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.

the lightness of being (apologies to kundera)

A year tends to bring numerous landmark events; personal ones, vocational ones, social, political, economic and faith-based ones. Some are steeped in elements of what is real and likely, while others are built on a foundation of fantasy, and collapse even before the hype and adrenalin has run it's course.

We live through the year over-dosing on temporary fixations, no doubt. The compulsive tendencies are fed to fullness on these tempting obsessions with the superficial, the random, and often the mundane. Twenty four hours can transform something that you cannot live without, into second rate trash.

I know these things about the infinite randomness of being, because admittedly, my life tends that way all too often. I hear the whirrrrr of the wheel as I run it like a good hamster. Whirr-whirrrr. I hear it.

And then that silver sliver of a new moon appears in the sky. Friendly faces peek out from behind the wood of trees made into solid doors. The gleam of delight is absurdly awesome; I am at once ensconced by it all, and lifted by the immense lightness of being a part of this communal life. Grace descends as silk. We are swathed in creamy layers of it, fragranced with a joy willed by the entry of this blessed month. It's the Holy month of Ramadaan. The almost Utopian goodness inherent in being human, reveals itself. Redundant excuses no longer make for a fitting diatribe. Devil may care only for a tether that renders evil useless somewhere on the ocean floor. Triumph is left to those who will embrace the rewards on offer; to those who will drink sweetness from ego's ultimate surrender.

There is, in surrender only one outcome: and that is the lightness of being.

Much love and blessings of an engaged surrender to one and all.
Ramadaan Kareem

so fickle, these five senses...

There are people who scatter around me;
Some in mock haste; others ambling, perhaps

But I see them not..
feel them not...
so closed off is this abstract nearness,
so fickle, these five senses...

Then there is You so distant in time and space;
but all the while, right here beside me...
with me, around me,

a fragrance, an energy, some words...
a voice.. a name... a being...

a necessary delight.

I am filled. Emptied.

But filled. Again.

Stop!

I want these words to stop.

They waste so much!

Spilling about careless,
These drops float in the water
Of life around me.

All I want is to submerge myself;
To drown
In a sea of voices
That make flirtation
An art...

And art, a devastation
Of something
Sacred.

Eleven Minutes

I have always enjoyed reading Paulo Coelho... And with enthusiasm, I have been quenched by The Alchemist; provoked by Veronika decides to Die, and intrigued by The Devil and Ms Prym. The most enjoyable of late, was The Witch of Portobello; a delightful biography of a woman by the name of Athena. I have read some others, too, and recently picked up the copy I have of Eleven Minutes. I buy books pretty much everywhere I go, and the script beneath the scrawl that represents my name said: London 2005. I cannot remember why, but I couldnt read the book with appreciation at the time. I think there was a 3 for 2 sale or something at the time...

And so, I am reading through Eleven Minutes at the moment... and I find myself at some profound revelatory points here and there. Here is an extract that appealed to me today, some of it for the content, but also the sharing of it is in appreciation for my own process of keeping a journal (beyond the blogosphere:P)

"From Maria's diary, two days after everything had returned to normal:

Passion makes a person stop eating, sleeping, working, feeling at peace. A lot of people are frightened because, when it appears, it demolishes all the old things it finds in its path.
No one wants their life thrown into chaos. That is why a lot of people keep that threat under control, and are somehow capable of sustaining a house or a structure that is already rotten. They are the engineers of the superceded.
Other people think exactly the opposite: they surrender themselves without a second thought, hoping to find in passion the solution to all their problems. They make the other person responsible for their happiness and blame them for their possible unhappiness. They are either euphoric because something marvelous has happened or depressed because something unexpected has just ruined everything.
Keeping passion at bay or surrendering blindly to it - which of these two attitudes is the least destructive?
I don't know. "

...and love is the tool of healing...

Self-doubt is probably one of the most disasterous of man-made devices ever built. I imagine that it was first designed on some malfunctioning unit of human being, ready only to self-destruct or render itself to smithereens due to not liking the game being played. And so, the psyche beleagured, wrought the addition of a grand mutation in this form. Human beings were designed for love and Love. In no particular order. Love Creator and love creation. Simple as that. So then why oh why do we complicate matters so? Self-doubt questions worth. Diminished self-worth questions being. And purpose. We fail to see the divinity inherent in being part of that great thread of soul energy. Because thats all that we are. Energy. We are refueled by compassion, appreciation, and love. We are drained by self-doubt. Fear, pain, resentment, anger. All are children of self-doubt. Why do I keep harping on about this one icky little word? Its because by implication, doubting self causes a pain that is self-inflicted. And pain translates into anger. Self-processed. So theres no room for victimhood here. We're able to make the conscious choice. A proactiveness is required in being able to undo the self-flaggelation tactics. To get a grip, and see the harm that we wreak on self and surrounds. Crimson Shimmer's new poem says it well... Fear is the weapon of self-destruction... and it follows then, that Love is the tool of Healing...

I write these posts in reflection. And they are free-written with little thought of grammatical error or structure. I write as I feel. Or maybe these words are messages that my subconscious wants to reveal to me as lessons to self. I am not free of qualms and quirkinesses. I am, a work in progress. I just hope that I am learning from my own mistakes, that I am forgiven my many mistakes by those who I may have wronged... and I hope that I am able to discard the regrets and not hold resentment in the tiny space of my heart. If it must expand, then let that be with compassion. I have so much yet to learn. And there's so little time.

The Divine Guide

Fumbling in the dark
a thirsty beggar,
seeking light
I amble on,
tiny eyes mesmerized
by the twinkling
lights in the distance
promising more than momentary
sparkle to existence.
Every day a cyclists mundane path,
dotted along by sweet smelling flowers
and the trendy pebbles, smiling gems of wonder.

Once in a while
I might even stop to play
with these to find to my delight,
a rare inspiration
from the divine garden..
Once in a while..
When Life and Time affords.

But oh the day of Glory
when I am able to
bask in the sunshine
of a blessed moment..
when touched
soul to soul
by the spirit of divine love
and then to feel
Guided by the Hand that Leads!
Oh what Glory!
What deep fulfilling measure of
Beauty as I have never known.

I do now.

I do!
He Loves me.
I see it. I feel it.
Sunshine is the sparkle in his eyes
and MoonLight - the radiance of his skin.
Allah Loves me.
Undoubtedly.
His Gifts to me are
boundless. Endless.
Like the yearning Ocean,
the eternal Skye,
the thirsty Desert..
Like Love.
And Breathing.
And the knowledge that
Love
is
Breathing.

Indeed,
I am spoilt
by these wonders
and these delights.

Destiny unravelled,
reveals a scroll
of pleasures
awaiting my perusal.

I am spellbound!