Disingenuous discontinuity

My last few posts towards year end always tend to reflect on the year gone by; kind of like a taking stock of things done, the to-do list checked off and a retrospective meander through the mind. It doesn't take much to muster the courage to make these notes of course: data gladly presents itself, just as it did this weekend past. There's nothing like a friendly, family social event (such as a wedding) to stir one into a mix of familiar faces. A mocktail of sorts in which I found myself in Alice-like charm, drowned in some contentious, other bemusing fluid moments of a ping-pong game gone awry. My writing is almost as dizzy as I feel. There is one certainty I should make note of: the past, if left like a weeded plot untended, will crawl over your garden wall and make its way into the present. That's a given. Weeds. The kind that can kill roses, if you're not too careful. Okay so life is still fragrant, but I am left thinking, reflecting, with words like disingenuous swirling in the murky waters of my mind. And I'm wondering about life as some supposed sort of continuum, the dots and dashes I see instead, the adoption of a process of broken steps, the inheritance of the discontinuous. It's been a while since I free wrote a load of cryptic hogwash. It feels really good. I'm still upset by the findings that landed in my lap, though. But they won't alter my course.

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)

For Rabiya: Becoming

The face in the mirror is haggard.
Restless. Not myself.
It needs a shift. I know.

I want to learn to be more like me,
and less like him...

Him, who turns me into a ball of foil
and uncreases me,
and crumples me;
he does this a few times
before throwing me into the distance.

I want to learn to be less like that,
and more like this.

This inside. This promise of a new dawn.

That is me.

City of many seasons

There must be
something
powerful,
and beautiful,
something rather enigmatic,
about seeing the city
that you live in
turn so many shades,
show so many colours,
reveal various personas
as the seasons wash over it.

In that place that you call 'home',
sober autumns might be followed by
a bright white Christmas;
and scented springs followed by
a vibrant, raging summertime!

But, what if the same can be said of
the person that you love?

What then?

Sober moments, rare and fleeting might be
followed by blinding cold,
the winter of your Love.
Fragrant love-making, impassioned or sweet,
followed by the storms of a violent retribution.

They say that even sunshine burns if you get too much.

Either way, the seasons still wash over it;
over that place you call home.
And rest assured,
the Master Painter forever waves
a kaleidoscopic paintbrush
over that city
of your dreams.

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.

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!

raw realness

We work our way through a range of insane definitions of what love is, what it should be, and how it should present itself in our lives. Then we spend many short lifetimes debating and insisting that it be done quite that way. Done. As in produced, manufactured, packaged, sealed and delivered to our doorstep. Quite that way that we always envisaged. It isn't to be, of course. Life has other plans.

Sometimes it comes to us, not quite looking like love. It comes in a tomato crate with creaking boards that bear splinters as evidence of the raw material quality with which the crates were made. Raw realness. Bearing also the traits of human potential. Not glamorous at first sight, but holding that ability to reach heights never before felt or experienced. Ingratiatingly, for the child soul stubborn to wait out the process of discovery, it might seem like an endless appeal for who-knows-what. But for the less compulsive, the more trusting, and the calmed-to-knowing types, this is precisely what they have been waiting for.

So, how to bridge this gap then?

Simply this. Love is rain and fire and air and solid ground. Love is all this and more and less and something in-between. But it is Love only when it has been stretched to its limits and shown to reveal an energy beyond your wildest expectations. When its all clear as to why. And the why no longer matters. When its all certain as to the how. And the how needn't make sense because its so far away from the beginning. The urgency for gratification is a cloak of heaviness that needs to be discarded if the love-seeking soul is to move unburdened, with lightness of being, into a field of discovering the authenticity of surrendering to all that is to be.

And the analysts mind needs to be shut down. Just about now. And Silence needs to tell its own story. And when the noise has seeped out, maybe then, Love might thrive.

breathing

I know that I am being tested. More like I asked to be tested. My deepest prejudices are being uncovered. I feel cut open and left bare. But I'm reveling in it! I don't really know how to explain it all. So why try. It's incredibly enough to feel it. There's something happening here. Inside of me. And some of it outside :) And I'm filled with this feeling of being ALIVE. Breathing and breathe-ing.

There cannot be questions born, without the answers in waiting, somewhere, to be discovered. A treasure of answers are to be delivered to me in the next few hours. I can almost taste them. I have been following the maze and picking up the clues; diligently collecting and collating them. Studiously making my observations. It all makes sense. I'm standing under the waterfall now. Refreshed. Thrilled by the eureka moments that life is throwing my way. Aha! I say. A-Ha! Indeed. Thou art Most Beneficent.

gifted

posts can be writ in so many flavours at different times of the day and night. i find that i write my most rambling posts at these oddish hours of the morning, when all i can hear is the baby from next door whimpering and then bawling its eyes...

my brother asked me something this evening at the supper table: he said, shafs how do u manage to stay awake at night? i didn't think too long for the reply: i am awake at night. in the same way that people are awake during the day. i need to re-form my sleep cycle, especially for the winter months. its freezing. anyway this writing manuscript and editing thing has got me turned around to a whole nocturnal living and i rarely make breakfast the first meal of the day. so the family has been complaining a bit. time to lose my night watch status and re-learn the art of normal sleep time. time to enjoy the gift of night-time sleep.

regarding gifts and being gifted, life lessons need be seen as gifts. that's what dear friend S just said to me. so in that case i consider myself lucky on many counts. im going to reach into my vault of 'gifts' every now and again just in case i forget to be grateful :)

this is an arb post. another one that is. i wonder if it is that im not quite taking this writing thing seriously. or that im relegating the SoApBoX to its original state of being the reflective Dear Diary space that it began as.

so many memories at this hall of famous words and nonsensical ramblings. so much mud flung alongside spray cans of wonder. so much more reasons documented in appreciation for myriad things. i feel a poem coming on. lol. or not.

currently listening to a madeenah nasheed. (little bro just gifted me with a new nasheed mp3-cd of some 300 items) i want to go there. to madeenah. where soul cravings speak a different language. and are thus quenched.

im content tonight. even though im rambling... im content.

Allah Knows...

the summer of sweetness

After that night, she hated him. It took her three months to drag herself, bit by bit, out of that rut of hatred. Because the way she saw it, after all the time that they had known each other as children, it took one moment of hormonal tugging; one sordid word from the woman who wanted him, to make him cast that evil look upon her face. It burned her. Then the scar remained, revealing itself to her everytime that she looked into the mirror. Renewed loathing filled her being. Tears refused to sting her eyes; she wouldn't waste that salt on him. Not anymore. She was adamant, but still it was a struggle to fight back the waters of sadness. Her bottom lip took the brunt of it, revealing beads of red in place of simple salt water from higher up. The taste on her tongue was the same; aside from the colour, blood and tears were the same, she realised.

He wasn't her brother. Nothing tied him to her, irreverently. They weren't lovers. Love was this strange word that could so easily distort the purity of the friendship that they had cultivated since they were each less than a metre high. She supposed that such was the nature of soul connections. A knowing with certainty that the other person was a certain way, today but perhaps not tomorrow. Having an inkling of an idea that they needed to hear something said at a particular time. Or that they needed to be simply left alone. It came with time, and patience, and listening. It came with caring, because she was sure that even some married couples didn't quite get to that point. Married couples? What was she thinking, they were not a couple. They were childhood friends, thrown together at a time when innocence was the glue and adventure was the energy that grew them on the same branch of life's tree. Two unripe mango's laden with promise, and waiting only for the summer of sweetness to claim their moment in the sun; their moment of fame and glory.

It was something that everyone was entitled to: that precious time at the prime of one's life when all potential and wonders are revealed to a world that never knew of your existence. The only ones who knew were the ones who grew you to this point. With water and light and care. With tenderness. Just like he did for her, and she did for him.

And what happened then? The fork in the road. The split in their journeys. The look of disgust in his eyes. Those last words, spat out like something bitter and poisonous lingered on his tongue. And then nothing.


(Copyright Shafinaaz Hassim 2009)

For you...

For you,

twisted vines of

grape,

clouds of pure

candyfloss

and hills of rolling chocolate

peppered with bits of mint.

For you,

petals of that single rose,

pinker than my cheeks,

rivers of laughter

flowing between us

in a moment of intimacy,

and the scent of

lavender to follow you at your heels

reminding you

that I am

and always will be.

*s*

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

bits of broken glass

bits of broken glass
lie in bitter crystals,
reflecting
odds of life
that were never had
accept in the flowing
lines of milk
that look like
a snorters envy
if u don't look carefully...

bits of glass
scattered on
the porcelain floor
were once a part of
something grand;
the pride of the
glass-blower,
the finery of the
lady of the house.

now fluted crystal
lies abandoned;
lacking arrogance,
reeling along
a shiny surface,
looking innocent
but lurking;
waiting for
bare footed carelessness
to trample over glittery specks-
now vengeful,
waiting
to reclaim
the blood and sweat
of it's maker.

bit's of glass
once fit for the mantle
are now turning to dust;
bit's of glass
once found joy in
grandiose delusion
are returning, home
to You.

deep down i know

Dear Diary...

Life is strange. So very strange. I am sitting with a box of smarties and I don't know what to do with it. Everything's smooth sailing with good views and no sea-sickness. If I want to touch the sky, it steps down on one knee and gives me a hand, asking me to dance. If I want to plant roses, the seeds are scattered on the wind. And if I want to feel the wind in my hair, tree's cradle boughs into make-shift swings these days.

Hallucination or not, it's a truly blessed space to be in.

I still don't really know what to do. But I also have a feeling that that's just a conscious and superficial unknown. Deep down, I think I got it all figured out. I have just got to wait till it surfaces. That's all. :)

The End...

Some of the most imaginative stories are begun with the words "Once Upon a Time".

Even Coelho's 'Eleven Minutes' does this. But then, the idea of beginning at the begin, is a nominal and conventional route as far as story-telling goes.

I like the idea of beginning at the end. It has that something in it that suggests we (at least a part) are permanently frozen in our every moment; that everyone moment of NOW has a nostalgic before and an inevitable after.

I have written a goodbye post to every year since I began blogging in 2005. Each time I said goodbye to a year of things and happenings; sometimes gladly, mostly reluctant... but then I never bid farewell to the memories or feelings or lessons. And mostly, I never ever said goodbye to the experiences that indulged my craving for wholeness. These were my highlights; my essential milestones... They were the products of my often limited supply of enthusiasm. And this limitation had to be pointed out to me; for a long time I deluded myself into believing that enthusiasm existed in endless supply. Then I heard not. It was like discovering that Santa doesn't exist. Or worse still, the Tooth Fairy! Imagine that?!

They happen every single year, of course. These milestones of discovery. And they're not always easy to acknowledge or recognise. Oh, but they sure do take place. Angels in disguise tend to present them in the most creative ways. Those same angels in disguise both force and entice the inner demons out on a scant spring-cleaning effort. And they tease the inner angels too, encouraging a romance of sorts between them for a time.

It's the End again. Candles have melted, and taps have run dry. There's no more squeezing that toothpaste tube. 2008 is done; save for a few pernicious scraps of dark poetry scribbled across the draft of that thing called a novel, and other's published here and there and elsewhere, it was another eventful and evolutionary year. That I can say, without so much as a drop of doubt.

A year ago, I yearned for newness. I got it in torrents. The storm replenished me, insatiated me... and then washed me ashore to yet another beach of newness. This ebb and flow is what life is all about. At least that what it is to me... part of that tidal wave of evolutionary relationships, personal growth and discovery... and a longer list of reasons to feel an overwhelming gratitude for riding the crest of the wave every so often, after a time of drowning in the confusion of the greater depths of salty water.

The ebb and flow... the circularity of reason... the evolution of life and being...
And the thrilling realisation that ends are really beginnings...

Here's wishing everyone a gregarious and enthusiastic new year 2009!


With love and appreciation

Shafinaaz

The free-est thing: Eleven Minutes: p96

I forgot to mention in the previous post, that the story of Maria in Eleven Minutes, is also biographical. Paulo Coelho met her in Geneva, through his agent. here is another profound extract from Maria's diary:

"If I were to tell someone about my life today, I could do it in a way that would make them think me a brave, happy, independent woman. Rubbish: I am not even allowed to mention the only word that is more important than the eleven minutes - love.
All my life, I thought of love as some kind of voluntary enslavement. Well, that's a lie: freedom only exists when love is present. The person who gives himself or herself wholly, the person who feels freest, is the person who loves most wholeheartedly.
And the person who loves wholeheartedly feels free.
That is why, regardless of what I might experience, do or learn, nothing makes sense.
I hope this time passes quickly, so that I can resume my search for myself - in the form of a man who understands me and does not make me suffer.
But what am I saying? In love, no one can harm anyone else; we are each of us responsible for our own feelings and cannot blame someone else for what we feel.
It hurt when I lost each of the various men I fell in love with. Now, though, I am convinced that no one loses anyone, because no one owns anyone.
That is the true experience of freedom: having the most important thing in the world without owning it."

Hmm.

in my cd shuttle...

"Dhard mein, bhi yeh labbh
muskhura jaate hein...

beethein lamhein hamein
jabh bhi yaad aateh hein..."

I love that song! And I have it in three mixes. Thank heaven for little brother with his rotating CD collection.

amsterdam is

amsterdam is the colour of naples on a yellow summer afternoon when the rain has just washed my forehead clean of the anxiety that last winters brush scratched across it.

amsterdam is fine, oil, colours of warmth.

amsterdam is where i am.

with a canvas, palette and brushes.

and all the colours of my imagination
working their way around my head -
sometimes as a wreath i can touch;
othertimes a halo that touches me.

Flood Residue

'The taste of today is not that of yesterday.
A pot boils over.

A watchman calls down the ladder,
Did you hear the commotion last night
from the seventh level?

Saturn turns to Venus and tells her
to play the strings more gently.
Taurus milk turns red. Leo slinks from the sky.

Strange signs, because of a word
that comes from the soul
to help us escape speaking and concepts.

I answer the nightwatchman,
You will have to assign meanings
for these ominous events.

I have been set free from the hunt,
the catching and being caught,
to rest in these dregs
of flood residue, pure and empty.'

The Essential Rumi- Coleman Barks, p296.

I am nothing

I wonder
from these thousands of "me's",
which one am I?
Listen to my cry, do not drown my voice
I am completely filled with the thought of you.
Don't lay broken glass on my path
I will crush it into dust.

I am nothing, just a mirror in the palm of your hand,
reflecting your kindness, your sadness, your anger.
If you were a blade of grass or a tiny flower
I would pitch my tent in your shadow.

Only your presence revives my withered heart.
You are the candle that lights the whole world
and I am an empty vessel for your light.


Rumi: "Hidden Music", p75