Wish List

“My rich brother told me to make a list of all the things that I need. Knowing how short my imagination is, he knew he could fulfill all of them.

And I believed him.

So I gave him an ice cream on a stick. A kiss on the cheek. And nothing else.”

Understandably, Ben gave me a crazy look when I told him that story.

“Don’t you need a new laptop?” he started. “Isn’t your scoliosis worsening every time you have carry that damned Tofuckba? And, girl, god knows how bad you need a new pair of shoes! ASK FOR SOMETHING!”

“But I was too scared to ask,” I said, “I’m afraid of easy come easy go.”

Ben yelled, “And easy come again!”

“No, Ben,” I said, “a laptop is a moral responsibility that goes hundreds of years back.  A laptop took the love and labor of dozens of generations. It’s more complicated than a matchbox.”

“So? They’re all paid for by now. Or dead. Or don’t know you! Why would they care what you do with YOUR laptop?”

I sighed. “Because  as soon as it comes under my watch, I’ll be accounted for it. I’ll have to answer to every hand that took part in sending it to my care. Imagine all those people one day ask what I’ve done with their invention? I’d like say that it served me very well. And a thank you.”

“But your bad back needs a smaller, better and more convenient laptop.”

I laughed. Then shuddered. “You’re making it sound like marriage for the wrong reasons. Does loyalty ring a bell in your head?”

“Duck!”

“I’m afraid of abundance,” I said, “because I’m afraid of losing track of appreciation for things. Because, in this time of age, everything is heavy with that moral responsibility. The more convenient the gadget is the more love and labor have been assembled into it. The more people to answer to.”

“IT’S JUST A FREAKING LAPTOP!!”

Yet, when the bells in my ears stopped ringing that night, I remember seeing Ben fall in love again with his ultra-modern mobile phone.

Matchbox

Remember that invention? Yeah, that unappealing box that holds short, thin pieces of wood, tipped with a mixture of fire-producing substances, and used to produce a flame. [Source: Encarta.]

Believe it or not, we could see the entire history of human civilization compressed in a matchbox. For, the easier it was to make fire, more advanced human civilization was.

• Fire-making technology. I would not argue that Prometheus stole fire from the gods, but around 30’000 years ago, people used rock and flint to start fire. Around that time too, people found that rubbing two pieces of wood together furiously, would make fire. Thus, friction (or theft, by Prometheus) was the first genius.

• Chemical engineering. Around late first millennia, someone in some Chinese court discovered gunpowder. And thought it looked pretty and used it to ward off demons. (Until someone else figured out a gun and then hell broke loose.) Anyway, a thousand years after the invention of gunpowder, someone else in France discovered the right chemical combination that sits on the tip of a wooden match.

• Woodcutting technology. Ah, that. From the axe on logs, to the steaming engines in the industrial revolution, to the electrical machineries that cut, and dried and laid the wooden sticks in its thin & short form.

• Papermaking. How many people did it take to invent a damn cardboard box? Paper was invented around 2000 years ago. Papermaking machines were invented in 1800s by two enthusiastic brothers somewhere in Britain. The chemical quotations that broke wood into paper, was invented around 1850s.

• Adhesive. Who knows, whether vegetable or synthetic or spit, someone somewhere had to calculate the right amount of glue that would hold the box together, without turning the cardboard into blubber.

All in all, it only took about 30 to 2 thousand years for the matchbox to exist in its modern day form. It took that much of time and effort and curiosity, across so many generations to create the simple, denigrate matchbox.

Isn’t that something?

Unwounded Knots

Meet Teppy; a fellow "coherent rambler" who writes personal, meditative, long-ish posts on her blog Walking, Talking Contradiction. On a recent post, she wrote about the secrets that our bodies keep.

Teppy was doing a yoga position that unwounded the knots around her shoulders and skull; “where I hold my tension (and where most of us do because of constantly sitting and driving around in cars slumped over).”

After while in that position, tears welled up from nowhere and everywhere. And when she couldn’t help it, she asked for permission. And started crying.

“[The cry] wasn't hysterical and it wasn't light.  It was a continuous stream of tears of recognition (with a smile across my face from relief of just letting myself do what I needed to do: cry).  Recognition of the pain I have carried around with me, of the negative words I have put in my head…”

Our bodies hear and listen and subsequently obey our words, remember?

* * *

I once massaged a proud, handsome gentleman who was in the advanced stages of his illness. He guided my hands to where it hurt the most. And when I touched him there, unfamiliar thoughts and feelings rushed into me.

“Lord, how could you do this to me? Lord, how I envy this healthy, youthful child. Lord, I’m spent.”

My hands, as they pressed and coaxed his knots to unwind, also released the pain and words they’d been holding. Those free thoughts of his, passed into me, and went straight into the ground beneath us, in tears. As I hid my face from them and cried quietly. For both of us.

[Maybe this is one of the reasons why I can’t/don’t want to keep secrets. I’m a masseuses. And a sucker for hugs.]

* * *

Now, if our bodies store secrets, and physical contact is like stripping (parts of) our masks, I wonder if that is the reason why collectivistic societies discourage unnecessary speech. And why individualistic societies crave so much privacy (the twin sister to loneliness).

Do the quantity of physical contact can reflect the quantity of words exchanged between people? Even abuse?

Dear Reader,

Colson asked a question that I’ve been wondering about all week. After writing every day for a month, where are we going next? Do I keep doing it, or do I just relapse and go back to “post when I can and feel like it”?

Before answering that, let me tell you that I’m wiiiiiiide open to suggestions. You can establish contact, say hi, or freely insult me on every popularly possible mean available here.

If there’s something you want me to talk about, or QUIT talking about, just say so. If there’s a topic you want to expand on, or a question you want me to address, well, say so.

Even if writing on those topics might make me as blue as an Avatarah. [Besides, blue is a fine color. You can’t fake the blues, man.]

That said, I’m going to blog a post everyday. Or try to. Inshallah.

And, correct me if I’m wrong, I have a feeling that my readers like articles on practical, unconditional and unromantic love. Also, stories about humanized prophets, and the prophets within all of us. So we’ll restart this daily blogging thing from there.

Okay?

(Unexpected) Benefits from Posting Every Day

Ever wondered what it feels like to post every day on a blog?

After a month of plowing for ideas, posting every day felt like a lot of things (including - but not limited to - “joyful shit”). But if there’s only one thing I’m allowed to explore, I’d say it sharpened awareness on both sides of my face: A) awareness to my surrounding environment. B) awareness to the chugging trains INSIDE my head.

Environmental Awareness

The urgent drive to post something of some value every day about made me on the constant lookout for ideas. Even if I can’t drive a hybrid car. And the mind frame lead to:

• better time and self management
• some eavesdropping & snooping behaviors
• frequent camera usage (oh the wonders of a telephoto lens!!)
• openness to try new things, like dressing up and showing up in public and double dating
• smarter friends ==> smarter conversations ==> brighter ideas ==> awesome brainstorms
• more constructive answers to “The Most Important Question of the Day”
• improved listening (a.k.a. not just hearing) skills
• more enjoyable bike rides,
• easier smiles, noticed more kindnesses in others

Thinking Awareness

I’m more surprised about the things that happened inside my head. So please pay attention because this is (more) important.

• Conscious thought halts

  A darling of the tougher days. Days when all I wanted to say was “Why that baying, barking, bellowing son of a bleeeeeep…STOP!! I haven’t written today’s post. I can’t say that in my blog.”

• Selective thinking

  (a.k.a. If I wouldn’t say it in my blog, I shouldn’t think it.)

  If an idea doesn’t work as a blog post, if it’s too emotional and self-centered, if I think that the majority of readers WOULD NOT APPROVE of that post, then maybe they’re useless. Or worse. So why indulge it? 

• [PS: In a way, my blog rewrote my thoughts. My blog rewrote me. And I only have my heart for an “edit” button.]

• Daily Love

  Whatever you call “it” (revelations, creativity, muses, geniuses, elves), it’s a long-term relationship. The way “it” came to me, reflected on how I’ve been treating that relationship, fair and square.

• Daily Affirmations

  Try saying, working on and thinking the same thing every day, for 28 days, and see if something doesn’t give. And I’m not just referring to internet life. Something changed in the way I speak. In the way I handle crowds. In the way I see empty spaces. It changed ever so slightly, but I felt its weight on the side of my bed. Don’t have a name for it yet, but that something felt…right.

• That said, blogging every day was also FUN, DAMMNIT!

  I loved the rush. I loved having someone to write to every day. Yes, I’m talking about you, Reader. It’s actually the best thing about writing every day; having your companionship. I only hope it was enjoyable for you too. Was it? When?

Stiff

Think you’re stuck? Lemmie tell you about Oti.

The Cage

It mightn’t be so bad if was just a problematic knee, or elbow, or even both. It was ALL of Oti’s joints that refused to budge and bend. What Oti had was Marie’s disease: concretize cartilages and long bones that don’t stop growing.

If Oti slept with her head tilted to one side, and the bones grew during the night, she'd be stuck with that questioning tilt for the rest of her life. Seeing how many joints and cartilage areas we have, we can only wonder what it’s like: The skull, shoulders, vertebrate, jaw, ears, ankles…

And there was Oti, relatively young, extremely poor and consciously caged inside an armor of calcium for the span of her natural life.

The Freedom

But it wasn't always bad; because whatever soft tissue she had left, it was used in good service.

When her condition worsened, her siblings (all eight of them) took turns holding her in their arms. They held her every day to feed, and wash and let her sleep easier. She was like their common doll but with a heart and soul and kinship.

And you know what physical contact does to people. In the minutes when they held each other (Sibling: Oti's frame, Oti: her sibling’s heart), they walked in each other’s paths and felt better about the ones they had to return to.

When her jaw could no longer chew solid foods, she became lighter in weight and spirit. And funnier, because nothing broke the ice like a fresh steam of crap jokes (they couldn’t just leave her hanging over the toilet!). And fairer, because she had to hear all sides of a story at some point of the day.

And freer, because it’s just the thing that exchanging stories do.

The End

So when she died, they really cried.

Not merely for a sister’s passing, but also for the world that she created for them. They cried for the warm magic that stuck them together. And for the passing of revelations that had set her, and the loving arms that stiffened momentarily to hear them, free.

enigma revealed

You know what it’s like. You blogwalk and crash into a paragraph – a mere sentence even – that makes your head start screaming ‘I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT!”

That’s how A L I’s blog struck. I think I got him from SaudiWoman. Can’t remember. I do remember, though, the questions that followed. “WTF? Who are you? Why do you sound so familiar? Why are you like this? And are you married? Oh.”

Reaction like that usually guarantee a satisfactory subscription. You just know that you’ll enjoy the rides he’ll take you on. It’s his treat.

Here, have a look at what’s making me go gaga:

He sounds like a mash-up of Seth Godin brevity and practicality, with a Muslim-Zen’s sentimental spirituality. Yeah, yeah, that’s how I want to sound like: bite-sized big ideas.

Only he does it better. Naturally. Nicely. He does it in lesser words. And lesser pictures. And lesser tricks. Without missing a beat on impact.

I want to beat this kind of awesome. Amen.