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.

birthday reflections: a piece of sheesh mahal (palace of mirrors)

gifts of humanity, celebrations of self.

There are few things as refreshing as a few hours in the company of dear friends. Julekha and Nazmeera are sisters, and two of my childhood friends, and I had the pleasure of spending some time in their company yesterday, in celebration of Julie's birthday. This is standard practice for a good many years, as February is birthday month for the both of us. And so, in typical feelgood fashion, momentous celebrations of self usually begin on the 3rd Feb and go on, until the 12th, the day that I was born. In between, we will reflect, go out for a movie, a lunch, a dinner, and just do ritual celebratory things that add to the markers along the path of this fortnight between our respective birthdays. We missed out in 2008 when I lived in Durban, but I think that this is the year to make up for it.

It's also a fascinating double celebration this time around, especially because Nazmeera has set a wedding date roughly a month from now, 6 March. This only means a full month of extended celebration. I'm thrilled for her, because the certainty and joy is a rose grown to fullness in her being. Even more so, because I attended her wedding a few years ago when she married at the age of 21, and then her carefully constructed house of cards fell apart some few months later and she got divorced. I saw her fall ill to the disappointment, the confusion, the hurt and pain. I watched from afar as her sister tried to shield her from the insensitive comments of onlookers, ogling the spectacle. I listened, and tried in vain to humble the experience, without trying to trivialise the depth of the wound. Her parents were phenomenal in their support, as was Julie. I flitted in and out of their cocoon every once in a while. And then we stepped back as she worked her way out of the ditch of misery, and began to bloom, once again.

Four years later, I have total respect and appreciation for the growth that she has undergone: it shows in the way that her mindset has taken leaps, in her new sense of spirit, in the honours degree that she has achieved, in the person that she has become. Four earth years might look small, but with the right encouragement, support and intentions made by a person, they can be more valuable than a lifetime of careful living, far less destructive than a full decade of self-pity. And clearly, they have been formative years for her realisation of self. She didn't hold back and shared these Eureka moments, gladly. We made mental notes and smiled as we learned from her, shared some of our own messy details, and hoped that we were rising above them.

Lessons learned are burdens on the back of a miser, and veritable bags of gold in the pockets of those willing to share their humanity with others. These are the truest celebrations of self.

Intense familiarity

Sometime, I think during day two of the Literature Festival that I attended in Jaipur, I looked up from a bench that I was seated on to see a woman coming towards me with a look of immense glee adorning her face. A moment of intense recognition passed between us, and I all but bounced off my seat to hug and greet her, all the while doing the math in my head as to how I might actually know her and more so, searching the files in my head for a name. The mind is a soldier, and will quickly look to reasoning the name, place, event or some or other marker that will explain the familiarity.
The intense familiarity, as I said before.
And when that moment had passed, and we enquired after each others names, we discovered to both our surprise, that we had not ever met before. Emma is from the UK, and now lives in Delhi with her family. I thought I'd met her back home in South Africa. I was wrong. But then, she too, was oddly caught off guard that I wasn't really known to her. We chatted on for a bit, she introduced me to her companion, and then we became friends. We bumped into each other a few times more over the remaining days at the festival.

On day three, I met Deepika. Also by chance; as I think she was friendly enough to strike up a casual conversation when we were seated together, also outside the Dharbar Hall at Diggi Palace (I just realised that it was the same place that I had met Emma). And we proceeded to some of the sessions together, and chatted on for a while. I was struck by the familiarity in our exchange, and I must say that the magneticism of some people will always leave an indelible impression.

Or perhaps its just India. The space of mystery around the heritage site that was host to the celebration of the art of writing, as opposed to the commercialisation of the sacred space. And the energy of the people who converged on the space almost like pilgrims, intent on being nurtured and sharing the magic of the bookish events there.

I think its just India.
And whatever it is about being in an ancient, flowing mass of energy that millions of people call 'Mother Land' that draws people to it, as well as it being the space within which people, souls rather, are drawn to each other, almost as though they are known to each other all along.

Emma and Deepika really seemed to know me a long time in the space of a few minutes. I did wonder if they would recall their encounter with me. And then I got mail from Deepika, confirming just that.

So. I think its something to do with the air in India.
I think, its just India.

2010

There are many ways to anticipate the advent of good things. It takes more than belief. It takes a certain amount of knowing, at that extended level. Beyond the place of reason and reasonable doubt, even.

2009 need be celebrated for the many gifts it placed at my feet.
2010 will be celebrated for its own reasons. But more so, is that alongside this wonder of the mystery, this anticipation of what is to come, is the firm knowledge that I am blessed with an entourage of angels, my loved ones, my friends, my cluster of souls that alight in the same space within which my life is made manifest.

The inspired choices are endless. The life ahead is pregnant with the promise of more delights, impending potential to be realised, dreams to be met along the way, and doors of greatness waiting to be opened.

One thing is certain, as we begin this new year: We will have our spotlight in the sun. And this is the year for it!

Happy New Year 2010 :)

Voices

There are many ways in which thoughts, emotions and the experience of life that flows through us may be expressed or even shared with those around us. Facial expressiveness, and the use of varied tones of voice are perhaps the most obvious forms. Some people paint, or write poetry, prose or stories; while other's create masterworks of cullinary genius, fashion sculptures in the form of fabulous architecture or perform daredevil acts in full view of an awestruck audience.

I write.

I am no poker face, and that is something that I have come to terms with. I dabble in oil colours and do various other things like firewalking and the like. But if I had to really draw that dotted line along my path, then the realisation of who I am is linked by the need, love and joy of writing. I have journals going as far back as those primary school scribble notes in perfumed diaries with delicate locks. I dare not read those for fear of throwing them out. Or something.

These years of journals are housed in a little metal chest that used to be my toy box as a child; and while the journals carry traits of their evolutionary nature over time, the metal trunk lays claim to a history of its own: it began as a carrier for cinema reels that came from the subcontinent back in the 60's, was discovered at some point by my maternal grandfather at the cinema house that belonged to a friend of his, and brought home for mom to use as a storage box for her teenage magazine and music collection. And so I came to inherit it some twenty years later, and it remains with me still, now repainted and revived, albeit almost half a century old.

Hinges of history hold its tinkering walls together to carry the evolution of me; the years of growth in my voice. Aside from the layers of paper dreams, hopes, fears and songs of lament and joy, are to be found those early floppy disks and stiffys of my first soiree into the world of digital media. The only signs of my earlier girly journals on these computer disks of memory, are the glittery name stickers that leave tinsel on my fingertips, and declare just the year of their imprint: "Shafs Ramblings, 2001"

And then, these memoirs were born. For kimya, and for me. Sometime in 2005, when I emerged from years of sociology and more time spent discovering a life of corporate surrealism that I may have been unwittingly groomed for, and found myself to be flourishing in, against my every expectation. It is quite amazing how we might exceed our self-judged limitations.

Memoirs For Kimya evolved in its own right. It started off as a canvas of silence, made noisy only by the echo of thoughts in my head.

Now a trumpet blares. No. Make that, a vuvuzela.

It called to me, once. Now it rages outwardly, to those who will hear with understanding; those who will engage it's ramblings, shared spewing forth of words and all things manifest therein.

And this great sea of voice occurred to me most profoundly when, at the Cape Town launch, my guest speaker, fellow writer and dear friend, Nazia Peer, read two of my newest works out aloud to the booklaunch audience.

I was mesmerized. No, don't get me wrong. Not as if to think, Oh my word, I wrote that! The spark of a soul moment was the realisation that all this time, the voice in my head gave life to these words, and for the first time ever, a reflective post like Revelatory Moments, or an emotive piece like Cut was being read in a voice of someone else, but more so by someone I have had the opportunity to know dearly, and who has been the source of inspiration and soul-coolness to me. Another voice. A loaded moment. A celebration, in more ways than my humble soul can count.

And yes, it all makes sense. This now and where. The why and how.
It all makes perfect sense.

Cape Town: Fiddunya hassanatau (The beauty of this world)

Being in Cape Town taught me a few good things. One, that writing should never be taken for granted, and two, that the low literacy levels in our country will always mean that the work of a wordsmith will always be driven by the need to engage readers. To really create in them a thirst for reading. And to make these readables available and accessible in more ways than one; so its not only about learning how to read, but about creating a culture of reading. And so that reading is also an affordable pass-time. A new initiative by Zukiswa Wanner of 'Madams' fame, called ReadSA is engrossed in this project in many ways.

The nose to grindstone image refers.

Cape Town was also a time of rejuvenation for me. I was happy to be plugged into all that the city had to offer me: the smell of the ocean, the embrace of glorious Table Mountain, which served as a backdrop to the launch of M4K, and the throng of people that I had the delight of coming into contact with over the three days that I was there. It started off on flight. I left Johannesburg at 6:55am Saturday morning. I arrived in Cape Town to meet a group of amazing ladies for breakfast at Origins cafe.
Nielfa, Ayesha, Saarah, Nisrien, Saberah, Haseena and Maryam were my coffee companions; a superb start to a riveting weekend.

With this lovely lot, I got to see the District Six Museum, and the Planetarium. Also got to see the Gardens. Walked by the National Library, and planted myself outside the Slave Lodge until I was whisked away to do some bookish things, and to check out the launch venue for the very first time (I went on a limb with this one! in tandum to my advisory team: Nielfa, Yaseen and Nazia for the most part) But to my absolute delight, this venue turned out to be the most incredible of venues I have used for any previous launches or other social engagements.

Meeting my darling friend Nazia Peer was a highlight for me. The fleeting time we had together was enough to tear at me for some time; the quality of which always makes up for the luxury of 'more' in life. Saturday night also turned out to be the dinner and musical in honour of a cousin whose engagement we were there to attend. Boys side party that lasted well into the late hours or early hours; whichever way you need to look at it. Needless to say, I met friends and family that I have not seen in a good while from as far as small towns around Polokwane, Nelspruit, etc. All colliding at this one festive spot in Cape Town or Rondebosch to be more precise.

And so it came to be that Sunday took us from the Waterfront, where we were staying, to the Athlone Civic Hall in attendance of the grand engagement celebrations. Speeches started at 11am and went on until about 1ish in time for grumbling bellies to be filled to satisfaction. Speakers included Ebrahim Rassool, MP and Mr A.Kays, whose work is cited in Daughters are Diamonds. Thanks to a feisty guest who recognised me as the author of DaD at some point, I was introduced to a friendly Kays saheb. Kays speech was short and sweet and bordered on the quest for Layla (girls name) to finding her Majnun (because he hadnt been told that my cousins name is Muaaz) Rather innovative of him in any event. And at first, I thought he might be named Qais, seeing as the original Majnun in the persian tale is called Qais.

And so I met Qais. Or rather, Mr.A.Kays. A wonderful gentleman. And a writer, of course. I also met Judge Siraj Desai and his lovely wife in that fuss of a moment. Desai declined the invitation to the launch due to prior arrangements to meet with Che Geuvara's daughter. Should that be censored information? He didnt say, and so here you go.

And almost time for the launch. I'm meeting people, still. Friends like Luq and more family... People who know me because of whose daughter I am. People who last saw me when I was just that tall (A wavering show of hands somewhere near my navel to show how diminished I may have been back then)

Brother wants to take a drive up to Micassa. Stepping out of the city for a bit. To subdued realness. A little bit of time travel, to visit Shaikh Yusuf. The views are breathtaking. I may have left a few breathes behind. A dirt road leads up the incline, and looking back in view of raised fortified walls, a curving road and some canons not-in-use, balancing still... the feeling overtakes me, that this is a moment in time that may not be measured by the date on my calendar, or on the blackberry in my bag. I relinquish the offending mechanism to the boot of our car and walk a little faster so as to catch up with the rest of the family.

The launch was nothing short of amazing. My noteworthy surprises were not over. Lubna, another of my dearest friends, stopped over between her delegatory role at the IPSA conference and on her way to her flight back home to Durban. She is officially the first purchaser of pre-launch Memoirs For Kimya at the Jozi Book Fair, and managed to make an appearance at the CT one too. The Bo-Kaap was an apt placement for the bookish event. I loved the energy generated there, the people I met, the quality of engagement, the view of Cape Town that twinkled below our feet in that raised glass box that was Bo-Kaap Kombuis... and the embrace of the mountain in the background. It is very difficult not to be affected by the incredulous flow of inspiration that fills this city. It is incredibly difficult not to fall in love with this place. I feel blessed to be able to visit again, with the launch of my new work, my celebration of soulful writing, and to plant the seed of writing inspiration in others, as I hope I have.


Monday held more for me; a call from Exclusives, Wordsworth books and a visit to District Six for books, books and more books. Also got to lunch with family, make serendipitous stops in town and outside a strangely familiar place called Bingo, before finding my way to a pretentious pavement coffee shop in wannabe bo-kaap to say my goodbyes to Nielfa, Yaseen, Nazia and Muhammad H, my charismatic programme director for Sunday's launch.

*Deep Breath required here for these goodbyes that Im never good with*

Here's to the joy of blessed moments, and knowing that life makes perfect sense being exactly where we are. Here's to Cape Town, until we meet again.

Revelatory moments

Ive not been up to writing much these few days or weeks, and yet there is so much happening at the moment that I would actually like to share as a way of appreciating, and even celebrating these. So, what's been happening? Not all gratingly physical things as such; more a variety of all things revelatory. Of course, the advent of my new book, its sales and the reception it has received in five weeks since it came off the press is celebratory... Memoirs For Kimya is now available in hardcover; a beautiful imprint that fills me with joy; but there's more.

Life's telling me things these days. Revealing all the answers to all the questions that I have collected like an avid sea-shell collector. Years of putting them to the ear to hear nothing; and now the whispers are more than telling. Revelations are in more than words and sounds: they are accompanied by tastes and colours, vivid images that make for quite a gallery of viewing.

There is no time span when gratitude fills your being. I feel this now. Past and present merge into one. The future feels like an unopened gift, gleaming just within reach of eager fingers. Everything is precisely as it should be. There's really no rush. I am no longer the kitten that chases it's tail. I'm the Cheshire cat with cream on her ever-smiling lips.

Absolutely every human being should feel this, just once.
It's the best of both worlds. It really is.

And of course, everything makes total sense. Revelation is momentary and transcendent at the same time. Kind of like spraying rose water into a space and stepping into it to be embraced by it, to breathe it in and then be soaked in it all at once.

Indeed, His favours are undeniable.
:)

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.

like wildfire or flowing rivers.. who knows?

Kay is overwhelmed. She undid the sluice gates and now she's let the dam wall overflow. And it's been so much fun that the posts have gained momentum like a river and seem to be really making the rounds between the blogs. It all started at Kays place, a post called 'Ten things I'd like my unborn child(ren) to know'.

And a simple tag of a few names led to more of that. It's amazing what a list of things you might say to offspring can bring out the best and the worst in a person :P
Okay mostly the best.
As this little flow of words most certainly did.

Check out the stream:
In no particular order...

Antonio: The Spawn Shall Know These 10 Things

Aasia: ...Spawn of my Loins

Nooj: Lists

Waseem: No Beyonce Listeners Tolerated

Seher/AD: Baby You Hear Me?

Azra: On that Bandwagon.

MJ: Concerning Kids

Saaleha: some sage and thyme for the sprogs

KiLLa: Naseehat (Advice) to my Gunner..

Nafisa: Tag, ur it!

Sofi: The 10 Thing Tag

Freelance Hero: What shall I tell my kids

Nielfa: Listen to me and Listen well..

Organharvester: The ten lessons I would teach to my kids..

Veritas: 20 things I want my kids to know

Edge of Where: simple 10

Mangoes & Mint: Things my sprog should know...

Randomness Infinite: 10 things I want to tell my unborn kids.

Zesty: For Abdullah

Dreamlife.wordpress.com posted his at the comment section of my own (previous) post in the same thread: 10 or so things I may impart..

Hasina_S did her own review of the works and added to the fun with Womb with a View in her own eclectic and awesome style :)

If I have ommitted anyone or there are still more to come, please leave a comment at this post. I think most had fun doing this, Even those that Grrr'd at the tag ;)

Thanks Kay! This was fun. Energies were shared across the veld in a veritable Fire. And like i said, its amazing what comes of a simple ten :)

Much Love,
S

i got a tan. well done!

i got a tan. on a roadtrip.

im tired.

tired of these

and those.

but super-exhilarated

super duper so

because the view,

the sun, surf and sand

the company of loved ones

and the faces met

were all

so...

exhilarating

:)

fancy schmansy masquerade

Last night was far more of a jol than I imagined it would be. My brother's dear friend Jehanzeb 'Jzee' Bashir is getting married tonight. So we attended a fancy dress party last night in honour of wedding crowd events and such things. Grosvenor hall in Mayfair was turned into a mini gaming zone; yea it felt like you were in one of those arcade games with lots of characters flying and floating around. About a dozen or so people fluttered past making us feel like we were seated in the midst of a paintball venue, shooting at each other with life-like water-pistols, water-rifles (some in full army gear): few were recognisable especially because of the awesome disguises that they had played with. And the make-up art was divine, of course! A Spanish Princess accompanied her Matador partner; some princesses and fairies and elves dotted the place, and I played drama queen to the shade of pink alongside my sister-in-law in red she-devil regalia, her sister in pale white crowned princessy-ness, my brother as a London 'Bobby' policeman, cousin as a erm something... fancy-ish... and groom-to-be as a ruffian-come-jester-come-rap artiste. He got messed with water, flour and choice things that needed a few changes of clothes just like in some Bollywood song sequences. Somewhat surreal, mostly tonnes of fun... altogether feelgood. Here's wishing the new couple the best that life has to offer, grand dreams and choice health in the many years ahead, iA!

I still have spurts of party 'high' in my bloodstream. 100% natural. No additives. Pics aplenty. Some to follow.

Love and Mwahs,

The Drama Queen ;)

PIC UPDATE:

its the day i was born

i don't think that i have ever written a post on my birthday. usually there's a stream of pre-birthday reflection and a kind of after the day report. but today, i am so overwhelmed by the celebration of me that i feel like writing right now. i don't know what exactly i wish to write. yes. words fail me. but details matter and so i will begin my little exploration of this birth anniversary. i just had dinner with my parents tonight. it was a wonderful moment frozen in time in which to discuss and share the reason for their aging: their eldest daughter just got one year older, of course! i am eternally grateful for moments like these. i want to feel and embrace the joy that rushes through me; most of all... i want to make conscious choices to choose the joy when fear threatens to rule me.

i know. these are starting to sound like a bunch of resolutions. but they're really purposeful stratagems for days well lived... just a wee bit ahead of time ;)

i don't want to write about the day i was born, as such. i think i'll save that for my grandkids to hear about. you know, sitting around a fire someplace, not reading off grandma's dusty old blog. some things should be kept that way: old and tangible. i think i'm getting that way too. or tending towards it. not old, just tangible :P

beyond that i am thrilled to be surrounded by all this love and light. my day is full, and i am content.

many elves make light words

"Jesus, where the hell is everybody when they first deliver the typing paper? Where are all the "helpers" when those boxes full of silence come in? Blank. Both sides. No clues, no instructions enclosed on how to take just twenty-six letters and endlessly rearrange them so that you can turn them into a mirror of a part of our lives. Try it sometime."

-Larry Gelbart

I loved todays quote. (Scroll down page to see my daily-writer-quote widget thingie.

Anyway, it got me thinking... About how lonely the writing process can be; and yet there's a whole new world of fantasy and creativity open to the writer. And then, when the sheaths of paper are sitting in front of you, some black and white ramblings crawling over the once blank canvas; you the writer need to do some publishing. Well, in the world of publication, you will meet two types of person.

It's not all that complicated.

There will be some who will shun your work. That's expected. There will be some who will be downright rude. You will not get any straight answers. Or you will get the worse end of it. They all fall into the broad category first kind.
And then, there will be those second category ones who will be your angels in disguise. I say disguise because they're not always obvious. But every once in a while, you will cross paths with them and feel their warmth. Simple emails, a note, a word, a comment at the right place at the right time. Whoever doesn't believe in the single thread of energy that binds us is in denial. It's really as simple as that.

Some writer friends have had some wonderful experiences in the creative world. And some have had some horrendous and heartbreaking ones. Life toughens you. But this is a whole new schoolyard!

Someone thanked me last week for a piece of simple information/advice. Simple, but relevant at the time. And since information is never our own, just more energy to be shared along the way, I did just that. Someone has done good things for me before me. And hopefully the person I passed this on to, will do the same further along the line. So then, no need for elaborate thanks. It's enough to know that the spirit will just keep going. I am rewarded every day. How else will I show my appreciation?

So, here's to writing.

Touch...

The sense of touch is difficult to write about. Some things have a distinct taste about them, smell pungent or sweet or anything in between and look a certain way. Sounds can evoke emotions and cause anxiety; each of the senses can be a tool of seduction or terror. My recent interviews with a woman who spent some time in prison brought many memories out of the simple sounds of a dripping tap, the clamber of keys and the wardens footsteps.

Touch is all of these and more. It is also a new word on my nieces lips.

"Touch" she said with curiosity, when she wanted to stroke the sheep in the backyard yesterday. "Touch" she said in earnest, when she wanted to kiss my aunt's baby. "Touch" she repeated with glee just now when she sat on my lap in front of my pc because we were looking at stock images of birdiiiieeeessss :)

And with the essence of touch, we managed to groom her from whole palms treating the keyboard like the drums of a rockstar to her using one or two delicately poised fingertips on the touchpad, just after I aligned the cursor arrow on the 'next' button. She waited with her hands in the air; watched my fingers intently, and then touched the touchpad ever so lightly until the next piccie loaded.
"Hi Birdie!" she squealed each time. Giggles punctuated the delight in her voice.
And then on to the next one again.
Ooooh, I said. This one's so pretty!
"So, pwettyyyy," she giggled.
Hmm. Next up, an owl.
"WhooOooo!" she said; her eyes widening with the drama of the large eyed bird.
And then to accent her distaste:
"Tata, Whooo!" she signaled both to the imposing bird and to me.
Lol. Moving on :P

Of course, the sounds in the kitchen have distracted her and so she's tottered off in that direction. Which gives me some time to write again ;) But I miss her antics, so instead of getting back to the manuscript, I am writing a tribute to her...
And to the things that she teaches me. She's a wise little one, that. She reminds me of her mother...

When we were growing up, Dilshaad was the voice of reason to my acts of daring. She was the nurturing, caring epitome of sisterhood. And she continues to be this warm and loving soul. I guess that people touch our lives in various ways, reminding us of that innate ability that we have to heal each other with compassion. It is that same compassionate nature that we are able to dig up in the most adverse situations that remind us of an energy of humanity that extends beyond the warring and destruction around the world.

We need to be reminded.

We need to touch and be touched; to feel the tingling of our senses when we are reminded of our power to do great things. To feel the rush of energy that makes us want to be a better person and then some. To be inspired because someone believes in us; because we believe in them. And because we believe in us.

It takes a touch. A word. A care. It takes sharing. And forgiving. And loving the human in us in spite of, and because of everything that we do and are. I am touched everyday by the sheer wonder of it all.

My heart is filled and emptied and filled again.

My soul is full.

Gift of Nothing...

One of my dearest friends has the deepest, darkest sense of humour. In a simple email, this is what I get. Not that he doesnt appreciate words. I mean he can complete a half quote of Omar Khayyam in a second, and reads things like Antoine St. Exupery's 'The Little Prince' (and the French version:P) But, in keeping with SG's 'You are not your Blog' I shall take this lightly ;)

Or maybe nOt!

http://img227.imageshack.us/img227/3961/bbbtp2.jpg

*sigh*