a time for peace

Life offers you many opportunities to re-establish peace in your heart, in your mind, and always where and with whom it matters most.

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.

In Memorium: Fatima Meer (1928-2010)

Power
Value
Being

There are not many people in the world who embody the essence of such words.
And those who were, are fast disappearing from our midst.

She touched lives. She angered at the way the veteran struggle was forsaken by the new dispensation. She was a pillar for the underdog. A voice for humanity.

I remember those words, as I sat and scribbled at her bedside: 'When you wake in the morning, challenge the assumptions that you have woken up with. And make sure that they don't go to bed with you again.'

The gleeful stories about Maulvi and her father, MI Meer and their visits to Gandhi's compound in Phoenix sit side by side on my laptop now. Her voice reverberates on a shiny but shame-faced digital recorder. The echoes bounce off hollow walls.

The spirit of who she was, a free one now; unhindered by the ravages of time that show only in the material plane.
The shell has been discarded.
Fatima Meer has ascended.
Rest in Peace, Prof.
Surely, He is most pleased with thee; free to rejoin now with the Most Beloved.

Inertia, Utopia, CHaOs

I cannot recall a year that went by so quickly, it felt like it had barely begun. Not for lack of having accomplished anything, though. In fact, precisely because of the years adrenalin-filled happenings, do I feel that sense of inertia still making me reel to and fro, and for the most part, vivid images meld into a belligerent blur.

This is a reflection. Not quite the customary year-end ramble.
Which is probably why I cannot find the words to express the stop-start feeling.
And, as luck and fate and the powers that be might have it,
its not over yet.

Do I sound like I'm complaining?

Hardly that.
I'm reading yet another visa script as I type; ready to set off to a desert rendezvous for a week of partying and festivity to round up the year that was.
While Dubai World crashes around us left to the folly of the markets and wanton players, some with tails between their legs, our lot might do the economy a small boost in our lavish outpourings for the next week. Shamelessly said, I know.
Such is the bane and the boon of the clad and shackled.

Ah, its been a year of abundance.
Words flow.
Joy bursts at the seams.
The trickles of sadness, loss and illness linger; keeping a necessary humility in place.
And the mirage of a brighter future looms at eye level.
2010 will be a year of togetherness.
A year of partnering on an equal ground; the dust on the battlefields will settle.
And it will be yet another year to reflect on, to learn from, and to celebrate for its lavish layers of utopia and chaos, in similar measures that maintain our humanity; that sustain all but a crass sanity.

Its not quite goodbye, yet.
But its almost there...

Love and Light,
Shafs

http://shafinaaz.com

Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim (C) 2009

Journey of Love

I feel myself revisiting Hajj 2005 in more than one way. And the process has led me down memory lane to scavenge for scraps of writing from that trip. I leave on Thursday for Saudi Arabia, to perform the Umrah pilgrimage with my loved ones. It will be the first time since that landmark Hajj four years ago. I also wonder how very much I have changed since that time... Some change is mandatory, some not so obvious.

In preparation for the Journey, I wrote this piece in November 2005:
The Pilgrim

I do hope that my style of writing has improved, although the space for reflection still exists, thankfully :) I wrote Struggling with GOodbyes just before I left, in December. (I still use words like 'whirr')

I kept a Hajj Journal for my varied encounters; for those days when I happily merged with the crowd to be a single mass of collective worship. A mass of Love. And this, the Journey of Love. I scribbled notes in the darkest hour of night when the camps in Mina finally laid to rest. And again when they awoke to the call of the early morning prayer, and the energy of people ascended to the heavens in one voice. I learnt surrender. I could not find the words to write it. I just knew. I wrote about The Hajj, soon after my return, in attempting to capture it all; but more because I wanted to reclaim that feeling once again. The evasive surreal. I could only try. My favourite piece: The Hajj.

I surrendered once more to the evasive surreal. I wrote a poem a week later: Perfect Circles suggested that even if I could not capture what was, I could own it. I made peace with me.

reclaiming authenticity

Standing on the paved concourse just in front of the old Market Theatre complex, a wave of elation washes over me. The wind flicks wisps of hair around my face. Pigeons scatter across the tarmac in front of me; a minibus trundles by. I twirl around to face my host, and the old building proudly bares it's chest to reveal it's status as Museum Africa. This is where it's all being happening; the launch of my new book: Memoirs For Kimya, the networks of creativity and all things bookish, and the energy of the literary arts infiltrating the Jozi CBD.

It's the end, now. Everything has been packed into the boots of our cars, and the backseats heave with some posters and flyers and layers of pink cloth that gave temporary flesh to the skeletons of steel tables. The azaan from the nearby Newtown mosque punctuates the calm air, spreading its sweet fragrance through the Newtown precinct. Calmness prevails. I have so much to be thankful for. To Him who renders me speechless by the Beauty that is revealed in my life.

Cars speed by on the highway within view; we're tucked away underneath the bustle of it all. I appreciate the variance: usually, I am one of those car's speeding between the North and the South on the upper levels of the highway networks, little realising the authentic value of spaces that lie beneath all that craziness. Spaces that wait to be reclaimed as the Real forces of life. Not drenched in hastiness, but rather quenched by contentment and a simple gratitude of the creative life of a city filled with history and activism; a celebration of life in every way.

And this, really, was the theme for this years Jozi Book Fair: the intention to reclaim authentic space in the city. When I met with the organisers for the last time yesterday, accolade was passed between us in a wholesome relay. A general happiness prevailed. And I know for certain that a shift in my consciousness has occurred. And I have remembered many things long forgotten in my choice to take the rollercoaster through my days. Stillness speaks :)

And there's more. Coincidence? You decide: About two weeks ago, I ordered a gift for myself. I knew at that point already, that it was a significant gift to present to myself. A gift of tranquility. A gift of seeking rest. In content, it may seem superficial compared to the symbolism in context. Let me explain...
As a child of five, I remember visiting my mother's grandfather in Potgietersrus in the Limpopo Province. He was a tall man, as even his photo's confirm, and even more so to a tiny person as a toddler might be. He used to call me 'Sakeenah' instead of 'Shafinaaz'. I often asked my mom why he chose to do this, and she would say: He knows secrets that we have yet to learn. And she would smile when saying this. I thought it was meant to pacify me. But sakeenah means tranquility. I may have been the coolness of his eyes... :)

And so in an effort to celebrate my layered forms of self-identification, I bought myself a little work of art by the artist of Soul&Paper. It's called 'Sakeenah', and was delivered to my delight, on Saturday night. Thank you!

Indeed. Stillness speaks!

adoration

I am not sure that we decide on 'objects' of adoration. Sure, there are always ways of being attracted to someone or forging close bonds and friendships that give you a sense of profound warmth, belonging and kinship. But adoration is a word that washes over me like a torrent of graceful summer rains; drenching and soothing and cleansing all at the same time. Adoration. How can you not love a word like that? :)

If you are not much of a wordlover as I am wont to be possessed by such a hobby as wordloving, then reflect on this at least: you will adore something or someone at least once in your life. You will love, yes. You will desire and yearn for and dream of and remember. But especially, you will adore, if only once in your life.

And that adoration will form the basis for almost all forms of reference. It will tell you about the object of your adoration. But it will thrill you to know that you have filled your being with the sweetness of having adored, and been engulfed for a time in adoring another. The great likelihood is that you will have been adored.

How lovely!

And you will carry with you that label of adoration; an unequivocal card of identity that will add to your resume of life a small sense of accomplishment, and even a reasonable explanation as to why the perfect heart that you were born with, might actually look a little tattered (and somewhat torn?). Just like an old book that has been read a few too many times; but is loved more now, in it's almost pitiable state, than it was when it first gleamed proudly atop a bookseller's shelf.

Aah, to adore and be adored is precisely what being alive is all about! And then to refer to it in fairytale form everytime the mind insists that such things are tricks of the fantasy writer's realm. The soul remembers. And the heart knows. Adoration is.

high tea, umbilical cords and everyday miracles

I drink copious amounts of tea when I'm writing. At least, this is something I have just taken note of. Tea seems to flow in me and through me (nasty thought, that) in the same way that muse works its way around in inspiring the words to flow. There are times when the words will not happen, of course. But the imagery is strong and so it follows me around like a watermark in my vision. I see it in view when I am driving, in the shower and nestled under a warm quilt at night. I see it when I wash my hands; it floats in the cascade of water that rushes over my fingers and mixes with the liquid soap to form clouds of foam. At times, it eventually disappears back into the recesses of my imagination and emerges in a dream. I wake up thinking and knowing that this is what happens next in my story. Past, present and future merges into one in the world of the subconscious. And in no uncertain terms, my dream state often informs my storyline, as it does my intuitive life path.

I said in my previous post, that reflections often make me spin. It's not a bad thing. Reflections, and the washing cycle cleansing that occurs in contemplation, making authentic choices and forgiving, letting go, opening oneself to new and replenished opportunities... It's a rather integral part of the life process.

I did more thinking this week when a dear friend who I have not met in years, lost her mom. I first met Elaine when we were both undergrad architecture students at Wits. We shared a studio in John Moffat, the architecture block, and I still remember painting walls and Zen-ni-fying the place before we really warmed to the place. Our other co-inhabitants were Hong and Sundeep. I also remember many hours of Five FM and the like accompanying us on long drawn hours of design collaboration, structural drawings and the ups and downs that went with being undergrad architecture students. Needless to say, the three of em graduated as architects some years later. I dropped out before my second year exam, just after the October portfolio review. That's a topic for a whole other post.

I hooked up with each of them over the last two years or so, on Facebook. Elaine Van Heerden is now Elaine Jones, married, with a beautiful baby-boy/toddler named Rowan. I love being in touch with her, the reminder of the lovely energy that emanates from her wonderful being. She lives in Ohio now. And I read her post tribute to the effect that her Mom, Theresa, passed away on Monday in Johannesburg. I never met Theresa, but I knew Elaine. And reading her heart-wrenchingly beautiful tribute drew blood. It made me wonder about distance, and love and life and death. It also made me realise that proximity is no guarantee for closeness, and being so far apart geographically, does not weaken the bonds of heart and soul; does not sever the invisible umbilical cord that ties parents and children for eternity.

There are so many ways in which we attempt to make sense of life, purpose and the reasons for meeting people in our lives. The answers that we come up with are often insufficient responses. Words can only do 'so much'. There's a lot more to be said about feeling your way through life and being in awe of everyday little miracles.

TeXTure

I met a woman who makes moleskins for a living. What an amazing way to celebrate words, I thought. And the recording of history, of course. But it's to be appreciated that this is a craft of scarcity; and more importantly, the most seasoned artisans are a rare breed.

We feel life in texture. So whether the words we read are made tangible in their way of evoking emotion, or whether it is that life grazes and grabs a hold of you, enticing you to in turn hold on tightly, we are meant to be aware of it's every moment.
Armchair travel rules the world. I believe that, firmly. Via kindle or good-ol-fashioned print runs that leave their ink on your fingers and your mind; the written word will forever stretch out into the Soul of the world and inspire in us things we may never dream of, even.

It's in wanting to feel life that life is felt out for us.

I am threading along with my beads of choice and happy to see the precious moments adding up to a worthy adornment. Life can be pretty thrilling, in it's ordinariness if we just take the time to stand back and admire it :)

S

enthusiasm

Sometimes enthusiasm scatters,

stumbles

then seeps its last few drops into the
drains of doubt.

And sometimes it rises,

up and away towards the

place where fingers of sunshine

tickle it

out of its silliness.

And other times it even

ventures towards the

great wide oceanic

depth of love

and is

refreshed

that way.

And it lives!

...the beauty of this world

a fresh breeze tints my skin,

my baby eyes open

to the length of her cupboard door,

fingers reach for an ancient lock, dangling there

i pry them open, this place of old and new, new and old.

-the scent of musk invades the room-

silks and wools line the hanging spaces,

more textures in the drawers,

my hands float;

senses still arrested by the warmth of oils and musk and rose

and her. my beginning. my first pair of eyes.

my taste of real and The Real.

my reason for awakening. my view to beauty in this world.

---

many happy returns to the most beautiful woman in the universe

may you have days of scented rose

and nights of comfort, only. to my dear grandmother.

here's wishing you a grand 81, with Allah's fragrant blessings...

happy birthday!

eternity dwarfs those...

Surrounded, by people and love and life,

Lifted by the lightness of simply being

And flung into the air by words and colours

that make me squeal in childlike delight,

I have much to be thankful for.


Then dunked into an ocean of despair

just by finding out that darkness exists!

That it is the gift that some will gladly bestow

on the brides of Naivete and meekness.

And that twisted in this vineyard of

black and white; dark and light -

this world of sobriety and intoxication -

are things that you and me in simple play

might fail to really grasp.


The finding makes me weak,

at these knees fit only for sitting

cushioned, on the little green mat

that points a sometimes wandering mind

to that place

where eternity dwarfs

those mountains in the mind,

those petty details of

black and white; dark and light.

And the silly borders

of sobriety and intoxication.

angels and demons

The forces of light and dark are undeniable variables in our every day. If day exists then so does night. For the most part, it's just as easy to enjoy the glory of a star-speckled sky, as it is to bask in the grand elation of sunshine caressing one's skin. Beauty has many colours, evokes different emotions and appeals to many in different ways. But in life, as one might at some point discover, there are also an army of angels that will spur you on in your quest to find that elixir of uncovering hidden potential. And there are a range of demons, too, who will stop your process at every opportunity; the way I see it, is that its really a game of wills, a maze of chance and a test of strength of spirit.

There are people who will love you for what you do even if their blood doesn't flow in your veins. There are those who will love you for who you are because the same heartbeats resonate in their chest as in yours. And there are those who will abhor you beyond reason. Some will spit venom when your name is mentioned. And some will be audacious enough to partake in actions that intend some harm to you. Bad words. Bad thoughts. Even worse, they might do that which belongs in the realm of science fiction bestsellers; engaging forces of darkness and evil to cause you nothing but harm and often even disease. It makes sense, of course, that invoking the protection of forces of good will encourage in you a lightness of being. And that increased faith and belief in a Higher Power will fortify you against such malice. It just seems for many that I have heard tales from, that the struggle is continual. Kind of like playing different stages of a digital game where the stakes are upped every next level.

And we keep playing. And so do the demons. Angels are plentiful, too.

It's a surreal place to be, this hanging between lightness and darkness and knowing the beauty of each, but also being wary of the dangers inherent in that in-between space.

Here's wishing one and all, angels more than demons. And here's wishing you the ability to discover the Angel within.

Love and Light,
...S

finding rest

“Of His signs is this: that He created for you spouses that you might find rest in them, and He ordained between you love and mercy.” (Quran, 30:21)


Just in case I was wont to imagine for a second that life is filled with rampant coincidences, I was once again reminded of the opposite this weekend. On the front page of my new novel occurs the above verse from the Quran. I love this verse for the simple promise that is revealed in a few words. And on my way to M's nikkah ceremony on Friday, I decided to post this up, in commemoration. I love it even more so after having heard the guest speaker, Hafez AB Mohammed, also an Advocate of both the SA High Court and the Dubai International Court, who quoted the same in his speech on Saturday night with a more than eloquent commentary and discussion on what 'sukoon' really entails.

'...that you might find rest in them...'

I wonder what that means for the many whose lips or eyes might glance over briefly or recite more fervently at some point. As a precursor to my book, it serves only to remind that a spouse might be the reason for life's irritations to be overlooked. That love might indeed be a worthy conqueror. (Especially in the context of an abusive marriage as is the case with my protagonist). But rest, in the speakers terms also meant a commitment to forever-ness. An oath and an allegiance to that partnership in all respects, with every part of a person's being. I think that thats the most beautiful word in the verse. And rightfully appearing before love and mercy... in fact a necessary pre-requisite to it.

A loyalty to self and extension of self. A state of being. A place. A rest.

bringing me 'home'

Waves
crash over reason

my deepest anxieties
uncovered
by the movements not of water
and moon dancing wanton,
but of shifting tectonic plates
far below the
usual realm of
consciousness.

Waves crash
over anything remotely
reasonable

I am. And I am no more.

Content confusion a sacred state almost.
Confused contention a place to
sit and twiddle thumbs
on a fancy laptop
with no
mouse for company.

Just a burning wrist
fit for the chiropractors
skilled
wringing of his own two;
wrists and palms
and teeth, one ivory and one gold.

Spontaneity drowned
in that exchange.
Only more to contend with,
oceans of reason and un-reason
and some pain;
a meddlers chair to sit in
while wrists do their work
on my own.

And a ream of paper waiting
to be branded with
ink and words and someone elses dreams, dashed.

More waves, crashing on the shore
of newer contemplations...

Bringing me home
to simple content
and the space of knowing
that there is
no coincidence...

Only Plan.

For He is the Best;
the Planner.

I can take rest.

Confessions of a Callgirl

I have just stumbled upon this weblog: Confessions of a College CallGirl; the writings are as real as it gets, extremely well-written and emotionally charged. The story of a callgirl in New York City...she uses her blog to get rid of the burdens that sit on her heart and the dust that settles on her soul from her experiences, but then she also has this no-nonsense take on life and survival... one tends to pick up on some amount of self-doubt in her ability to really hold on to a worthwhile relationship (this is beyond the scope of her 'job')..ie. once she's retired. Even so, she speaks of the number of times she has in fact, tried to retire... and the ways in which the tide pulls her back in again...

Factual accounts written here are fascinating in the humanity and necessary compassion evoked by this blogger. The link love leads to what I thought was the most distinguished of her new articles in terms of who she is as a woman. I also enjoyed the style of writing...

sUperCars Sami Saturday

I have had the strangest day. In an enthralling way, overall :)
I am sitting at my laptop, checking mail, chat, etc.. as usual, accompanied by a Hershies Choc Bar. A rarity. As if I actually need mOre of a rush than my day has been. And yet, I am perfectly adrenalin sober. Sober. But Wowed. Day started off pretty sober. Then, dad said, come along for a 'drive'. I was sitting at the books, trying to pen some prose. I thought, drives bring inspiration. I was starving for some. So, I went along. The views were pretty good. Good to look at. As 'views' should be. I found myself in the midst of an arena I can only describe as a place of ego energies.. no, rather, a clash of ego's... and it wasn't long before I felt my blood pressure take a few downward swirls. Until I met some friendly folks and began chatting with them, that is...

So, along with dad and bro, I ended up spending this morning session at an aucor auction of supercars. Aside from the eye feast..the ultimate clash of ego energy was more than I could handle. But I have my theories about such things. For the next post. For now, just pics...

While I was ambling by trying to steer clear of the noise and ruckus, though, I met a lady also waiting around... (but far more clued up about such spaces than I care to be) and so we got talking... and some revelations later, we realised how I knew of her late brother who was killed in a car crash about four years ago. And in telling her about an aspect of his life that I knew about, a glimmer of amazing realisation dawned on both of us. Full circle kind of revelation. This is yet one more of lifes little A-ha moments. And so I am once again in awe of the wonders of the universe and the thread of life that binds us so inextricably. The story... welll.. yet another post.

And then, of course, I was revived and replenished at the Sami Y events at Coca Cola Dome in Northgate... And was thrilled to meet up with a bunch of people I havn't seen in ages ages Ages! Mwah Lady Nooj! And a whole bunch of others... And some new folks. And that Santoor. Sigh...

A Post About Nothing...

i surrender

i love the feeling of emptiness..
of going beyond the hunger and fatigue and just being
its that point when the body stops struggling
stops its nagging
stops its tantrums
and knows
nothings going to come of making a noise

and so it embraces silence
it finds peace
in surrender
what will be will be

body, emptied, melts into spirit
and it remembers ancient secrets
and it just remembers

zhikr is fuel to the spirit
its wat it really means to kill base needs
or the beginnin of it rather

this is where it all begins
in empty silence
in surrender
in being