Lightness of Being…

Cycling through our nights and days, we reach the end only for the beginning to beckon us again. I am holding onto the last strands of this Ramadhan, trying to cup the tremendous weight of Mercy with my open palms. There is no point in clenching my fists; everything is bound to dissipate in its own time. As much as it grieves me to see the month coming to a close, I know within a blink of an eye a succession of Ramadhans will come and go (if I am fortunate enough to witness them.)

Maybe it is where I am in life, but sometimes I feel like I am stuck in a vortex of time, where day and night, the past and future, the end and beginning have all merged within each other. As I reflect on my babies’ fast development, I can’t help but wonder at the repitition of life. Yusuf is where Sufyan was just a moment ago. My mother resembles my late grandmother more and more; and in my daily busy-ness, I suddenly catch a glimpse of my own mother in me. It’s like she is breathing through my pores infusing me with the warmth of her strength and loving ways. Then the thought that I am a mother strikes me as incredulous; I feel like I am “playing mommy” and “keeping house”, I am still 7 in more ways than one.

The cycles of life are so predictable in their inevitability that I wonder at our slow wittedness. It’s a function of Reality to keep asserting itself in diverse ways. If the whole universe pulsates to the same steady beat, maybe it’s for us to pause and wonder what the point of it all is.

So many of us are simply following the courses charted by our societal/cultural/filial norms without question. Yet as part of an All Embracing Merciful design, we all do experience those breaks in life, those moments when everything falls apart and we are forced to face the inanity of our own micro-choices. Why then is it so easy to fall back into the lulling embrace of apathy and slumber?

I am trying to force this self fragmenting blanket off my being. Somewhere between marriage and kids, I realized I have exhausted all my excuses. First it was the mountains of meaningless work assigned as “homework” and “projects” and “assignments” that kept me busy for years. Then it was more meaningless work assigned as a real-life job, and somewhere in there within the margins of my “life” I put in some feeble effort at self-actualization. The effort yielded nothing more than discontent at the emptiness of it all.

I set a sort of time-table with each age, thinking surely when I am 18, then 21, then married (etc.) I would reach that plane of serenity which would allow me to settle into the real work of cultivating “me.” I reached the milestones, but only received more responsibilities at each way station, dissipating huge chunks of time from my life. As I shouldered more responsibilities, I found myself gazing backwards wistfully, at my relative freedom (always back then) and how little I made use of that “time.”

What I am trying to say is this; there is nothing inherently spiritual or even satisfying about raising children, marriage, working that “dream” job, enrolling in that “great” program, or preoccupying our hearts with anything else really. The irony though is that once we orient our selves and lives towards what is Real and enduring, then meaning becomes manifest at every direction we turn.

It is this soulful awareness that I am striving to entrench in my being. I am the busiest I have been in my entire life, (the word busy doesn’t really begin to capture the tremendous work that comes with parenting), yet I find myself having time to pause and savor the sacred in these fleeting moments.  

This Ramadhan maybe coming to a close, but windows of illumination and grace are forever open to all seekers who would just take a pause from the mundane to stop and ask.

All of nature needs constant emptying for new life to grow. On a strictly physical level our bodies purge out toxins and wastes without us being aware of it. I am grateful for the “automatic” manner in which we have to use the bathroom, for had we been in charge of scheduling our bathroom visits on a conscious level, I am sure many of us would have died a long time ago due to constipation.

We need to purge out the excess energy from our bodies for cells to regenerate in a healthy manner. When we eat more than we burn off, pockets of disused energy cluster around our crevices, fat accumulates, and our bodies go into a slow decaying mode. In this case, since eating healthy and putting our energies to good use, remains a false choice for us, many of us are suffering from diseases related to lifestyle and foods.

Our senses also need emptying. When we don’t allow our sights a break from the smoke screens surrounding us, we will find ourselves jaded. When our ears don’t get a break from the constant chatter around us, we will remain distracted and confused. When our tastes do not get a break from the junk that is always pushed at us, we will never internalize refinement. When our hands do not get a break from the plasticity that is invading our lives, we will never understand the pleasure of all the small things in life. When our noses are filled up by the pollution around us, we will never comprehend the purity of a deep breath.

Our material accumulations need to be spread out too. It’s become a cliché to say that material riches have never made anyone happy, but sometimes we convince ourselves it’s for them “rich” people over there to give not us. At any point on the spectrum of wealth, you have a lot more than the rest of the world. Giving is a function of the soul, it requires the discipline of letting go, and has no bearing on how much/little one has in life.

Likewise, without constantly emptying our inmost beings, we become stuffed up with our prejudices, opinions, and ignorance. Without honestly studying the alchemy of our souls and the resulting accumulation of habits, we become robotic and comatose through our existence. Without scrutinizing the source intentions behind our impulses, we become selfish and self absorbed. Without recognizing our self-inflicted wounds, we will never yearn for healing.

In this postmodern world of equivocation, we can pretend many things and justify ourselves to ourselves all that we want. We can dwell on the delusion that our actions are somehow unreflective of who we “really” are. We can convince ourselves that the laws of nature have no bearing on our inner reality. We can even pretend we have no “time” for these esoteric aspects of life; because our senses need to be stuffed senselessly.

Nothing we say or do will change or affect Reality in the least bit. To die because of stuffing is a really tragic and pathetic way to go.

It’s easy to speak of love’s treasures; to let my poetry flow on the bright optimism of day and pull a curtain on my own stormy nights.

I can’t speak of this exacting weight contracting my soul, of the haunting sense that I lost my way at many points along this journey and staying awake is much too hard.

I can’t speak of the sudden despair that engulfs me in those off-guard moments when I lose my balance and forget, it’s really not up to me.

Or those moments of solitude that swell up the torrents within and I am left gasping.

The realization that all my life I have been setting up barricades and veils; and the work of dismantling each one of them is too overwhelming;

that sometimes I fear it is too late.

and the truth is i have no choice and there is no escape

for this time too many lives are at stake

and this propels me to inch through darknesses and harshness

perchance rains of healing and mercy

may wash away the accumulated stains of slumber

and I might recognize

the me I have been searching for again.

Love does that to you, you know? In front of a lover’s gaze you perform intricate dances to keep mesmerizing. You work hard to keep the shadows of disappointment and disillusion at bay. I didn’t invent Love’s rules; all I know is that love bends me. It gushes tiny rivulets in the deserts within and soon I am unearthed and turned upside down in the torrents drowning me.

A lover sees only the best version of you, gently caressing your wounds into tiny butterfly wings. A lover’s compassion blankets your faults and frees you from your own self imposed shackles and masks.

Love does that to me. It gently unfolds me into an expansiveness that awes me. This serene emptiness within where beauty, mercy, compassion, and longing can come out and play.

The soft sighs of my infant’s breath against my cheek, the way his face sparks up when he sees me. Sufyan’s contagious exuberance at life and those quiet moments when he plants an awkward surprise kiss on my knee, elbow, or chin. My husband’s sweet forbearance or the way he completely abandons himself when he is playing with the children. Something about riding the same wavelength and knowing someone’s always got my back; it buoys me and strengthens me. 

The feminine in me was born alongside my children. A certain ineffable rhythm that keeps me tuned into their unspoken needs. The incredible compassion I feel for my helpless baby rending my touch gentle against the whisper of his skin. This incessant need I have to make the world feel the imprints of my love.

This weight of motherhood keeps me grounded at the tip of my own mother’s heels. I massage her feet and kiss the top of her head in reverence. “You went through all this?” I ask her with teary eyes “Much more, much much more…” her look says but she just laughs away my question. She awes me.

I cringe at the irrational anger I felt at my parents once, when I realized they were only human and had their own failings too. I am bracing for those tumultuous door-slamming days that will break my heart; I only hope that I can be as forgiving and as forbearing as my own parents were. This thing called love is softening my edges, tinting my glasses.

Then taking me a bit higher to begin to conceive of a Divine Being that is not perpetually bent on burning me in eternal flames. His love for me exceeds my own for my children seventy fold? I can’t imagine the magnitude of it. Yet signs sparkle around me, illuminating heart rending beauty wherever I turn. Blessings shimmer in the light of dawn, speaking of graceful beginnings wrapped around what’s real and profound.

I realize losses lurk somewhere in the shadows of the horizon.  These ties wrapping us around each other, are bidding their time to unravel bit by bit until only His Face remains. It is this very impermanence that makes me ponder on the blessing of every moment and slowly shakes me out of a lifelong stupor to realize the silliness of most of our endeavors.

Love does that you know? It beckons with the most mysterious of lore to abandon all pretensions and simply take flight.

Salamaat,
Right before Ramadhan I read “The Vision of Islam” (by Chittick and Murata) and it really impacted me. I had ordered the book a long time ago, and it gathered dust on my shelf for a long time since I thought “Oh this is an introductory text to Islam and I am a Muslim of course, and know so much of this great religion of ours…so I don’t really need to read this now…” *cough*

 While whittling away the final hours waiting for Yusuf, I happened to read it and was hooked from the introduction. It is one of the few non-fiction books, that I couldn’t put down, literally. I stayed up late into the night reading on the nature of God, revelation, the soul, spirit, angels; my eyes widening and heart beating with the thirst of yearning to have that kind of inspired insight into this religion (that I haven’t even scratched the surface of.)

The beauty of the book is that it deals with the big questions underlying the human condition and offers a wide perspective that transcends the type of rote understanding that many of us have come to take for granted.

When I finished I picked up the “Tao of Islam” again (I had decided to put it down in the middle), and now it makes so much more sense. I almost want to recommend “The Vision of Islam” as a pre-requisite to understand the depth of “Tao of Islam.” At least for a slow-poke like me.

The discussion on soul, cosmos, heaven-earth, creation, etc. floors me. I still can’t get over the beauty of how our luminary giants engaged the universe so wholly to try and elucidate on the underpinnings of the our existence.

I love the book -The vision of Islam- so much that I want to give away 5 copies to the first five readers that email me at lightness dot being at gmail dot com. You don’t have to be Muslim to read this, if you have any interest in knowing what “them” Muslims believe in then this is the book for you. And if you are a Muslim that wants to deepen their own understanding of the big “Why’s” and infuse wonder in your heart, then this is a must reading for you.

I have probably unveiled the depth of my ignorance with my enthusiasm for this “introductory” text, but it was just the kind of read that I needed at that point in time.

-End commercial here-

So anyway, if you want a good book delivered to your home at no cost, do write. Only the first five will get it. Please include your mailing address (I will try not to stalk you, I promise.)

Also there are two conditions tied to this offer (ha! And you thought it was a free lunch?)

a) That you actually read the book and don’t let it gather dust on your bookshelf.

b) In the fight against the aforementioned dust, when you are done reading it, please *give* the book to someone else who might be interested in reading it.

Happy reading!

Update: I got an amazing response Mashaallah. I will try not to turn anyone away empty-handed (who has written so far.)  But just wanted to give an update for the rest of y’all. Will answer all emails tommorow Inshaallah.

*Sufyan lying down with his arms wrapped around himself*

Me: baby what are you doing?
Sufyan: I am hugging myself
Me: Why habiby? Come here I will hug you
Sufyan: No mama, you hug yusuf, me hugging myself

*At this point I start bawling…*

{-}

Just as Sufyan and I are snuggling for our bedtime story, Yusuf starts to cry.
Sufyan pre-empts my move by saying “Mama don’t hold Yusuf, Hug me peasshee” (with a contagious sob caught in his throat.)

{-}

Sufyan: Mama, who is Yusuf’s mommy?
Me: Who do you think habiby?
Sufyan *hopefully*: Is it the hopsital?
Me: No
Sufyan: Is it the doctors?
Me: No
Sufyan: Who is it mommy?
Me: I am Sufyan’s Mommy AND Yusuf’s mommy
Sufyan *crestfallen*: And baba?
Me: And baba is Sufyan’s baba AND Yusuf’s baba AND we love you very much and Yusuf too…(and I proceed to explain to him how MY mommy has other children and how she loves them all. I don’t think it helped.)

{-}

And I really have been taking advantage of baby’s extended sleep hours by making Sufyan  feel like he is still the reigning king of our universe,  I guess I am not doing a good enough job. * Sigh *

This Ramadhan of no fasting or Taraweeh, nights of nursing and days of nurturing. Seeking stolen moments of silence under the blanket of night or bleary eye of dawn.

This Ramadhan of falling in love over and over again.

Tracing the divine in the tiny crevices of edible feet. This Ramadhan of sleep deprivation and of waking up to the sparks of his first smiles and sighs of contentment. One of learning balance and constant reassurances “I love you the best my dearest!” Of being awed by the expansiveness of my heart and seeking to learn the mysteries of her inmost depth.

This Ramadhan of facing old fears* and marvelling at the alternation of life. Of trying to tap into the power of the present and magnifying each moment in time. Tasting gratitude for compact things; my toddler’s mischevious grin, the tiny clasp of an infant’s palm.

The dance of Mercy’s breath in the chambers of my heart.

This Ramadhan of re-membering broken ties and healing old wounds; making room for new life to grow unfettered. The Ramadhan of emptiness and fullness; of brokenness and strength; of losing count in love’s embrace.

This Ramadhan of glimpsing that there are indeed a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground.

* Please do spare a prayer for my courageous mother who has (re) started her chemo rounds.

Salamaat,

May your month be full of mercy, healing and forgiveness,

May you be filled with beautiful remembrances, insights, and reflections,

May you heart be overwhelmed by His Majesty, Compassion, and Blessings,

May your homes be warmed with laughter, love and sharing,

in small moments of everyday randomness, may you find awe inspiring traces of the Divine (amin.)

Ramadhan Kareem everyone and blessed Yom Kippur to our Jewish brothers and sisters.

My little prince finally made his appearance after making his (impatient) mama wait for 5 days. He was born a scrumptious 8 pounds and 2 ounces, healthy and gorgeous Alhamdullillah.

My spark from heaven came cloistered in a  bundle of a bewildered infant, last Tuesday on the 14th. Yes, it has taken me that long to get online long enough to pen this announcement.

Thank you all for your well wishes and prayers. They have manifested themselves in such innumerable blessings, I can’t begin to recount them.

Oh his name? Basked in such beauty and glowing with a touch of heaven’s embrace, I took one look at him and breathed “Yusuf.”

Sufyan is taking on the role of big brother with bravado and good cheer (until he slips in a rough embrace, or shakes the baby wondering why he is sleeping all the time.) We are all focusing a lot of attention on him, since baby doesn’t know any better right now.

I have so much to share with you, but this blog will be going on an indefinite break for now….this mama needs some good healing and sleep!

It’s those small spaces of time, stretching, awkward. I can’t breathe fully for the awareness that something tremendous is about to happen to me, us, our lives. This waiting is pervading my being, such that anything else I do, ends up being busy work meant to fill up this meantime.

These are the nights of insomnia, eyes surprised at how awake and refreshed they feel. The days of unending busy-ness, because I am nesting, and there are hundreds of little details procrastinated away that suddenly need to be taken care of, now.

Fighting exhaustion, which sometimes drags my body into an eerie underwater feel, making me kick my way back to the surface, put on my running shoes and trek miles around the neighborhood, because I can’t afford to be too tired.

Squeezing in those last moments of everything because I know things will change, life won’t be the same around here, this process of ushering new life, feels like a bit like death. Settling obligations, cleaning, laundry, bills, stretching this time to wrap around the mundane…Death of the old; routine, expectations, orientation…embracing the unknown.

It’s my due date yet nothing has happened yet. The waiting has magnified and settled itself into our household. Everyone is busying their hands, their time, waiting. When I flinch, cough, or turn, the inevitable question hovers, we are all in attention mode. Nothing yet…

I am instinctively bracing for the pain. I thought this time I would be more prepared, I would know what I am dealing with, but I am not. I am wound tight with anticipation, praying that all the million little things that could go wrong, don’t. Knowing, the measure of powerlessness that I had to live with these past 40 weeks will be stretched into eternity. Nothing is truly in our hands, although the illusion persists. This body of mine is about to perform miracles, complex processes will take place within me, and I will bear witness to all this with the same kind of dread, awe, and humility that rendered me speechless once before.

I am tired and sleep evades me, this waiting has settled into my soul, slowing down time into muffled heartbeats… Leaving me to ponder things like why does pain have to be so intricately bound to bearing life? This restless awe of hoping that soon, so soon, I will be holding the tiny miracle that I have talked to, prayed over, adored…felt kick, move, elbow me into all kinds of uncomfortable positions….this tiny little life will emerge out of my body, and it feels somehow wrong to even put all these ineffable thoughts and feelings to words.

This waiting is pressing me…I ask for your prayers, should you have a moment to spare.