Dec 31, 2007

2008 is Love

another year is about to pass, and i'm hours ahead of where i would normally spend this night. that's because i'm home. i mean, i'm Home-home. the past year was rough in the way that all years seem to be getting ever since i woke up and realized i was a grown ass woman. but i don't mean 'rough' in a jaded way. i am thankful and feel blessed for everything i've experienced. none of it has been bad, even when it has. i'm trying to live Love and lay to rest all that's irrelevent: which is, everything. i don't mean this in the hippie shit sense of the term. living Love always involves struggle. the hugest struggle. and that's exactly where i want to be.

happy roman calendar new year!

salaamat baasheen.

Dec 23, 2007


there is a great deal of creative writing associated with the breath and breathing, especially in eastern traditions. nafas is the farsi and arabic word for breath. in farsi, the word is commonly used in sayings, proverbs, and poetry. it's also omnipresent in sufi philosophy and practice.

i love the farsi word for soulmate or partner-in-life, "ham-nafas" (which literally means, "together in breath"). in certain sufi philosophy, this beautiful term refers to the crossings of the life-paths of a man and woman who have a spiritual partnership; they are breathing in the same spirit.

i use the metaphor of breathing a lot in my writing, particularly my poetry. i'm not sure why i do this. most of the time it's unintentional. perhaps it's cultural influence on a subconscious level.

so what does the breath mean to me?
much more than probably i am aware of. but essentially, for me,
breathing is being present, breathing is peace, breathing is love.

The morning wind spreads its fresh smell.

We must get up and take that in,
that wind that lets us live.
Breathe, before it's gone.

- by sufi poet Molana Jalaledin Mohammad Balkhi (Rumi)

Dec 9, 2007

breathe easy

the last little while has weighed heavy. like dozens of bricks strapped to my limbs. joints and muscles sore, my body hurts. i tell myself that with movement comes pain. and the pain flows. and eventually dissipates. sometimes though, it hurts too much. frustrated, i want it to just go away. sometimes i want to forget that i want movement more than anything.

4 am, the other night i woke up crying. but why, i scolded myself. you want this, so take it.

so I move hard. intensely. to the point of impatience. to the point of cruelty. and i take things hard. and i add bricks. the weight unbearable. and so the pain stagnates me. because I hold on to it.

4 am, last night i woke up drenched in sweat. distressed i couldn't remember the name of the street we used to live in. the last place we moved into before we left. the one with the big window in the kitchen where i saw that soldier steal my yellow banana board and skate away down the block. the one near the military base where we drove by everyday, where the bomb exploded the day my mom had turned the car around in time because she'd forgotten something at home. the street where i chalked colorful squares unto the cement and played leyley.

i took the pen and pad by my bed, and at 4 am, i wrote. i wrote till the joints in my hand ached. till my fingers couldn't hold the pen anymore. and i stopped. lay my head on the pillow. and inhaled. and exhaled. and inhaled. and exhaled...

and slow.
Creative Commons License
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Licence.