedom I coveted so much more than anything else. Being with her and having her support gave me that freedom, and with it the courage to express myself better. Of course being a thorough reader by that time made my self-expression all the more to the point. The school noticed, and they introduced me to the stage. And boy was I in love.

 

So by thirteen, I was asked to perform on stage because of my ability to express myself. Poetry, plays, exhibitions of literary works, dances. It was terrifying, exhilarating, and so re-enforcing all at once. I loved the stage, loved its smell, the costumes, the sound of the wood planks as we moved, the way the light fell on the actors, the way all of the actors felt scared to death before the curtain but still performed beautifully when it was time. The comradery of it all, all of us being in that same boat. I also loved facing an audience that was ready to listen, that was waiting on every delicate nuance of the words that were coming out of my mouth, and I knew I was doing a good job because of their immediate reaction – their satisfied faces, their applause, their awed silence…nothing quite comes close. I was slimmer by that time. The timid girl was gone, and so were the voices for a long time.

 

And then I went to college. And hell broke loose. For one thing, my best friend had moved to another country before the end of high school. For another, I moved to another country – my own – for settling in forever. In short, it was devastating; not just because I was missing my best friend (my only real friend), or having to live with my grandma in her house in a neighborhood that was – to say the least - a rough opposite of the one I used to live in. Or that the rest of my family didn’t move with me at that point. Or that the culture shock was unpredictably strong. What made it so devastating was that the first boy I loved left me. I’d met him the summer before, he was our neighbor (in our own neighborhood), and we fell in love in a matter of days.

 

At sixteen, it felt like the world was made for our love. Nothing mattered but finishing high school and moving to Egypt so we can be together. It was all planned, we were going to graduate and get married. But only two months after college started, he decided he was done with me. (At some point after we graduated, he wanted to get back together but I couldn't do it). With this and the pressures of the new life, the voices returned. Strong as ever. Holding me back every step of the way. Books were a balm but just barely. Reality was too strong. Cairo was a beast of noise and dust and stark humanity. I loved it, I had always dreamed of settling in it, but little did I know about how it loved you back. It’s the type of love that could strangle; deep in the heart of the beast are good intentions but its hold on you is just too tight your ribs have to break in its embrace. Well, until you learn to hold it at arm’s length.

 

That knowledge came eventually. It was in the middle of my sophomore year that things started to look up again. The professors liked me, I was making a friend or two, and my grandma was finally convinced that we should move to my father’s house, the neighborhood being nicer and all. Then one of those friends introduced me to the Quran by accident. We were in the habit of exchanging books to read, and when Ramadan of that same year approached she offhandedly said, “Don’t bring me any more books for now; I want to read the Quran this Ramadan.” I was always a Muslim and appreciated Islamic teachings, but never really understood devoutness or why people said they “loved” God. What she said made me…jealous and curious. Jealous in the sense that if she can read the Quran so can I, such a childishly competitive thought! And curious as to why such an avid reader would put off reading for a whole month just to read the Quran. And the answer came when I started reading the Holy Book on the second day of the Holy month of Ramadan.

 

It was a revelation in every word. I, who loved words, couldn’t help but be utterly taken with the most amazing words I had ever seen. I was smitten at once, with the words and with their Creator. You know how you know someone from reading him. Well the Quran is the most honest expression of who God is, nothing describes Him better than His own words, not only the parts that actually describe Him, but every word is a lesson in mercy and compassion beyond this world, a thesis on who He is. And who He is is unspeakably magnificent. In that way, I was re-introduced to Islam and found it breathtaking in two major ways. For one, its simplicity is staggering – there is no complication in how we can reach to God. He’s so accessible all the time; no special mediators or preparations are needed, all you need is to call on Him, and He promises to respond every time. As He says in His book: “Call on me and I respond.”  That simple; I ask and He responds! The other distinctly fascinating thing about Islam is the fiercely monotheistic nature of the worship and focus of a Muslim’s life. How everything always boils down to that sharp focus of only worshipping one entity; God. As in nothing is worth worshipping other than Him – not money, not status, not other people, not a man you’re in love with, not a job, no political office, nothing. All of these things are actually encouraged to be sought in this life, but without the desperation for them, and always as means to leave the world better (and in so doing please God), rather than as ends in themselves. The freedom brought on by truly embracing these aspects of my religion gave me such peace that I almost forgot the voices existed. My spiritual plane was that high.

 

For the most part, life was without voices for the rest of college. I loved and lost again, but was stronger in the process despite the occasional voice or two. I was twenty when I graduated top third of my class. It took me three quick jobs in succession to find my current career of ten years, and during the first four, the voices – which by that time I started also referring to as “the interference” – were light visitors related to isolated events of some challenge or another. Dancing, a passion I discovered at the time, helped keep them silent.

 

And silent were the voices when I met my husband. Until a few months into our marriage, when they really started to speak up again. And grew louder after our first kid was born. And grow louder still, no matter what I do. But do something I must. For that book-loving child of nine I can see in that school picture smiling with her classmates. And for the four year old brave little girl laughing at her uncle while the snake coiled on top of her head. And for my kids. I don’t want to look at their pictures later in life and think “I’m sorry.”

 

Laughter

What is it about laughter that is so soothing to the soul. There must be some chemical thing going on in a human body during laughter that really works. Personally I feel lighter when I laugh, not just in my soul in the lyrical sense, but also physically. It's like there's a bounce in my steps, an actual weight off.

I miss the type of laughter my best friend of 24 years and I used to have. It was the best ever. Our conversations ended almost always in hysterical laughter, not least because she was so funny, and I so appreciative of humor. That's another thing; I have always been attracted to humor. As another smart best friend of mine puts it, "the power of humor in a relationship is big." I can't agree more; people who can laugh together share undeniably strong chemistry. It's the power of seeing the world similarly...I think.

So when someone cracked me up at work today and I gave in to this feeling of complete surrender to humor I was many pounds lighter. So much more centered, I could reach into the good corners of my mind and let them take over for a good minute. And fly a little.

In a manner of speaking, it’s a happy time for me. Work’s busy, deadlines are clashing, people are arguing, there is potential for movement, I’m nervous as hell, and in a crazy kind of way it’s making me happier than I’ve been for years. The fact that I’d rather be in nervous turmoil at work than have a relaxed schedule with minimum deliverables only bothers me a little. Ha! Workaholic? Hmm…I won’t dwell on that now, maybe later.

Another thing I'm enjoying that I never used to appreciate before; in fact that I used to detest, is working with mystery doors. The type that are wide open and calling you in. I've always rather preferred perfect truths and absolute yes's or no's, clear lines of acceptables and nuh-uhs, although I admittedly never admitted to this preference, not even to myself. Well maybe I honestly didn't know I preferred life that way. But this preference is quickly fading, and being replaced with a certain excitement about "not being entirely sure". You know, like having to guess my way through a day's decisions and judgments, each one at a time. I like that my feet are softer on the ground with this daily guesswork business; really enjoying the more tentative treading than the previous steady stomping.  In a way it gives an allure to normally mundane tasks, and I no longer care much about the outcome, as long as I believe I'm doing the right thing with the right heart. I really am enjoying letting go...finally!

They say letting go is an art? Well, it  must be for someone like me, a person who's kept strict perimeters for all of life's affairs, both within and without. But let's look at a mundane task that's become exciting rather than burdensome, like...say, wishing my boss good morning every day. The person I have been used to loathe this simple act. Why? Because my boss's face is the poker type and I could never fathom what he was thinking while saying "good morning" back at me. Not knowing killed me; it left me unsure of how to react to him. But for the past couple of days, I've been letting this uncertainty take an appealing edge to it; what if I can actually enjoy the mystery instead of trying to solve it. The only thing I can really control here is my intent; so if I know for sure that I'm going in to see my boss with the proper intent to be "nice", then that's all the control that I need in this situation. The rest is mystery, so let the rest be fun.

So in a way, mysteries are nicer these days. Especially when they come in the form of dreamy liquid amber, twin pools of them. Bottomless and charming and beautiful. When locked onto my own dark gaze, I'm lost. Gone. Its frightening and irresistible. And unbelievably I don't want to solve this one just yet. Why? Well...I don't know. As I said; a mystery.

    

 

 

Inspiration or something like it

I was watching my friends talk, eat, and laugh and two thoughts hit me: They are all beautiful, and I love them. Each one of them is beautiful in their own special way; their flaws, their insecurities, the nervous laughter, their craziness, the stuff that makes each one so imperfectly, so intensely human. How beautiful this delicate humanity can be! Is it strange that I was drawn to their tired eyes and fragile efforts at conversation and deliciously vulnerable attempts to make the most of a meal after a hard day at work? The fragility of all that humanness just left me humbled and staggeringly in love with them – for trying, for being “there”, despite how tied up in the grind of life they all must be.

And I just thought I was going to have dinner! Lol. Well not this time. And I think I know why. The truth is I was inspired by the strength of a certain friend. This person who I never knew was so much wiser than his years, whose strength stems from kindness rather than pride, and who decides every minute to tackle this world with humanity and peace rather than false confidence and the bravado of ordinary men. Because of course, he is not ordinary. It seems no matter how hard a hand the world deals him, he chooses to give it a second chance, and then it gets harder still, and still he would take it in stride. You’d think a person who doesn’t push back life’s shit is weak right? But not this one; he takes the struggle in and embraces it until it is no more, and that is out of his unlimited resources for compassion and tenderness. Which doesn’t even scare him one bit. And that makes this person the strongest I have ever seen. People say I’m strong but I honestly don’t measure up to this mountain of good solid kind strength. I am honored and privileged to be his friend and owe him this beautiful openness to life that enabled me to find my peace with the world and re-fall in love with it. Thanks just doesn’t do it!

So it’s no wonder I guess that today I was drawn to my friends’ subtle weaknesses. One month ago I would have rolled my eyes and said inwardly “what’s the point?” But not today; today I am inspired to seek out humanity with a bigger better heart, making a conscious decision to be stronger without pride, and kinder without fear.  

What better way to start the month of love. It really is the month of love – think of it this way, if you’re not giving up basic human needs like food and water out of love, then really what are you doing it for?! I’m choosing to see it in this light. In His love and His care, I wish my fellow humans: have a great Ramadan J