I have no words
Words will come.
Words fill my head, my heart fills with tears.
my eyes with pain, my conscious with her memory and then the words come.
The art that has always inspired me, in remembrance of her beauty- of the most true kind- keeps me moving, and thinking, and wanting to live more fully, more passionately.
Without her- I am not me. Without us, There are no words to offer a broken heart, a kindred soul, a burning flame, a love so deep, only words in writing with paper and pen with intricate letters, spellings and curves of dots and lines- would make it suffice. Would keep the art she lived for alive, the passion, the drive, the intensity to gain a knowledge of that desire and a mind waiting to be fulfilled, wanting and insisting to enrapture. It will stay within us. It will be ours, something I know bringing comfort -that you knew what it was like , it is now ours. For the same kind of pens and books of empty papers were also yours - They wont become a has been as long as I remember the flame, it will go on. When I think there is no more to give- the words amazingly start to flow - to no avail, in not knowing where they come from my hand wont stop moving and writing, something it never thought it could do. Just as I thought I was about to give up, she pushes and I feel her here with me and she is here telling me to live. She is strong writing these words for me, and the tears don't stop, and the flow keeps going and I am scared because I don't know where they are coming from, and the pain and hunger in my stomach is curling now but I am told to ignore it and keep fulfilling. One day, just one day...
The power that is in those words start to subside and the passion remains. It is a command I cannot ignore. I will keep going for her, and for me. It will be. It is meant, and I surrender..to you.
Thank you.
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Friday, February 6, 2009
In Loving Memory
I have a profound love for the country that I do not know. The country I hail from but have never known, never tasted and felt with my own two hands. But ever since I was a child I have felt it in my heart , beating so strong. I know that this place exists. I also know how it existed, and so happy were the people that were living there. Void of war, but full of love and compassion. Its people are strong willed. They are exuberant, hard working and some of the smartest people I have ever spoken to. Their stories never end. You can sit with any Iraqi- any where on the globe, And be entertained for hours with stories detailing the sounds and smells about this place they grew up in. But now- they feel estranged from that land they still hold so dear to their hearts. It is Iraq. Its a place my parents came from, but one that I never experienced.
Today is the one year anniversary of my mothers passing. Crying - does not suffice, remembering her doesn't take conscious effort. Hearing her voice, and feeling her presence I am used to. Her memory is soaked in my soul. Her words I remember daily. An angel on earth, there are no words to describe what she looks like, or to describe her life. No words are enough for an angel. Yet- even after one year, she is still so alive. Inside of me, I feel her presence. I only wish I could ask her questions about the life she lived. The struggles I face, I wonder if she had the same questions...The curiosity, and the pain.
Iraq is such a huge, yet small part of my identity. I never knew how to answer 'where are you from?' The same patriotism I feel for America, I feel more passionately for Iraq. The human emotion I experience when I think about the place my mother and father spent their younger years releases itself in tears when I hear an Iraqis words in poetry, the writings of both my mother and father. Both of them were poets, writers. The love letters that they shared their entire life, I now hold sacred in a small black box. Bundles of letters and pictures of my parents are spread between my four siblings and I. The adventures across Europe and The United States, Disney Land and the Eiffel Tower. The genuine, bright smile of my glowing mother and her two small children in 1975. Clad in a fur coat, ever so stylish in her kitten heel and perfectly styled hair- I wonder what was she thinking. I inherently sense the immense love she had for my father.
My roots as an Iraqi, I was born with.
I was bred with the intensity and courage to speak for myself as an American.
The two loves I have for America and Iraq seem so separate, yet so alike...
I ran back to the United States after living in the Middle east for reasons which I could not pronounce in the Middle East. In my appearance- it didn't matter. I look like an Arab girl and sound like an American. So who was I to be. I confused others constantly. In turn I confused myself. With Arab social expectations placed upon me because of the superficiality placed on how I look,compared with the standards and rights I knew I was meant to have and be able to practice as a Muslim and an American - I felt with rage in my heart - with the need to express them, the two just could not coincide. How was I to balance both world view points? Lifestyles?
Was I to behave in a manner that I was used to growing up as an American? Or alter my behavior according to how I was 'supposed' to be only because that is how I was projected outwardly? Factually, If I had blonde hair and blue eyes I didn't have to behave the way Arab society expected of me because I would automatically be considered European or American. In respect to my father and to honor my heritage - I chose to embrace it all.
I made some discoveries. I never understood why my mother or father would tell me that I am too harsh, or stubborn. Since the age of 18, I learned to be independent. Before then, I was very dependent on the people around me. I made my own way as I experienced more in life. I learned that I had to speak up, ask questions when I didnt understand and acknowledged that the world wasn't as peachy as I had imagined it to be in my younger and more sheltered days. I created defenses and became more and more jaded towards the emotions that I had once thought would be special and unique. In a traditional Arabs eyes and mind, I maybe was too outspoken. I felt it inwardly and expressed it outwardly- I always thought that was okay, until I went to the middle east and realized that compared to others. I truly was that way- but only as a manifestation of the environment I was bred into.
I was once at the airport in Muscat Oman. I was bitter to come back. I was there for my father only. An old man tried to help me carry my bags that I was completely capable of doing myself. And at his attempt, I immediately assumed that he had ulterior motives. Did it occur to me that he was just trying to be kind? As if I am pre-programmed to think that he is thinking I must be helped because he sees me as attractive, or just simply as a woman. I was reactive and defensive. Looking back, I realize I was unquestionably insensitive and resentful.
These qualms I wished I could have pondered over with my mother... What would she tell me? What would she say or think about the person I have become, and am becoming? Would I be different?
It was meant. And those questions don't matter. Because who I am meant to be has already been decided. I only have the choice to live my best life. She knew this. She would tell me to take it one day at a time, to have faith.
Today is the one year anniversary of my mothers passing. Crying - does not suffice, remembering her doesn't take conscious effort. Hearing her voice, and feeling her presence I am used to. Her memory is soaked in my soul. Her words I remember daily. An angel on earth, there are no words to describe what she looks like, or to describe her life. No words are enough for an angel. Yet- even after one year, she is still so alive. Inside of me, I feel her presence. I only wish I could ask her questions about the life she lived. The struggles I face, I wonder if she had the same questions...The curiosity, and the pain.
Iraq is such a huge, yet small part of my identity. I never knew how to answer 'where are you from?' The same patriotism I feel for America, I feel more passionately for Iraq. The human emotion I experience when I think about the place my mother and father spent their younger years releases itself in tears when I hear an Iraqis words in poetry, the writings of both my mother and father. Both of them were poets, writers. The love letters that they shared their entire life, I now hold sacred in a small black box. Bundles of letters and pictures of my parents are spread between my four siblings and I. The adventures across Europe and The United States, Disney Land and the Eiffel Tower. The genuine, bright smile of my glowing mother and her two small children in 1975. Clad in a fur coat, ever so stylish in her kitten heel and perfectly styled hair- I wonder what was she thinking. I inherently sense the immense love she had for my father.
My roots as an Iraqi, I was born with.
I was bred with the intensity and courage to speak for myself as an American.
The two loves I have for America and Iraq seem so separate, yet so alike...
I ran back to the United States after living in the Middle east for reasons which I could not pronounce in the Middle East. In my appearance- it didn't matter. I look like an Arab girl and sound like an American. So who was I to be. I confused others constantly. In turn I confused myself. With Arab social expectations placed upon me because of the superficiality placed on how I look,compared with the standards and rights I knew I was meant to have and be able to practice as a Muslim and an American - I felt with rage in my heart - with the need to express them, the two just could not coincide. How was I to balance both world view points? Lifestyles?
Was I to behave in a manner that I was used to growing up as an American? Or alter my behavior according to how I was 'supposed' to be only because that is how I was projected outwardly? Factually, If I had blonde hair and blue eyes I didn't have to behave the way Arab society expected of me because I would automatically be considered European or American. In respect to my father and to honor my heritage - I chose to embrace it all.
I made some discoveries. I never understood why my mother or father would tell me that I am too harsh, or stubborn. Since the age of 18, I learned to be independent. Before then, I was very dependent on the people around me. I made my own way as I experienced more in life. I learned that I had to speak up, ask questions when I didnt understand and acknowledged that the world wasn't as peachy as I had imagined it to be in my younger and more sheltered days. I created defenses and became more and more jaded towards the emotions that I had once thought would be special and unique. In a traditional Arabs eyes and mind, I maybe was too outspoken. I felt it inwardly and expressed it outwardly- I always thought that was okay, until I went to the middle east and realized that compared to others. I truly was that way- but only as a manifestation of the environment I was bred into.
I was once at the airport in Muscat Oman. I was bitter to come back. I was there for my father only. An old man tried to help me carry my bags that I was completely capable of doing myself. And at his attempt, I immediately assumed that he had ulterior motives. Did it occur to me that he was just trying to be kind? As if I am pre-programmed to think that he is thinking I must be helped because he sees me as attractive, or just simply as a woman. I was reactive and defensive. Looking back, I realize I was unquestionably insensitive and resentful.
These qualms I wished I could have pondered over with my mother... What would she tell me? What would she say or think about the person I have become, and am becoming? Would I be different?
It was meant. And those questions don't matter. Because who I am meant to be has already been decided. I only have the choice to live my best life. She knew this. She would tell me to take it one day at a time, to have faith.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Misery, Lets Agree to Disagree
I'm tormented in my writing. I have a deadline.
Its almost a year later and my entire existence seems to be scattered with tidbits , thoughts and memories of my mother. Anyone who ever said that the pain will subside was wrong.
Its impossible to find focus. I just want to write about her, and everything in my life in comparison to her seems the peak of frivolity.
Last January on this day, I was sitting next to her hospital bed, in a different country, with a different life. I ceased to exist in my selfishness and my entire life could no longer be what it was.
I cant have a single thought or emotion without questioning. Constantly having questions. Questions that I don't think I will ever be able to answer. In comparison, nothing seems real. I don't even know that I am real right now. If one year that changed your life can pass by so quickly, and can simply fade as a memory - what does it mean to really live? We are left with the memories, the pain and the lessons. They just wont go away. You are in idiot if you think you can constantly escape. I have always understood why people take drugs. Constant escapism. Dealing with yourself can be too hard to endure, so just take the easy way instead of actually suffering and learning. One only really learns when they suffer. All of the prophets suffered. No great person in history would have been remembered if they too didnt suffer. Martin Luther, you are remembered today- and tomorrow during inauguration, will be your day.
In those moments of desperation that we all have, the moment you are alone with no one to hear you cry - you remember. The memories come flooding and only then do you want to redeem yourself to the people you love, the people you hurt, the mistakes you have made.You suddenly want to reach out to the world to make your mark in life. Because you realize what is truly important in the end. But its short lived. What would our lives be like if we tried to remember those moments of desperation when we don't feel like it? When we are so wrapped up in our own lives it helps to remember those times.
Brace yourselves.
Its almost a year later and my entire existence seems to be scattered with tidbits , thoughts and memories of my mother. Anyone who ever said that the pain will subside was wrong.
Its impossible to find focus. I just want to write about her, and everything in my life in comparison to her seems the peak of frivolity.
Last January on this day, I was sitting next to her hospital bed, in a different country, with a different life. I ceased to exist in my selfishness and my entire life could no longer be what it was.
I cant have a single thought or emotion without questioning. Constantly having questions. Questions that I don't think I will ever be able to answer. In comparison, nothing seems real. I don't even know that I am real right now. If one year that changed your life can pass by so quickly, and can simply fade as a memory - what does it mean to really live? We are left with the memories, the pain and the lessons. They just wont go away. You are in idiot if you think you can constantly escape. I have always understood why people take drugs. Constant escapism. Dealing with yourself can be too hard to endure, so just take the easy way instead of actually suffering and learning. One only really learns when they suffer. All of the prophets suffered. No great person in history would have been remembered if they too didnt suffer. Martin Luther, you are remembered today- and tomorrow during inauguration, will be your day.
In those moments of desperation that we all have, the moment you are alone with no one to hear you cry - you remember. The memories come flooding and only then do you want to redeem yourself to the people you love, the people you hurt, the mistakes you have made.You suddenly want to reach out to the world to make your mark in life. Because you realize what is truly important in the end. But its short lived. What would our lives be like if we tried to remember those moments of desperation when we don't feel like it? When we are so wrapped up in our own lives it helps to remember those times.
Brace yourselves.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Rights of time Passage
Im way to tired to even think about what the contents of this blog post will be.
So,
Dear Blog,
I have missed you. I missed you when the New Year came in and new things started happening. I missed you when I decided that eating home made waffles was more important than writing. I missed you when 2009 rang in and everything changed but my computer was off and not to be turned on for I am just too tired. I missed you when everything changed. I missed you when I felt like I had stepped out of myself again. Once I stepped back in, I realized that writing is always the best way to organize/ compartmentalize my thoughts.
Its a new year, but I still cant seem to shake off 2008. I wanted it to stay once I realized that the more time passed by the more I would start to feel pain. I wanted to hold on to the time frame when my mother was still alive. I wanted to still be able to say to people that it had been less than a year since she passed away. I still wanted 2008 because I am not done having a grieving excuse. I dont want February to pass, as all my memories remain as if they were yesterday. 2008 was too heavy of a year for it to simply pass casually in time- its as if it ignored me and went on its merry way without realizing that I am not yet done. I am not done.
Is it that simple? Is that just it? You live, you try to make the best of it all and most times its shitty because you slip and fall slip and fall , pick up the pieces over and over and over again only to realize that your 80 years old and your life is going to end? Or how about just not knowing when you are going to die- but reminded of the guarantee that you someday will?
Thinking ahead and moving forward without having dealt with the past can be dangerous. How would a person know that what they are doing right now is not just a manifestation of how screwed up (or maybe great) their past was? Is your past always meaning to shape you?
I passed by a live shot (news crew) while taking a walk today, and as I had worked with that station in the past, a small part of me immediately wanted to go over and see what the story was all about, talk to the reporter and videographer, not only because I knew who they were, but because I still felt like I wanted to be a part of all that. But my visions have changed, and instead I just walked away. If 2008 didnt turn out the way it did- would I still have had the same career goals? Maybe I would have become compleltey oblivious and never have asked all these questions. I might have turned out to be an entirely different person. But the wind of Tv Journalism did not catch me by storm as it had originally intended. I was on that path. But apparently, 2008 had a different path for me. Now im left with the debris, and 2008 just left me here.
I guess its not dangerous, it was just meant to be.
So,
Dear Blog,
I have missed you. I missed you when the New Year came in and new things started happening. I missed you when I decided that eating home made waffles was more important than writing. I missed you when 2009 rang in and everything changed but my computer was off and not to be turned on for I am just too tired. I missed you when everything changed. I missed you when I felt like I had stepped out of myself again. Once I stepped back in, I realized that writing is always the best way to organize/ compartmentalize my thoughts.
Its a new year, but I still cant seem to shake off 2008. I wanted it to stay once I realized that the more time passed by the more I would start to feel pain. I wanted to hold on to the time frame when my mother was still alive. I wanted to still be able to say to people that it had been less than a year since she passed away. I still wanted 2008 because I am not done having a grieving excuse. I dont want February to pass, as all my memories remain as if they were yesterday. 2008 was too heavy of a year for it to simply pass casually in time- its as if it ignored me and went on its merry way without realizing that I am not yet done. I am not done.
Is it that simple? Is that just it? You live, you try to make the best of it all and most times its shitty because you slip and fall slip and fall , pick up the pieces over and over and over again only to realize that your 80 years old and your life is going to end? Or how about just not knowing when you are going to die- but reminded of the guarantee that you someday will?
Thinking ahead and moving forward without having dealt with the past can be dangerous. How would a person know that what they are doing right now is not just a manifestation of how screwed up (or maybe great) their past was? Is your past always meaning to shape you?
I passed by a live shot (news crew) while taking a walk today, and as I had worked with that station in the past, a small part of me immediately wanted to go over and see what the story was all about, talk to the reporter and videographer, not only because I knew who they were, but because I still felt like I wanted to be a part of all that. But my visions have changed, and instead I just walked away. If 2008 didnt turn out the way it did- would I still have had the same career goals? Maybe I would have become compleltey oblivious and never have asked all these questions. I might have turned out to be an entirely different person. But the wind of Tv Journalism did not catch me by storm as it had originally intended. I was on that path. But apparently, 2008 had a different path for me. Now im left with the debris, and 2008 just left me here.
I guess its not dangerous, it was just meant to be.
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