Little Notes from Arabia

31 Aug:
Sometimes, dua, prayer, supplication, moves through us, if not from us. I learnt that today, while standing in front of the Holy Kaaba. I remembered the name of a woman that I have not met. Ever. But I know that she ails. And that almost intangible ailment filters into the lives of her loved ones. Her name came to my lips in full form, surprising me.
I also discovered that empty spaces, mundane ones, are filled easily by the wholeness of humanity. I realised that I am here to experience the notion of a crowded oneness that I write about, ramble about, and even try to fashion into words.
The concept of tawheed is neatly embodied in being one with the crowd. Circling the Kaaba for the last time, amid midday heat that defies logic in its sentient calmness, coolness. Having sought newness, this is it: both Content, Complete.

1 Sept:
The thought crosses my mind that its Spring Day back home in SA. And we're roasting peanuts in the Arabian Sun. The glow is unmistakeably tinged with the radiance of the moment's entirety; of being here, and just being.

3 Sept:
There is something about Madinah that unties that last knot. The last tether is loosened here; and all flows freely. I am easily moved to tears, being the unapologetic sentimentalist that I am, but being here removes that final frontier of abandon. Grace is felt here. Mercy adorns. Forgiveness flows. Love does, too.
I am at once soaked and drenched in it. The beauty of it all.

6 Sept:
Woke up to the distinct sound of the Athaan Call to Prayer in my ears. Its 11am in Madinah, and check out time is after the midday prayer. Only thing is, its too early for the Athaan. But I was so sure. Still. The mind lacks a tether here. It only knows greatness, not of its own doing though. It's time to say farewell to this City of Angels, sadness distilled with the hope that the tranquility prevails, somewhat.

We traverse the Arabian desert for most of the afternoon, chomping kilometres in a rhino-esque vehicle called a GMC; less Gulf-ish than it sounds, as its really an American creature. We arrive in Jeddah just as the sun sets. A golden-pink sun bounces playfully on the horizon for a last few minutes before it plunges into the depths of the Red Sea. We take in the sights of this final destination of our Arabian journey. And then we fly home. Finality has so many colours for me. This time, it's many shades of red.

Borrowed Time

I don't want to do this anymore... even though I love it so! I sit here, feeling like some kind of window washer on a glass skyscraper; washing away in this repetitive circular motion with the sunshine on my face, and looking in at the wonders of the snazzy executives in the boardroom with their faces painted; first a sombre grey and then layered in varying shades of pink to fake a blush and rosy lips.

My blush reflected in this larger than life mirror is of the elements ravaging my usually pristine features and of the gust of wind splaying fingers through my uncombed hair. My shades of pink are just those memories of a time before I learnt to write. You know, when I pretended that I was alive and played on in that theatre of life, a smiling collaborator to the puppeteers jesting ways.

My shades of grey are the shadows from that time. And the reminders that theatre is fiction; and real life, well... that's not for novels, dearie. Why, that's made for living! If you dare.

I remember his words now, when I told him to keep breathing. 'Everything else is a bonus,' he said. 'A bonus.'

This is borrowed time. I just remembered.

And I want to do that thing that I love doing. But I also don't. I really don't want to. Not tonight. Tonight, I just want to breath again.

Tomorrow I will go back to being the best window washer in the whole wide world. But not today. Today I want the grime to collect on their windows keeping the sun out for a day. Just a day. Then tomorrow, I will borrow time to be me again. Tomorrow I will do the work. Tomorrow, fingers will tap dance at keyboard. Tomorrow the windows will be clean again.

But only tomorrow.

Today I will rest.

After all, this is borrowed time.

I just remembered.

A Post About Nothing...

lamenting the food crisis

Breakfast - in the lap
of bourgeois warmth,

with talk of food
and
its
rising prices making us
choke on scrambled egg

and vintage cheddar
and a basket
of french bread,

quickly
turning into crumbs
fit only for
skeletal pigeons.