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.

"We are the leaders we've been waiting for" -WLC 2010

I attended a conference of diva hotseaters late last week. If there is any reason to re-awaken the potential we all know that we have lurking inside us, then the best way to go about it is to surround yourself with women who challenge themselves everyday, women who break with regulatory myths, women who trample unsavoury stereotypes; yes, women who change the world, one day at a time.

The Women's Leadership Conference convened at the Sunnyside Park Hotel in Johannesburg on 11-12 March 2010. As luck would have it, traffic into Johannesburg was reduced to a mere crawl thanks to a truck having exploded near the Atterbury exit into Pretoria and traffic was rerouted around nearby cities rather than over and through them. I was on my way into the mega-city having been out of town for the wedding festivities of a friend. It turned out to be a rather testy welcome into Gauteng, if you take into account that losing your cool is not the greatest show of survival of the fittest in a city that collides with the shortness of time and has to digest a population of feisty beings intent on making a corporate killing rather than just surviving on a daily basis. Those below the breadline are a mere mirage, an invisible fringe for the most part. A fantastical media report or two at the most. Such is the plight of the rainbow nation governed by the most TENDER-hearted of statesmen.

Time is money and tangents are costly. So where was I?
Aah. And so it came to pass that I was invited to join this gregarious bunch of divas in this neatly carved space for dialogue in Parktown.
I missed Debora Patta's talk but heard snippets for the length of the conference; she being of South Africa's more outspoken, daring media personalities and unsurprisingly Vodacom's Media Woman of the Year for 2009.
Kristine Pearson envisages a world of 'Women Lighting-up Africa'. She is CEO of the Freeplay Foundation based in the UK, US and SA. Noble cause indeed. And much to be made of the impressive vastness of her not-for-profit international organisation and its intent to more than create awareness of the devil of parafin usage in rural Africa and its insistence on gobbling up unsuspecting children in the impending darkness. She lobbys for clean and renewable energy, lighting and job creation for rural women in Africa.
Day 1's workshop was run by Philipa Namutebi Kabali-Kagwa: The Art of Telling Your Story. A powerful orator, Philipa held the audience in a trance of sorts as she went about her talented renderings and interactive sharings.
I sat on a panel that rounded up day one, along with Nicole Wills, founding partner and MD of award-winning advertising and communications agency Stick Communications SA; and Dr Sonia Joubert, academic and consultant in Creativity and Organisational Intelligence. A beautiful thread of conversation ranged from ways in which we might galvanise our own creativity on a regular basis to how to mentor and be mentored in an environment that encourages and unleashes creativity in others. I was happy to work to the theme of the THINK DIFFERENT ad, thanks to a friendly reminder from a brainstormy friend. Crazy works for me!
This theme pretty much carried forth throughout to the end of the two day-conference. It was more than imagination that confirmed the sparkle in people's eyes by the end of it all...

Day 2 began with an inspiring presentation on the mastery of organisational politics by Mardia Van Der Walt-Korsten, Businesswoman of the Year 2009 who is also the CEO of a German multi-national called T-Systems. Mardia cites her key to success simply as her love for life, and her intention to create an environment that puts soul into IT. Her value for humanity in her workplace is infectious as the direct interaction with a woman whose eyes sparkle when she speaks about her life and her work.

Tali Nates from the Johannesburg Holocaust Centre spoke about building bridges and learning tolerance. She spoke about the awareness of being: are we perpetrators, upstanders, bystanders or victims? Choice and repentance were strong themes in her talk.
There could not be a more fabulous way to end the conference than to welcome Prof Edna Van Harte, Dean of the Faculty of Military Science at the Military Academy in Saldanha at Stellenbosch University.
If it is about challenging stereotypes, and if its about a question of whether or not there is a place for women leaders in the military, then I think that she awakened that potential in more than one way.

The conference rounded up with the message of social movement; believe in something strongly and passionately enough, and get something going! Remember this? The MTN Clap :P

Enjoy. And stay with the magic. Its inside of you. Let it Live!

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.

six o'clock gin and tonic

I walked into Rika's apartment a little after 3pm yesterday. The appointment was set for 2:45pm, but a young driver wandering around unknown parts of the city can be easily forgiven, or so she said.

I'm always thirsty for easy forgiveness, so I didn't argue much on that. Besides, I know at least enough not to argue with someone whose three times my age, and very astute for the average 91year old. I whisper a silent prayer in awe: God, let me be that way at 91, or not at all! This is Rika Hodgson. Veteran ANC stalwart.

And so she launches into her animated chat about the days of old; you know, when you could hide a bottle of whiskey in an old typewriter, and share it with a friend of another race, even if there was the scare of the Immorality Act hanging over their heads. But not before she has made absolutely sure of the fact that I am comfortably seated with the sun from the large bay windows swathing me in a welcome embrace, and a steaming cup of tea settled withing close reach from my notebook and pen.

I scribble and try to repaint in few words the enigmatic imagery that she spurts forth in words and facial expressions, almost as if I am being let in on secrets never told before; sometimes she takes for granted that I may not have lived a time as that. She clucks incessantly at the realisation. I release a sigh of apology.

I am quickly forgiven, and the stories unfold once again. Mr & Mrs Jack Hodgson. Their journeys into Botswana, Tanzania, India and beyond. The Pahads, the Cachalias, the Sisulus and the rest of the lineage of the anti-apartheid struggle reveals itself in yet another thread of narrative. I make fervent notes. My voice recorder laps up the milk and cream of the voice and word content of this dialogue. It retells the story to me hours later, when I have returned to my desk in a less quieter part of Jozi.
Another dotted line is drawn, making for a tangible thread between her apartment in the North and my room in the centre of Johannesburg. Voices echo around me, bouncing off the walls, tempting me to make something of them. I am impatient, but its still not the time to write. Patience.

I relive the last few moments of my visit. The endless books. The endless rays of afternoon sunlight. I got invited to stay for her six o'clock gin and tonic; said with a rather mischievous grin to highlight her ample wit, as I was leaving. Ah, I know that you don't drink, she said in reply to my laughter. Everything works around traffic, here in Jozi. I had to leave, anyway... But in many ways, I stayed.

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

Shafinaaz

I met a woman named Shafinaaz today. It really was the strangest day...

I was on my way back from the interview with a sweet old lady, namely Mrs. Sisulu... when I made a little detour to pick up a parcel at a store in Greenside. The owners were expecting me. I was to meet a lady who refers to herself as 'Selma'. And when I spoke to her to enquire about directions, I introduced myself as well, who I am: Shafinaaz. She seemed to go silent on the phone, everytime I said my name. Maybe she forgot who I am? I didn't venture an explanation. When I arrived, finally, I met with a woman in purdah. Her name is Salma... and we proceeded to chat about the reason for my visit. And then her husband says: 'you didn't tell her your real name'... and I am baffled. So she says: 'my name in all my documentation, is Shafinaaz.'

I'm so not used to that! I mean, really... what are the chances? But, she says, she changed it to Salma because people said that it had no meaning. Hmm, so she was waiting to meet me so that she could ask me what my/our name means. Phew. Okay. Philosophical discussion time... :)

I think I'm going to refer to another post I wrote some time back about the meaning of my name. It's called 'A Rose by Any Other...' and was writ way back in 2006 when I was known to the blogosphere as Kimya and to the real real world as Shafinaaz. All in order, I may have managed to re-instate in her, the name she was given at birth; and the name that she has abandoned for some eight years now.

I did good, right?

I mean, after all, I am Shafinaaz :P

seventh sense

"Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader

— not the fact that it is raining,

but the feeling of being rained upon."


-Anton Chekhov

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.

Lunch with Kathy & Ms C

These interview sessions are taking me down a path of memory recollections that lead off into some of the darkest sinews of the human mind. Most of them are rooted in conflict and struggle; some thrived on tiny snippets of hope and almost always thirsted for compassion. Of course, there was very little to be found.

Ahmed Kathrada was tried along with hundreds of others in a time when treason was almost a buzzword. Today we sat down to a feisty curried lunch after he recounted the details of some of those proceedings; and the strategic mindset of his senior, Maulvi Cachalia, during the freedom struggle. But the moments I found to be most profound of these recollections, would have to be the close to thirty years spent in jail; and the criminal record for life, that disallows entry into a country like Canada.

The archives of memory and history twist with far more complexity than nature's vast DNA, and yet they need to be unraveled...
Ideals still need to be purveyed and protected; hope still gleams for many in an effort to not succumb to despair; and the quest for survival still a more than valiant struggle that keeps us in the depths of the quandary, hard at work.

But then there's that cloud of depravity; the winds of apathy churning sandstorms around us, blinding.. misleading... and allowing only thuggery to show its face.

About those ideals... What were they again? All evidence lost that there were men of steely character who fought in blood and sweat and tears and more blood. Ruling party or not, politics is a strange-ish game of umbrella morals and scattered corruption beyond the reach of the greater scope of an organisation.

Will the Emperor be found unclothed? Whats the vote?

belief, trust and process

I am in need of one of those magic potions that will keep me astride the latest developments, and all pepped up with the vitamins of good and glorious. Okay, what I mean to say is that what with all the hype of my new writing project, I am in constant need to replenish the energies of enthusiasm and to find myself the inspiration I need to dive into it.

*Deep Breath*

The new project is about to begin. I got a call to set the ball rolling late last week. And so, I am about to take that nose-dive into the refreshing waters of an exciting research project that has already got me meeting some fascinating types. My world is about to merge with an underworld of veterans and newbies; spies of old, turned fruitsellers and ex-pats nostalgic for the dust of days gone by.

Of course, colliding with that novel that I have been pretending to write, means that the overlaps will prove to be an interesting challenge for me. And there's no rush to get anywhere, anytime as per diary and stop-watch. No guilt about words that won't happen. No anxiety about the project being compromised. I am just being one with the words and being pulled along by the current from which they flow.

I believe in process; I trust the ability for things set in motion to make their way along a vine of growth and contention and more growth.

So they will happen together; my rainbow of things, side by side. And together, they will merge on this canvas of newness.

PS: This post represents the inauguration of the new baby. I will do a separate post on it in a few days when I can get back to the blogs. Cheerio till then. S.

White Oleander

I am reading the novel at the moment; and am totally engrossed by the author's wield of metaphors, depth of characters and fine play of believable/unbelievable scenario's. Will review it soon. In the meantime... Here's a trailer of the major motion picture version...

Kareem Salama: Picnics and Sunshine

And in other news...

In other news....

I am writing some fabulous fiction :P

check it out...

okay, rather...

i should pass around the address when I have more to share...

okay whatever...

Sigh.

Shafs...

I'm a loser; You're a loser. Its all okay.

Words can sometimes cause more harm than good. I'm not so sure that its about the conscious intention. Rather, its that words are interpreted by our brains already filled with a range of mind drama. And often, words are flung about rather carelessly, with little notion, at first, of the impact that they might make on their recipient. Take falling in love, for example. It's possible to fall in love with a bunch of words on a screen. But it's just as easily possible to fall out of love that way. So then the relationship of words with words and energies from that, is really something that might dwindle to nothingness if it's left to simmer for a while in a pot of mental melodrama. The spice of the inner workings of the mind is not to be underestimated, of course. It has the innate ability to add a wonderous flavour to the energies of a fertile imagination in cultivating the grandiose interest. For a time, souls are convincingly quenched. But then, it also has the skill to deftly carve some doubt and plant some insiduous seeds of resentment, bitterness and even guilt in the garden of an already infested psyche.

Now take chat for practical instance. Words are all you have to work with. Mxit. GoogleChat. Mirc for days gone by. And Facebook, and a whole realm of instant messenger de(vices). While words generate and transport energy, their static one-dimensionality on screen is an easy hoax for their danger to hurt or create misunderstandings. "You're such a loser" may sound like a cool rebuff. It can be read as a deep affront. "Don't be an idiot, dimwit, fag, five-year-old" The list is imaginatively endless. Then there's the protocols unobserved. e.g. "My dear" is not endearing to most independent females. Condescending tone is easily accompliced to an unsavoury choice of words. And the results are disasterous. Catastrophic even. Chat is bad enough, without the real elements, the human interaction, the smiles and facial nuances, the communication of eye to eye...soul to soul. Chat, distorted by unreliable connectivity and words misplaced is a nightmare. Telkom needs some competition methinks.

But what does all this say of the speaker of these arbitrary weapons of mass destruction? It's NOT okay. It doesnt feel okay. I do it. You do it. It doesnt make it okay. We're taught to love thy neighbour. Ideally, we all want to grow up to be astute and loving folk who will honour and respect our fellow beings. Maybe it's time we started with ourselves, for a change.

With love, honour and respect...
Shafs

NB: In tribute to a celebrated individual who has made a profound impact on my life this last year or so. Shabash! ;)

i dont believe in coincidence..

I was speaking to one of my friends regards the inevitable stream of divine inspiration everywhere around us; and with special reference to the way that Rumi-yana finds its way into my hands at various stages of my life..
Anyway, I picked up one of my newest anthologies (bought in Delhi last month, 'Rumi-The Book of Love'; a transl by Coleman Barks.. and opened to a page, just browsing. The following pieces all occur side by side on pages134/135, all make varied but profound sense to me.. based on some conversations and reflections with friends and loved ones.. sometimes, we don't have to look all that far in order to find divinity.. its in the spiritual water we drink from being close to or being with people who inspire real joy in us..


CANDLE AT NOON - p134

'A man is wandering the marketplace at noon
with a candle in his hand, totally ecstatic.

"Hey," calls a shopkeeper,"is this a joke?
Who are you looking for?"

"Someone breathing Huuu,the divine breath."
"Well, there are plenty to choose from."

"But I want one who can be in anger and desire
and still be a true human being in the same moment."


DERVISHES -p134

When school and mosque and minaret
get torn down, then dervishes can begin
their community. Not until faithfulness

turns to betrayal and betrayal into trust
can any human being become
part of the truth.


DOVES -p134/5

People want you to be happy.
Don't keep serving them your pain!

If you could untie your wings
and free your soul of jealousy,

you and everyone around you
would fly up like doves.


WHEN WORDS ARE TINGED WITH LYING -p135

Muhammad gave this indication of how to know
what's real. "When you feel

a peaceful joy, you're near the truth.
Unquiet and off centre, jealous or greedy,

then what you do seems pretentious
and those around you insincere.

Speak the clearest truth you know,
and let the uneasiness heal."

When words are tinged with lying,
they're like water dripping into an oil lamp.
The wick won't light, and the pleasure
of your love room will diminish.


---------------------------------------Jumuah love to all...Shfs

cryptic reflections of creativity

the writer writes,
the painter paints,
the lover is awed by every nuance of the beloved..
the sculptor creates..

all are reflections of the Master of Creation,

...each is an artist,
each a philosopher residing in creativity,

each makes of their matter of choice malleable forms,
with fingers delighting in the feel
of their raw clay warmed by creative enthusiasm.

and all this time,
the inspiration is divine and fragranced
by the purpose of loving
all that life has to offer,
showing appreciation
in having partaken in its fruits,
and extending ones' self
to that realm of energy that abounds
when souls meet in eternity.