Gulbaden

I am never thirsty when I'm in my mother's presence...

Beautiful, passive, active, living Light.

Mother of my being and of my soul.

I am eternally quenched knowing,

That from His Divine harvest,

I came through you,

I came to you.

That I can be you.

Hope. Purpose. Grace. Light.

Roundabout 2011

This is the best time of the year, even though it's not quite over, it's nearing completion and so there's plenty inspiration for reflection of what's happened, the promise for the year ahead to take a leap off this one, and the current that carries me through the few weeks to the end. The waterfall of writing that awaits come December/January. It's also the first week of Zil Haj. There are incredibly powerful, wistful memories tied to these days of the trip I made with my parents and siblings in 2005.

Hajj was Rumi-esque, reflective, soulful, cohesive for us and a wholesome, contemplative experience.
Hajj was an expansion of soul, heart, spirit, mind.
Hajj is as no other journey has ever been.

And every year seems to have it's own set of trumps, triumphs and setbacks for whatever reason. But the progress is always undeniably forward and upward with faces touched by sunshine.

It's been a roundabout year all-in-all, but what an exhilarating one indeed!

Thinking things

There was a time when I wrote diligently and copiously at this space, this blog. Social media demands, life and bookish stuff have made for a rather divided year in terms of time and loyalties. From June and the short story challenge to now, much has happened to bring me to the near end of this year. Gratitude fills the pockets of air around me. Belly of Fire launched in Polokwane on the 21 September to a packed media event and sparked off fabulous energy for our book tour. Love Books hosted WordFire for the Johannesburg launch on October 5th, by far the most delightful of the launches yet, and Exclusive Books launched the book for us in Durban this past weekend, Sunday 23rd.
It's onward to Cape Town now, soon after Eid. My heart overflows with the engaged responses. The love and support has been tremendous. And 2011 has delivered Beauty in oh so many ways, at my door.

All booklaunch pics at Facebook and flickr

Chain Gang Challenge

Aaah, fascinating Monday it is out in Johannesburg... I've just arrived off a flight from Durban, after a weekend of family fun in the sun, and I'm sitting with a team of writers out in Mellville, on a chain gang writers challenge for Short Story Day South. So check out the website as our stories go live!

www.shortstorydaysouth.co.za

Xxx

Madeeha on Writing...

My niece, Madeeha will be four next month.
Yesterday she asked me, 'So, masi, why did you go to Cape Town?'
'I went to a writer's convention,' I said, watching her in wait for what was certainly to be a volley of questions.
'What's a con-ven-shun?' she asked carefully.
'A place where writers get together and talk about their work. So, I talk about my work, and other writers talk about their work. And we sit around looking at these beautiful mountains surrounding us, and then we feel like writing some more, and so we write!' I said with a big smile, thinking that's probably the best way to describe it to a toddler-type.
'Oh,' she said. A serious look adorned her face. 'Well, you should tell them that I'm a writer, too!' she exclaimed. 'And so I should come to Cape Town with you, the next time they all go there, so I can talk about my work!'
'Uh-huh!' I said. 'You're right. You should!'
And then she smiled. It's a deal. A done deal by the look and sound of it.

I wanted to go to the library when I was four, and so Mum took me. I had my first encounter with Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit, there. Madeeha, wants to go to a writer's convention so that she can talk about her work ;)
I love this little girl!

xoxo

key: masi - aunt (mother's sister)

Islamic Relief's Book Day 2011

Dear Islamic Relief South Africa

Thanks again for the opportunity to be a part of the IR Book Day. I am passionate about reading and loved the opportunity to witness the great efforts that IRSA is making to engage a love for reading with young learners especially in an organisation such as Osizweni place of help, where it seems that primary care givers are not parents necessarily and resources are stretched. Your aid and support to such courses as a team, highlight the methods taught to us as in the prophetic model.

I can only commend you and your team for the immense inspiration that I received by being present there. Bright faces filled with expectation are nothing less than looking at the glory of a clear blue sky. I feel glad that the work that is being done will fulfill these expectations and ignite the love for both reading and storytelling in children. Children have a natural capacity to dream, to wish and to fantasize. If reading helps to stretch their fresh imaginations to new limits, and then also if we are able to encourage them to write and tell their stories, I believe that we will give birth to a whole new generation of writers, storytellers from the colourful blend of cultures that we have in SA. And the idea is also to write and orate these stories from different languages other than just English.

The way I see it, IRSA's Book Day efforts have struck a match, and that spark that has been fired up in the kids hearts and minds is exactly what we need to give rise to a whole generation of new thinkers and dreamers!

With appreciation,
SH

Mustafa

How insane is this passage of time?
About a year ago, my sister and I were running around getting 'last minute things' done; visiting a friend who we'd intended to visit as she had been widowed after a car crash, packed my bags as I was leaving for Cape Town before the end of week, and done other basic errands; we'd even managed to get a lunch outing in along with some shopping. Later that night, she went into labour and in the early hours of the next morning, 25 May 2010, my nephew, Mustafa Ebrahim/Gaba was born.

I'd had a dream about him just that evening. I dreamt that I was in a meeting and that I was introducing a tall suited man beside me as my nephew :)

And today, just past his first birthday (amid a week long celebration between grandparents and the rest of us), I'm sitting here wondering, where did this year go to?

All I can be certain of is the greatness of life, love and precious moments. And full appreciation for the gifts that come our way.

Peace, Freedom and other wild fantasies

I've dreamed of peace and freedom ever since I was a little girl. That one day, things would change, and I would finally grow wings. It never happened.
But then, one day, I woke up and realised, that the thing I wanted more than anything, was to fly, and that that was never on the cards for a reason: I'm a human being, and not a bird or a unicorn or some ill-placed-in-time flying dinosaur. I'm a person.

And I learned that freedom isn't a different kind of mobility; it's a different way of being, a mind free of conditioning that's so lavishly lathered onto you from a very young age, and it's a demeanor of your own choosing. Freedom is peace. And peace, in and of yourself, is freedom.
I stopped dreaming of wings, and changed my focus.
I got wings, and dropped those ego boundaries.
I became one with Us.
You became Me.
Love became eternal.
The world reached the clouds.
Sky melted into the earth.
Life taught us Oneness. We experienced Peace. Love seeped into us.
We inherited a new legacy. We discovered anew: Freedom is.

On Visiting Newclare Cemetery

I had just one wish on my birthday in February this year, and that was to visit the grave of my maternal grandfather. Perhaps it was a frivolous wish and so the universe put to the test just how much I wanted to go there. And maybe to figure out why...
And so a whole month later, on the 13 March, I finally made my way to the Newclare cemetery in Johannesburg, with my brother and a friend.
The experience was probably more profound than I had the humility to anticipate.
I think we'd been there as kids. I had only vague recollection. But it all didn't make much sense back then.
Here was a man we had never known, but heard of in so many anecdotal references along the years. And so we had over the years, pieced together a character with likes and tastes and moods. The stories overlapped from the lips of my mom, my dad (who knew him because, as it happens, my maternal and paternal grandfathers were cousins somehow) and from other family members.
My grandmother rarely speaks of him. In our shared moments, on occasion and when probed, she has said to me that losing him felt as though a light went out in her life. But the metaphor was rather literal as well. She said it was just as quickly as that. You flip the switch on a light and it's gone! Wrapped in this narrative of reverance and deep sense of loss, that was all I've had to work with over the years. Needless to say, there's always been the unspoken 'what-if' of what life would have been like if he really had been around today. But I'm understand that the passage of time here is finite. And so the wonderings dissolve.

In this very same cemetery, an old and peaceful stretch of land that has long been filled to it's capacity, is to be found a section of child graves. A few paces apart are each of my grandmother's sons: one born in May 1954, and having passed away in Dec 1956 and Baby M born/died in 1961. Little is known about their medical conditions. Or maybe just little spoken about their demise. And my mom was too little to remember much.
A simple green and white board over my grandfather's grave indicates a timeline for his life 1928-1969. Emotion overwhelms me. Not an inherent sadness, but a peaceful joy. It's as though the physical manifestation of years of stories is made apparent right then and there. It's as though time has drawn a line for me from all the many images that brought into existence lifetime's before I came into being, and that will continue to dot between our generational paths long after my time on this earth has passed. And perspective flashes as lightning; my view is transformed at once. There is no devastation at present; rather we are measured in the way we are able to intercept and transcend the challenges placed before us.

Peace is a place inside.
It is also a sense of belonging to ones self.
Knowing that we're just one dot on that line. That a thread exists before us and that it moves effortlessly, inevitably ahead.

My birthday wish is complete.

S

Huda - Rightly Guided

I'm not sure that we truly take into account the wonders of birthing until a child is cradled in our arms. Tiny perfection exists in quite that way: in the form of a newborn. Huda, my newest niece, was born after much contemplation at 16h51 pm on Thursday, 24 Feb. A daughter for Sarfaraaz and Amina, and a baby cousin sister for Madeeha and Mustafa, the reason I say 'after much contemplation' is because Amina carried to full term (40 weeks) and experienced a long 16 hour labour with immense effort from brave mum and extremely courageous baby girl. Also, it did seem as though baby was contemplating her entry into the world.
And so she finally made her arrival amid two sets of thrilled grandparents, and of course parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and extended family members all in all.

She's beautiful What else can I say? Or need I even?
God is Great.

And another fabulous February person has arrived! :D

xoxo

someday

someday,
i will write a poem about you...

someday,
when my fingers have wrinkled
more than my face
from all the makeshift laughter
and the inherited sorrow,
when my tears have dried
and the scent of rose
only just lingers, fleeting
like a memory.

someday,
when the titter of children
playing in the street below
aren't very different from
birds flying past my window,
i will write a poem
about you.

when mothers no longer bury their
dead babies,
partying lovers don't drown their laughter
in tears, or shroud their tears in laughter.
someday,
when it is all silent again,
when the light has dimmed
and the noise has cleared.

someday,
when all is restored
as it was meant to be;
then on that day,
i will write that poem about you.

White is a colour...

White is a colour. Anybody who says otherwise has never had the joy of sloshing about in the snow. My very first, as yet abstract experience was rather grim. Having landed in Frankfurt in the early hours of Friday 3 December, I was treated to the laments of frustrated passengers from around the world who had been eagerly waiting to get their flight to Berlin for Christmas. Many had been waiting for a flight for over 24 hours. The delayed flight schedule was the result of new blankets of snow covering the city.
Anxiety crept stealthily through the waiting lounge, reflected on the faces of travellers. I felt it too, as the ground staff announced further delays every ten minutes or so. Until finally, just over an hour had passed beyond what would have been our departure time, and the boarding gates opened.

Of course, it would be yet another 45 minutes before take-off, but then we were all set to our destination Berlin.

And a beautiful sight awaited us on arrival...

It didn't matter that we had just stepped into a city that allowed us a drop of some 30 degrees Celcius. A scorching Johannesburg had just bid us farewell at 22 degrees the evening before, and Berlin boasted an icy welcome at -8 degrees. Generous lather of bright white snow covered pathways, trees and buildings. A steady trickle of snow flakes continued to make its way to the ground. Delighted, I eagerly shoved my waterproof K-way gloves into the pockets of my down-padded jacket, slipped back my fur beanie and gathered handfuls of the soft ice.

There is a first time for everything, and this was my first encounter with snow.

S-N-O-W

A gush of wind whistled past my face, freezing a silly smile in place. Adrenalin was not to let this cold get the better of me. At this point, cold is just a word in the dictionary. Google it. Really. It is just a word! It means nothing compared to the precious experience that can transport a stuffy academic back to the days of childhood wonder and discovery.

And it renders beautiful a puzzled city of brilliant old architecture, remnants of pre-fab ugliness and gloomy grey skies. The snow adds colour. And Berlin comes alive! The streets are filled with grace, filled with smiling faces, filled with the festive glow of Christmas and the promise of newness.

White is a colour. A vibrant one at that!

Berlin sparkles because of it.

Blessed Showers

It's raining beautiful sheets of silver on my last day here in Polokwane. Just last night, I sat looking at the blank tissues of this screen and pondered the many things that have infiltrated my mind of late. I tend to do this. Usually on my last day at my parents home. Especially, at the close of yet another year.

There's something beautiful, replenishing about a rainy day like today. Like it's not an ending but a beginning, yet again. The scent of promise lingers. An announcement echoes from the heavens. There is yet much to look forward to, of that I am sure. And home will always be right here for when I need to return into it's embrace.

'Reflection' and 'Contemplation' are twins of course. And 'Appreciation' is a far-related, but necessary cousin. She's always invited to the party :)

Love and Light,
S

A million days of hope...

A million stars,
A million promises,
A million days of hope.

Days of sunshine,
follow
Nights of rain.

There can only be
good to
come
of
this.

Rain On Me

Three doors,
crowd me,
hover, patiently.

Three choices,
life presents to me.

Number one:
'Earn your wings,'
- the choice to fly.

Number two:
'Stay grounded,'
- my own roots!

Number three:
'Have rain,
make rain,
be rain!'

As ever before,
I choose the one that
intrigues me,
holds me,
spellbinding-ly.

Rain seeps into my skin
I drink it in

New being blossoms;
This is rebirth.
A new me pretends to
implode
from within.

A rush of blood
and energy,
A surge of gratitude.
Newness. A new me.

Joy is rain.
Rain, life.
Life rains down on me.
I rain.
'Drink it,' Life says.
I say, 'Drink it in!'

Insane in Time

It's been an insane year. So much so that it's evident in me not having blogged here for almost two months. That's seven weeks or so. My reference to insanity is not said as a bad thing, although I do miss my blog.
But the insanity is also a fabulous time to reflect on the passage of the ten months that 2010 has been, and the very fleeting two remaining months that will be.
Even though its been a very quickly melting year, I've often in the past not been able to account for these quick spurts of time. This year is most different, and I have much to be thankful for.
And so when I have those moments when I come up for air, I know and remember to be grateful to the Source of all my creativity, starting from the breath that sustains me on a daily basis.

And to 2010. Thank you for being the rollercoaster of delights that you have been. Thank you for the promises that you have laid before me that will continue this gregarious festive energy well into the new year. Thank you for the highs, the open doors, the lifted ceilings, the fresh air, the wonderful people that I am able to work and play with and the very thing that makes life worth every bit: Love.

What point would the M4K blog have if it wasnt to appreciate the advent of the blook in its name, Memoirs For Kimya, right?
M4K will be distributed as a gift book by some women's empowerment initiatives and corporates in the coming weeks. And I will be off to Germany with Daughters are Diamonds and my research on violence and gender during the first two weeks of December to present at a conference at Humboldt University. And then, its the new year. The New Year.

God is Great.

The Banquet

For some people
love is delivered
fresh from the oven,
aromatic as a prayer,
to be consumed only
after a ritualized
washing of hands.
Others meet God five
times a day:
each time they are hungry
God manifests on a plate
to fill them up.
This banquet is beyond religion,
more personal than breath,
universal.
The spent soul is replenished
through the echoing chamber
of an empty, grateful body,
each of its cells saying
repeatedly
thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.


Poem "The Banquet" from 'The Everyday Wife' (2010) by Phillippa Yaa de Villiers.

Happy 60th Birthday, Dad!

It's my dad's 60th birthday.

There was a time when I thought that 60 was the furthest thing.
Life has a way of affording us a change in perspective. I now fraternize with people in the age category 70 - 90. People of sound mental capacity. People who once trained as military cadres, spent time in the damp wasteland of prisons and roamed the globe in exile from the place they called home, for daring to stand up to the apartheid regime.

All this, and the general notion of relativity, make my dad turning 60 seem not really as age-relevant as a celebration of milestones, once again. Sixty is no doubt a defining and momentous occasion. It is also a reason to look back and reflect, something that I am certain he does a lot of on his own; often sharing those musings with our often impressionable ears.
But it is also a time for me to reflect on the journey that both our relationship as father and daughter, and our friendship as two not dissimilar beings has taken.

I've written and reflected on this before; a post called Driving Dad Crazy is among my favourite.
I've also had some opportunities for example, to publicly, albeit spontaneously, honour him when he walked in on a session at the Limpopo Legislature, where I directed the programme for the YCAwards and I happened to be speaking about the role of educators and parents in a child's development. My parents have played a significant and indelible role in my development, in the dynamic of who I am. And so there he was, sitting at the top of the indoor arena, smiling, suited in his classic well-groomed way. Smiling, that warm, encouraging smile. I have basked in this paternal glow of pride and love that is cast over me on every other day.

We're different and yet the same; knowing each other especially because of that sameness in the balance. It's true that fathers are the ordinary seeming heroes in our lives; at first purely because they're our fathers, and later precisely because of being only human, and real to us in every way.

I owe many stages of development to him who is my one and only Dad.
Happy 60th to this 'little girls' forever hero.

With a heart filled with love and appreciation,
Shafinaaz Sikander Hassim

words like honey

today was one of those thirst quenching days.
i read the words of a fellow poet and floated about
for most of the rest of the morning.
mostly because he is one of my favourite contemporary writers.
he spins words into threads of gold. beauty!

and the request was to read the new manuscript
and then to write the foreword for the soon-to-be-published work.
i am astounded by the profound offer.
and humbled.
and honoured.
and delighted!

Imagined differences

Something fascinating happened this weekend. I met someone for dinner, had a chat, and a whole new world opened in my experience of life.

This is how it happens. Every once in a while you meet someone who affects a shift in your thinking. Or provides the answers to some of the questions you've been mulling over. Or erases some of the doubts you have been holding onto regarding something or the other.

Something. sOmething. SomeThing. There's always something that someone does, says or implies that causes something to stir in you. Realisation, joy, fear, anger, doubt, reassurance. Something.

For the most part, I think its that if we allow ourselves to open our hearts and minds to the world view of yet another person, a new learning happens for us.
Why some of us choose to close off this option is beyond me. But then, ignorance is a dreaded bliss; an empty bliss for most.

Everyday, we are as a vessel, filled and emptied. And in the ebb and flow of the life force, we are a moving energy, merging, engaging, being super-imposed with the energies of others. If you are a vat of positive, dynamic energy, you will find some people gravitating towards you in order to quench a thirst in themselves. Or they will resent your ability to drink from the ocean of life.
Life affords us opportunities to replenish ourselves or to cleanse ourselves so that we're not drained by the flow of energy. Being self aware is about finding equilibrium as often as possible. And self realisation is necessary for real growth.

Its really left up to us to identify these moments and to absorb them; to make them a part of the journey of awareness.

These moments reinforce the idea that the stories we live are the blueprint for a collage of universal living. And that we need to write these. That we need them to become part of something larger. Human biography is not just about documenting the art of life. Sharing them is a way of celebrating our humanity, rather than concentrating on our imagined differences.