I didn’t quite have the Christmas I had hoped for. But I am lucky to have the people who love me enough to remind me of beauty in this world. This picture is for them because they are the lights in my life. Merry Christmas my friends.
Archives
All posts for the month December, 2011
Today was the first official day of winter.
Winter is always hard for me. I am truly at heart, a summer child. Born in the heat of August, I detest the cold and have since I probably drew my first breath.
I hate snow after the first two minutes it starts falling. My fingers and toes cry out in pain when it is cold. I hate the loneliness of winter. The stark trees so quiet, their torpor unbearable to observe. Despite the aesthetic beauty of a tree in winter, I feel grief when I see them, reaching with barren fingers towards heaven. It is a tragic picture for me, which conjures thoughts of love lost and isolation.
It wasn’t always this way for me. I remember when I was younger, my siblings and I looked forward to the snow. I remember peering out the kitchen window, watching snow floating so prettily in the sky. We would build forts and caves out of the snow piled up by the snow plows at the end of our court. We would slide, jump and frolic and it never mattered if our hands and feet were numb from the cold. Hot soup, cartoons and blankets were waiting inside for us. The cares and worries of adulthood were not known to me. Troubles like driving in snow and crashing your car or leaving home in total darkness and returning in the same.
I don’t know when that happy feeling went away and left this sorrow in its place. It happened gradually, with every winter feeling a little less joyful than the last until one day, it was winter and I realized I hated it with almost every part of my heart.
When I think about it, I have to acknowledge that perhaps it is the fact that I am older. My body and my soul are not as new as they used to be. There is no question that winter tastes like mortality. And mortality is something nobody likes to think about.
Springtime is a lack of experience and winter is the culmination of experience. I want to be in between these extremes. I yearn for the summer sun to shine on my face, freckling my cheeks. I want occasional thunderstorms where I can walk through fat, lazy raindrops, barefoot and umbrella-less through puddles of mud. I want noisy, boisterous adventures where I enjoy myself, but also discover new things. I want to swim, and sit by bonfires with my friends, chattering about our lives while swatting mosquitoes (yes mosquitoes) and drinking cold drinks from plastic glasses and elaborate, twisty straws. I want to go fishing at night where I can stare into the heavens at the stars while I wait for something to bite.
Winter, there are those who love you. I am not one of those individuals. When you have me locked in your icy arms, I think only of being united with the season that owns my heart. Summer, I am waiting for you.
Today is December 17th. For most people, this date has no significance. But today is an important day. It is the 738th anniversary of Mevlana Rumi’s “marriage with Allah”.
That’s a nice way of saying he died. Rumi, for those who may not know of him, is perhaps the greatest of Islamic Sufi poets. He was born in Afghanistan but his heritage is regarded by most to be Persian. His father had beliefs didn’t mesh well with the political climate of Persia, now modern day Iran. The family moved around and ended up in Anatolia, now Turkey. Specifically in Konya, Turkey.
When Turkey became an official nation in 1923, the country became secular. In 1925, the sama, the Whirling Devish ceremony was forbidden from being practised publically. However, in recent years, due to the popularity of Rumi and because of the tourist appeal of the ceremony, Turkey allows the Mevlevi Sama to be performed in the two weeks leading up to the anniversary of Rumi’s death. Here is a link for anyone interested in learning more about sufis and their poetry:
http://www.poetseers.org/spiritual_and_devotional_poets/sufi/sufi_poetry/
I wish I was in Turkey today. It is on my bucket list to see the Mevlevi Sama on the anniversary of Rumi’s passing. I would have loved to have laid flowers at his tomb in Konya and offer a prayer for him. It was one of two things I wanted to do when my parents and I visited Turkey but was unable experience, one because we had no time to travel to Konya, but also because we went in March and this event occurs only in December.
Why does Rumi appeal to me? I’ll tell you why. It is because I love God. And not in a preachy Muslim Christian Jewish organized religious way. I love God the way I love my mom and dad. The way I love my sister and my brother and every member of my family. Like I love my friends. In a quiet, intense way that I don’t share with others. And for a long time I thought that was some sort of blasphemy. I was brought up to believe in God without question, but Allah is aloof and untouchable.
In the course of my life, I did question the existence of God and probably will continue to question all things religious. I want proof for something there is no proof for. When I watched The Prince of Eygpt or The Ten Commandments, I used to cry when Moses meets God and talks to him. Jealous, angry, tears. Because I wanted to meet God and find out what I am supposed to do with this life given to me.
And then I came across the poetry of Rumi and those tears went away. His poetry speaks to God like a friend, a child, a lover. In his poetry, I found peace within my heart. In his words, I felt exactly what he wrote. He touched me and inspired me. So here is a poem that I love, that I feel Rumi wrote for God.
“In the Arc of Your Mallet” by Rumi
Don’t go anywhere without me.
Let nothing happen in the sky apart from me,
Or on the ground, in this world or that world,
Without my being in it’s happening.
Vision, see nothing I don’t see.
Language, say nothing.
The way the night knows itself with the moon,
Be that with me. Be the rose
Nearest to the thorn that I am.
I want to feel myself in you when you taste food,
In the arc of your mallet when you work,
When you visit friends, when you go
Up on the roof by yourself at night.
There’s nothing worse than to walk out along the street
Without you. I don’t know where I’m going.
You’re the road and the knower of roads,
More than maps, more than love.
In my final year at Elmhurst College, somewhere in 2009-2010, I wrote a poem. It was inspired by Rumi. It took a great deal of soul searching but I submitted it to the school’s student Art & Literature magazine and to my surprise, it was published. So on the occasion of Rumi’s marriage with God, I would like to share it here. And I hope that wherever he is, I hope he approves.
“Modern Sufi Muse”
My Beloved sends me smiley faces
on my cell phone
as I drive to the office in the morning,
wishing, yet again I worked closer to home.
He whispers to me, a tease
while I frantically write papers,
studying into the night,
mocking my lack of understanding.
He forwards me emails
promising bad luck if I break the chain
or telling stories of little children
and jars of pennies for Christmas presents
that bring tears to my eyes.
He peeks around corners
as I push my cart through the grocery store,
and laughs at my attempts to save money
with coupons I’ve clipped
from the Sunday paper.
He calls me incessantly when I’m working
while my boss stands over my shoulder,
watching me closely.
I pretend not to recognize the number.
He waits for me patiently when I get home,
feeling tired, hungry and beaten,
wanting to brush my teeth,
slip on my pjs and collapse into bed.
He takes me into His arms and
breathes dreams into me as I sleep,
I fly in cloudless blue skies,
soaring with countless white birds
and gaze into green fields of corn.
He nuzzles my cheek as I walk sandy shores,
swim in luminous seas until
my alarm goes off…
the snooze-button just outside of my reach.
Saudi Arabia just executed a woman for being a sorceress, because she claimed to be able to cure people of illnesses using magic and charged them money. For more details see the link below.
http://news.yahoo.com/saudi-arabia-executes-woman-convicted-sorcery-132159048.html
This story made me angry because I don’t think this punishment fits the crime. So some old lady hoodwinks her willing paying customers into thinking that they can be cured by magic. Throw her in jail for being a con artist if you must. Even that seems somewhat wrong to me because the fact is that people who go to an old lady claiming to cure you using magic are not exactly innocent in this scenario.
There needs to be a little illumination on this matter. Here are some links if you would like to read, but I will sum up… According to mainstream Islam, Sunni and Shia’a, magic is blasphemy. This includes black magic, horoscopes and astrology, palmistry and appealing to saints and relics. Miracles, such as those performed by the prophets, are not magic. They come from God, whereas sorcery is satanic in nature. However, the Sufi sect of Islam is vague about magic and what is acceptable.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magic_(paranormal)#In_Islam
http://www.islam-muslims.com/basic-belief-facts/islam-and-magic/
Saudi Arabia is a nation that practices Islamic law – Sharia, and therefore, it is only to be expected that the Islamic punishment for blasphemy – death – would be carried out. Yet in other Islamic countries that tend to follow Sharia, such as Pakistan and Iran, there is also a strong observance of Sufism, shrines to saints, belief in magic etc.
I can personally attest to the belief in magic in Pakistan, having been to Pakistan twice in the last five years to be what I like to playfully refer to as being “exorcised Paki style”. My parents are old school and have fears about certain situations in my life. Namely my health, my lack of interest in Islam and, of course, my unmarried state. And while I assured them that these things exist because I refuse to do or believe in things unless I find reason to do or believe in those things, they felt it necessary to have me “cured”.
This isn’t just an Islamic thing. I’ve seen television shows that have Christians going to shrines to be cured by some statue’s “tears”. I’ve read books about voodoo. I’ve seen documentaries about people who are imbued by the spirit of Christ and rise up from their wheelchairs, suddenly cured. You can find horoscopes in most newspapers and at most carnivals or fairs you can find tarot card readers, palmists and other types of fortune tellers. There is an idea that magic is real in the world and there are people who find a great deal of comfort in having the issues in their lives explained or resolved by magic. After all, it’s easier to cope when you can blame or fix your problems using something supernatural.
The stories about my “exorcisms” are really quite interesting, but I am not going to go into detail about them tonight. The reason I bring this up now is because of this story I read about this woman’s execution. And how horrible I think it is that she was executed.
The main reason I allowed my parents to have me “cured” was because it gave them hope. It made them feel better about whatever they thought the problem is. And I know there are people out there who are of the opinion that magic and stuff isn’t real. There are people out there who believe that God doesn’t exist. It is a matter of what you believe and are comfortable living with. I myself, am totally onboard with God, but the jury is out on magic and stuff. Just saying.
People are sometimes willing to pay for hope. This woman charged some of those people for it and paid a hefty and unfortunate price herself.
If you happened to be named James, Jim, Jimbo or any variation of said name, you could have gone to Red Robin and gotten a free burger this past Tuesday. Hurray! Except, that’s not my name. Too bad for me, I guess I’ll get my burger on Farheen Free Burger Day…
Wait, is there such a thing as Free Burger for Farheen Day? Nope. Just like there is no Free Car Wash for Farheen Day or anything like that. Not that I am irked about it or anything. But there once was a time that I would have been. When I was a kid, I hated that I couldn’t have pencils and notepads with my name on them. But whatever. When you have a weird name, that is only to be expected. And Farheen is a weird name. At least it is here in the US.
Names have been on my mind as of late. My brother and his wife are about to welcome Baby #2 to their family, which is truly exciting and Auntie Farheen can’t wait. At Thanksgiving, we were all sitting together and talking about baby names they are considering. They want names that reflect our cultural heritage and fit in and are easy for people to say. They did well with that for my niece, Sareena. A solid Muslim name but easy for anyone to say. I admire their wish to make life easier for their offspring. Not sure I would be so kind myself though. I got some doozy baby names picked out if I ever am fortunate enough to have munchkins…
With my name and the experiences, I can understand completely why they want to make it easier for their kids. I hated my name for the longest time. And my parents insisted that we not use nicknames. So it was always Farheen. And Faheem. And Fraheem and so on and so forth. My first day of high school was a nightmare. I had grown up in Bensenville, IL and my high school was Fenton High, which was shared with the neighboring community of Wood Dale, IL. So entirely half of my high school, that first day had no idea how to tackle “Farheen”. By the end of that first day, I was so sick of correcting people on the pronunciation that when Adam, the boy from my 3rd period English class came up to me in 7th hour Choir and said, “Hey you’re Fraheem from my English class right?” I exploded upon him like an atom bomb… I will never forget the look on that poor boy’s face when I laid into him. It was bad that that after I finished there was a moment of stunned silence where we stared at each other, he in shock and me in dawning horror at what I had just done. I apologized profusely and we became friends. On a side note, over 20 years later, Adam is still one of my dearest friends.
After high school and out of my parentals influence, I began to go by Far. It was easier for people. And I didn’t mind it so much. But I never felt like it was my name. For years I answered to, introduced myself as Far. And then one day, at work, I was meeting someone for the first time. And I introduced myself as Farheen. And one of my other co-workers said, “But you can call her Far.”
I smiled and agreed but it was like a lightbulb lit itself inside my head. My name is Farheen. Its one thing if someone who knows me or cares about me calls me something like Far or whatever, but my identity is always going to be tied to my given name. I had let the nickname become me, when it wasn’t. And I know it may seems somewhat melodramatic but its how I felt at that moment. I wanted to shout “I am not Far! I am Farheen!!!”
Since then, I have always introduced myself as Farheen. It isn’t easy but I can deal with it. I have two bosses currently who can’t say my name correctly. But its okay. And I am not saying that people can’t call me Far, Farheenie, Farqueen, Heen or anything else. I myself give people nicknames all the time. If you get a nickname from me, you have made it to my list of awesome peeps. But I tend to clear it with people before I use the nicknames. And the same with endearments. The point is you need to know who I am before you can call me something else.
There are cultures in this world where only your family will know your name. Because names have power. And one of the wisest and coolest of characters in literature advises, “Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.” Extra points in my book if you know of whom I speak. I don’t agree with the Great Bard when he penned Juliet’s speech, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet…” The point is names are important. And while I have had a love hate relationship with my name, I have grown into it. It is an integral part of me. And I am glad that I had such a unique name.
And on a final note, so there is no Free Farheen Burger day or whatever. I can deal with that. And thanks to Vistaprint and other such great printing places, I can get my notepads and pencils with my name on them. I wouldn’t change my name ever. This rose by any other name, would not be as sweet.
I haven’t posted anything at all in the month of December. I actually haven’t posted since Thanksgiving. It isn’t because I haven’t had anything to say. Quite the opposite. I have had a great deal to say. But I was silenced.
You may be asking yourself… Who or what is this force that might get Farheen to be quiet?
The answer to this question is… Farheen. I have silenced myself. As always, I do these things to myself.
I have had heavy thoughts in my mind as of late. These heavy thoughts are silvery and liquid like mercury and like to escape the confines of my mind by squeezing out of the corners of my eyes and trickling their way to freedom down my cheeks, only to land, emancipated, on the ground beneath my feet.
I typically don’t care what people think of me when I don’t know them. I have never been afraid of strangers. Because in my heart I know the ones who try to judge me don’t matter. I have been known to burst into song while walking down the street or in the middle of a Target. When I drive and there is a song I like on the radio, I sing along and car dance. I know I get funny looks, stares and people laughing at me. I don’t care. Truly.
To a certain extent, I am not afraid to make a spectacle of myself if it will help someone I care about. Anyone who has seen my version of Riverdance or the ill-fated version of Stomp will attest to that fact. If you are sad and I can make you smile, I’ll take one for the team. Its how I roll.
But when someone I know and cares about me judges me things change. There have been some recent judgement calls made and I have been quiet because of it. Implications that I am a weak person. A statement made that I am too needy. Having heard these comments, I withdrew into myself. I needed to evaluate the statements and reflect on how true these judgements are. As I considered, these past couple of weeks, I was reminded of something that happened when I was a little girl.
I was a Girl Scout for a very brief period when I was young. My parents, immigrants from Pakistan, signed me up to be a Brownie. I still to this day have no idea why. But I was happy. I would get to talk to other girls and have friends and make things with popsicle sticks and be a part of something.
Yet I wasn’t a part of it. I went to the meetings and the other girls excluded me. Whoever heard of a brown Brownie? I could feel their exclusion of me and it hurt. I wasn’t as chatty as I am now. People find it hard to believe I am shy. I am truly. It has taken a great deal for me to not seem shy. But back then? I would be silent. I was involved with the Girl Scouts for about four months. My experience with them culminated in a summer trip to Santa’s Village, an amusement park that is now closed. We were all piled into a station wagon and off we went. This trip was important. The Scout Moms had offered a prize you see. The girl who was quietest on the trip to the park and back would win a special prize. I won the prize without trying. A box of soap crayons that I would have gladly traded for a friend I could chatter with. In addition, when I brought the soap crayons home, my parents were perplexed by them. What do you do with soap that kids can draw on themselves with? Soap, baths, showers aren’t for fun. They are to get clean. Crazy American people who come up with frivolous ideas like soap crayons. Proof that Farheen doesn’t need to be a Brownie.
Judgement has always silenced me. And for a while it silenced me this time too. But I have found my voice.
I don’t need to tell anyone how strong I am. I know what I have seen and experienced. I don’t need to convince anyone that I am not a needy person. And even if I am, Whitney Houston tells me that people who need people are the luckiest people. I am okay with your judgement because while I may care about you, it isn’t important.
What I do need to say is I hope you enjoyed the silence. Because it may be a while before I shut up again. Tra la la la laaaa!