A Heart's Journey: Visiting the Mosque

I went to a "moderate mosque" today. It is revolutionary in that women, though seated in the back, do see and hear the imam without the need for video feeds. Yet, even in this environment, nodding at my son as he waived across the room at me seemed strange and artificial.

I wrote this as part of a discussion about "unisex" mosques on Belief Net:

"I've continued to think about this "separate but unequal" aspect that seems entrenched in Islam since my earlier post. The Quran says "oppression is worst than slaughter." In thinking about my embrace of my inequality within Islam, I am reminded of the truth of Allah's word. Even my earlier suggestion that women start our own prayer circles is an indication of the wisdom of Carter G. Woodson, the father of Black History, who noted that a mis-educated person who is taught that he or she must enter the back door of a house, will create a back door if none exists. In my effort to stay engaged with the community I suggested a creation of my own "back door."

My embrace of this situation for many, many years is amazing given the history of African Americans with apartheid. The "white" water fountain was not the same as the "colored" water fountain, and even if they were the same the explanation of the need for them is an expression of racism, no matter how pretty or nuanced the explanation. Likewise, for a people that say, "heaven is at the foot of the mother," and then proceed to put the mother in the basement next to the bathroom, the treatment of women in this deen is reprehensible.

I have been an apologist for these inequalities, focusing on Allah and not Muslims, but the beauty of Islam is the understanding that the community must be an expression of Allah's love for his creation. I will not argue with "scholars" who will quote hadith that express the "legality" of the inferior position of women in this religion. Nor am I interested in engaging in destructive "halaqas" with women who, as I have in the past, embrace the "separate and equal" doctrine set forth as proper teaching.

Islam at the moment, seems to lack a vocabulary which focuses on the reality of life for women like myself and our children. Instead, like Jim Crow, it encourages ignorance of both men, in their superior position, and women in their inferior position. There is no where to turn to even to discuss these injustices without being demonized. Meanwhile, focus is placed almost exclusively on women's dress, while women's despair and ill health go unnoticed. Focus is on homosexuality, but not domestic violence. I watch communities that seem obsessed with Palestine and unconcerned about their neighbors.

For me the discussion has ended, I am not staying in the back of the bus."

If love of Allah is the definition of a Muslim, then I am a Muslim. But if a Muslim is one who accepts dogma of sexism, homophobia, denial of injustice, and embrace of violence, then I am something else. Perhaps I am a Muslim and something else.

Celebration! Kwanzaa

The Islamic culture that has defined my life until recently, was devoid of celebration on a personal level. A few hours at the two Eids, recognized religious festivals in Islam, is all my family embraced. I no longer hold with this "puritanical" notion that fun is somehow beneath Muslim sensibility.

For the first time, I have presents (ziwadi) in my home. I have brought Kwanzaa into my home! My friends, particularly Bettie, have been instrumental in reminding me of the joy of decorating and celebrating. I will even be hosting a Kwanzaa Karamu, which is a feast, on the 1st of January. I am embracing my home!

The embrace of joy that has allowed me to bring this into my home has already touched my son and will Inshallah, touch my husband. At any rate, celebration and remembrance is, I believe, a part of the human journey.

Happy Kwanzaa!

In the Basement, Again

Eid ul Adha, the Feast of the Sacrifice, was celebrated on Friday, November 27th. It is a time to reflect on the willingness to give up what we prize the most. It is also a wonderful opportunity to come together with Muslims at the special prayer, or it should be. Eid was wonderful but the prayer experience was not. Once again, I found myself in the basement. While I will no longer attend jummahs in segregated environments, the Eid prayers continue to hold a special place in my heart. Feeling this way, I once again set off with some wonderful friends for the prayer. I was surprised how much I was affected by the segregation. In short, it hurt to be sitting in a basement trying to follow the prayer by watching a grainy picture of the Imam in the main/male hall. It felt as if I was not included in the "real" prayer. My presence was not important and certainly not worthy of celebration.

I believe, I witnessed again the price of segregation. This masjid had been built new, but the architecture showed that women were an afterthought. We enter from the back.

Recently, I listened while someone assured a brother that segregation of the sexes did not imply subordination or discrimination against women. I laughed and thought that's how a moderate segregationist would have responded to questions about separate drinking fountains and public accommodations--it's not an indication that we feel blacks are inferior to whites, it's tradition.

A Heart's Journey Continues: Facing Gifts

I was raised to be prepared for life's restrictions and disappointments. While I hoped for love and acceptance and a heart that could tolerate them, I certainly didn't expect it. The choices I made confirmed those early teachings. First Jesus and later Allah would give comfort, but never real life. The best I could expect would be to join with other women in our acceptance of life's disappointments, that "big girls" knew and accepted without flinching. I was the beyond childish hope that joy and love unfettered by the hard exchange of my body and my soul was possible.

My embrace of an Islamic path that sweetly demanded that my vocal chords serve the greater good did not seem strange. Given the beauty at the core of the deen (the Islamic way of life), it seemed a good and even godly trade. I give up my "selfish" desires for justice for myself and Allah would love me. As a friend once said, "fair exchange is not robbery."

Now I am lost, for love and joy have found me. I am not prepared. Again and again my immediate reaction to love and generosity is to only take a small piece of what is offered. I fear I will be cut off if I dream/ask too much. I was not raised to face unconditional love and opportunity without blinking. What do I have to trade when nothing is asked? What am I to do, when I must welcome joy and rather than disaster?

Welcome it.

Risky Behavior
by Ayesha Ali

not condoms
or clean needles
for me

risky behavior
is reaching out
beyond what i know
i know

smiling
hoping
loving

allowing myself
my self
to be the me
i dreamed

risky

i could be
hurt
killed dreams
killed again

but

i'm feeling old
and young and
i don't care
as much for
fanged fears
this halloween

risky
boo!

It May Be

it may be that
i will lose my hair
my teeth
and the
ability to move without
pain or help

it may be that
the faces of my children
become blurred and forgettable
unknown to me
the people i have tried to love
or tried to hate

but Oh Allah

allow me to have
a gummy smile
for no reason
and to say

"Thank you!"

again and again
and again

ayesha ali
10/4/09

A Place for Women in Islam: With the Men or By Ourselves

In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful

To abandon all that he has fashioned,
And hold in the palm of my hand,
The simple proof that he loves me,
That is the goal of my search.

- Rabi'a Al-Adawiyya (717-801) Female Sufi Mystic Born in Iraq; Ninety-Nine Names of Love: Expressions of the Heart, edited by Priya Hemenway


I believe that Allah is Most Gracious and Most Merciful. I believe that when Allah say’s in the Quran that “oppression is worse than slaughter” that it is not a conditional statement. I believe that Allah speaks to my heart and loves me. I believe that Allah loves me. I believe that Allah loves me.

Allah does not want 50% of his believers in basements, beside bathrooms, behind walls, in balconies, in separate buildings, or praying in hallways. Allah does not support apartheid whether it is based on race like the Jim Crow laws of southern states in America and South Africa, or on sex as in most masjids I’ve been to, prayed at, and supported. To support injustice and mistreatment of women in Islam under the guise that Allah tells us so is no different than white slave masters telling their slaves that like Joseph (Yusef), they should be good and faithful slaves and they will get their reward by and by.

I am not angry at Islam, I am not angry with Muslims though I am sad that I actively supported my own oppression and spent many years sitting in basements and behind walls while telling myself that women are “honored” in Islam. I want to pray with Muslims, I want to be able to see the prayer leader, I want to bring my whole self, my whole mind unencumbered by fear of hearing “I seek refuge…” when I speak my mind and heart.

This longing in my heart is not only about treatment in prayer halls, but the treatment of women in masjids is a startling example of the diminution of our voices and the discounting of our equality of spirit and mind that like white supremacy is so pervasive that for many women the ability to question it is limited by our lack of both language and a structure to address injustice. I have watched women fall into depression, including myself, and watched sisters focus their frustration in unfocused anger against their own sisters for lack of a language to express the deep alienation they feel with their communities.

Meanwhile, we stand mute as we watch brothers marry and abandon wife after wife. We are often aware of abuse of women and children through neglect, abandonment and sometimes physical abuse. We stand mute as we allow racism and classism to run rampant and allow our children to be devoured by these evils. Too often women even lead the fight against “uppity sisters.”

Meanwhile, we cover our physical and spiritual scars with wan smiles and Alhumdullilah’s, and no one seems to care as long as we keep “birthing babies,” wearing scarves and jilbabs, and serving food.

It is only when we change our dress, as in my case, or choose not to ever wear the scarf that causes people to ask “What’s wrong with you?” I am an African-American Muslim woman. I now join the phalanxes of black women who are given tribute in Maya Angelou’s poem, “Still I Rise,” and while the particulars of the poem speak to my history, the universal message of the poem speaks to all women and certainly Muslim women.

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.


I am a woman, I am a person, I am a creation of Allah and I reject the notion that I can only be Muslim if I am willing to give up my dignity and my voice. Allah gave a message to Prophet Muhammad that called all women and all human beings to rise! Rise!

Ayesha Ali
10/1/2009 7:05:32 AM

A Heart’s Journey

In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful



And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive

- from the poem “Litany for Survival” by Audre Lorde

I am a very hard woman. When I am not hard I can be soft. Both the hard and the soft have come from fear. I have grown tired of being afraid, like Fannie Lou Hamer, “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” I have discovered by my true heart leans toward love and compassion. That is where I find my rest.

The hijab started as a sanctuary for me, a metaphor for a place of rest. Covering, head to toe, I withdrew from the world, taking myself from being an object to being a person. I was Allah’s and was not interested in proving my attractiveness. Likewise, separation from men seemed to serve my focus on Allah. But, for me, in short order my dress and my faith became a function not of my love of Allah, but integration into a Muslim culture that embraced me and at the same time sweetly demanded that I conform.

Strangely, development of the love of Allah was sacrificed in the name of community and slowly and surely I drifted from that first love. Classes, conferences, marriage, babies, working, cleaning, cooking were my life. Separation of the sexes in order not to be distracted became the separation of women because we did not belong. We were Allah’s auxillary branch.

I remember I cried alone. I performed strength when my first child died. I knew by then that they do not respect tears. Brokenhearted women are not women of faith and I wanted to be a woman of faith, even as I was losing mine.

So, I left my true love and performed for the audience in my home and masjid. These were bad performances and I wondered why no one asked, “How is she able to smile as she bleeds all over the floor?” but no one asked. We do not have these conversations.

Even my brush with Sufism, where I found beauty in zikr (remembrance of Allah), women were held at bay along with the realities of life. Perhaps that is why woman have to be held at bay—we bring LIFE with us. I certainly brought mine. I brought my sadness, my depression, and my scars. Neither my presence nor my realities were welcomed. Ecstasy found in Allah did not lend itself to issues of sex, race and class.

I have walked around in garments which had become a wall between me and myself like so much of the dogma had become a wall between me and Allah. I survived, but felt abandoned by the love that I had abandoned. No one cared that I was only going through the motions, caring only that I go through the motions.

I’ve been a hard woman and I’ve been a soft woman. I’ve been both types of women out of fear. Now, like Fannie Lou Hamer, “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” I have discovered by my true heart leans toward love and compassion. I return to my first love and my own heart. Uncovered, like the day I was born.


Ayesha Ali
10/3/2009 2:41:45 AM

Learning to Love Surprises

Surprise! I had emergency gallbladder surgery. Surprise! Because I had the surgery I am unable to attend the POC Retreat in New Mexico. Surprise! I am not fearful about health outcomes or despondent about my inability to attend the retreat. Surprise!

I have formally embraced mindfulness and recent events have shown how important the practice is in my spiritual development. Instead of wallowing in fear and having erruptions of dissapointment, I have been able to enjoy the tremendous gift of good surgeons, loving friends and family. At the same time, I've felt none of the sadness I might expect with inability to attend the Retreat.

In fact, I feel grateful to know I can weather the surprises of life with a smile on my face (which is my best "look").

I found this poem by Rumi, that I want to share.

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and attend them all!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture, still,
treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

Mevlana Rumi (1207 - 1273)


I was blessed to open my door and welcome both the pain of surgery and my inability to attend the POC Retreat with a smile "because each has been sent as a guide from beyond."

The Uncovered Me

This is ME! I have uncovered and want to know and be known. More on this "transformation" later.

Joy In the Morning

"Despair not of the mercy of Allah." Quran

“Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. (Psalms 30:5)” Bible

"When you think everything is someone else´s fault, you will suffer a lot. When you realize that everything springs only from yourself, you will learn both peace and joy..." Dalai lama

This is me, uncovered and swimming in Mercy Oceans. Much has happened since my last posting. I decided to stop covering my hair and wearing Islamic dress. Interestingly, I haven't felt this close to Allah in a long time. Since my last posting, I've had on a swimsuit for the first time in 25 years, entered a pool and felt the water all over my body. I've bought clothes that fit my body. I'm real in touch with my inner 14 year old (smile).

The hijab/modest dress became a cave that I lived in and looked out at the world but was restrained from full participation. For me, it became turning my back on my body and my full interaction with the world. I'll be exploring this more as I continue to explore the world uncovered.

My Internet service has been having many technical difficulties and I've been rediscovering myself and reconnecting with my own heart and soul. I've been blessed with amazing people in my life who in their own unique ways are waving banners of direction and celebration.

The woman is this picture, with her big grin and her huge fish is ME. I'm living in joy and also terrified that so many of my undreamed dreams are not only coming true but abound in my present life.

I attended a workshop on Saturday entitled, "Transforming Barriers with an Open Heart" with Cheri Maples and rather than finding a "recipe" to teach my boys how to deal with the police, I transformed or at least acknowledged some of my own barriers, including my deep belief that I'm not very smart. I had enough courage to say it out loud and received such loving feedback. My heart family doesn't love me because I'm a hard worker or make them breakfast (although, I'm willing to do that and more), they love ME for ME.

I am in tears remembering the outpouring the the hugs I received. I am so blessed and my heart is opening to acknowledge the ways in which I have allowed abuse in my life and accepted mistreatment as "normal."

One of the exercises was to identify your core values that you want to stand for. Here are mine: Love, Gratitude, and Joy. This blog is part of the journey to develop and serve these core values.

So that plump lady is me smiling and on my way, Inshallah, to New Mexico at the end of the month to discover the heart I so love sharing.

I'm Breaking Out While Some are Breaking Down

One of the surprises I'm experiencing is how some people in my life have depended on me remaining the same. I write this now because at my stage of life, middle-age, I'm experiencing a great amount of growth or perhaps it is that I'm rediscovering parts of myself that I walked away from years ago. It means I'm embracing my body and its needs, but even more my need to be engaged with the world and with people in positive and important ways.

It also means that I'm embracing clothes that fit my body and I've uncovered my hair for the first time in 20 years. My smiles are larger, my laugh heartier and my love of Allah has been reignighted. Interesting, that my love for my Creator is coming through the practice of meditation and Three Jewels (Buddha, dharma, and sangha).

For some there are questions like "What are you doing?" and of course there are queries about the whys and wherefores of my changes. Did they actually think that menopause meant I was going to be set in stone, unchanging and dependable in look, outlook and spirituality? Well if they did, they now know that like them I'm still a work in progress.

Taking Refuge in Allah, Dharma, Sangha

Silence can be a refuge when it serves the heart and soul, but when it is a refuge from pain it is a tool of oppression.

A LITANY FOR SURVIVAL

For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children's mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours:

For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother's milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.

And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid

So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive

- Audre Lorde, The Black Unicorn

One of the great mercies that meditation has brought into my life is the ability to sit with pain. This poem acknowledges great pain, but also gives us a way out of it. It acknowledges generational pain, which certainly haunts me, but I share with Audre Lorde the understanding that silence can no longer be our refuge. I am no longer silent.

Poem: Last Night As I Was Sleeping

This poem expresses exacting how I feel at this moment. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

Last Night As I Was Sleeping
by Antonio Machado (Translated by Robert Bly)

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.

Losing My Religion

I've been struggling for a long time and it's a relief to say it outloud. While the vocabulary of Islam remains in large part the language of my spirituality, it is no longer the structure in which I reside. How did I come to this? I guess the same way I came to Islam. I didn't come to this religion being focused on who was going to Hell, what kind of clothes a woman was wearing, or as a reaction to anything. I came because Allah touched my heart and I cried in prayer. I had spent years living my Mother's fantasy of an unmarried, woman with no children and had a good job that paid good money. She was right--the world loves young black women who are "smart" and can earn money. I enjoyed it, she enjoyed it. One day I found myself unable to dance. Really, I was unable to dance and move or even keep a beat.

I had become a cold "Bitch Goddess" people love. The problem with being a truly unfeeling person (not the pretend kind) is you are engaged in killing your own heart. After much chaos I came to Islam. It was the harmony of the approach to spirituality that touched me and my heart that had been frozen began to melt and I got in touch with my heart.

There are a lot of regulations in Islam, particularly for women. I saw those restrictions to be part of a larger effort to bring harmony to the social community. The modest clothing is feminist in intent--view me as a person not parts you want to have sex with. (BTW, men have similar sartorial restraints, but most do not adhere to them.) It took years to "master" the regulations and my feelings about them, but I felt I was serving a "greater good" and submitted.

The problem with doctrine is that it really struggles with real life and real people. For me, it was the death of my first son. Siddique lived four days and I grieved alone. The Muslims I knew gave me three days (Traditions say more than this is excessive). My Christian family was aloof. I searched within Islam for the heart I knew was there, is still there, but it all seemed very separate from the practice of people around me. I found Sufism and became reanimated, but ultimately it seemed to me to be a worship of an aloof teacher. I sought refuge in salat (prayer), but my suffering had made it little more than exercise.

I have finally come to Mindfulness. It is practice. It deals with suffering. I am a practical woman and I need what works. My life is not abstract and I am a community person. My path at this time is mainly Practice through service. While the ability to sit is where I've come to nourish myself, I seek nourishment in order to love and to "sit with pain" unblinking for both myself and my community. My community has a lot of pain and the anger coming out of that pain has the power to destroy us. I am particularly focused on the many children of my heart. Already my neighborhood 12yo boys are falling to the streets. While my son has a falanx of love and support he is not immune to the forces of anger.

My world is one of great heart and great anger. My neighbors are giving and caring and sometimes very violent. The solutions to all of our problems is love, Inshallah, as I develop my Practice, I will become a piece of the solution. I am losing my religion, but growing in my heart, I hope. I think Allah is pleased.

Journey to Taos, NM #2

Inshallah, I'm going to the POC Retreat. Thanks to the kindness and generosity of someone who has been and wanted to make that experience available to someone else. I am thrilled, blessed, scared. This is BIG. I haven't wanted anything BIG in a long time. Even the wanting (see Journey to Taos, NM #1) was difficult for me. The mercy of the last 15 years has been to discover the miracles and the blessings that come from my day to day life. That journey into gratitude has in large part shaped the woman I am now. And now to have wanted AND received a gift for my soul is amazing. Susan Boyle ain't got nothing on me.

Pearls of an Injured Life

A pearl is a beautiful thing that is produced by an injured life. It is the tear [that results] from the injury of the oyster. The treasure of our being in this world is also produced by an injured life. If we had not been wounded, if we had not been injured, then we will not produce the pearl. Stephan Hoeller

I sometimes reflect on my own injured life. I think about the ways I've been injured and the ways I've injured others. Scenarios run in my head of how I could have done better or how they could have done better, but today I understand that no matter how I've been hurt or done the hurting, I and "they" were doing the best we could. I've also come to understand that I've gained many pearls from my injuries. I have a family and friends that are amazing, loving people.

One of the gifts of aging for me is the ability to embrace my life, with all its joys, sadness, disappointments, thrills, unfulfilled dreams, etc. The pain of living is very real, but it does not penetrate my soul the way it did when I was younger. I can see the lightness outside the darkness of both spiritual and physical pain. I've also been blessed to know that even with all my many faults, contained inside me, and all human beings is the heart of love. I can tap better into that universal heart than when I was younger, or perhaps the nature of that heart changes over time.

I've been watching and reading about Susan Boyle and her injured life. She has a learning disability, is unpretty, and seems to be generally ignored, and sometimes harassed. The highest compliment given to this 48 yo woman is that she's considered a "sweet girl." She loved and cared for her mother and sang in church and did karaoke. I like to imagine the people who looked at her as she went along, and shook their heads, some in sadness and others in superiority. The result, several days ago "frumpy," "old," "unloved" Susan Boyle went on a stage, opened her mouth and beautiful pearls spilled into the ears and hearts of the world.

I thank Allah for my pearls. I hope that you are enjoying your pearls.

Communication Without Words

I like words. I like to talk. Most of the people I feel closest to, like words and like talking. However, it is so important to remember that for many, many people talking is not their best way of communicating. My husband and many people express their love through their labor, just like the father in the following poem by Robert Hayden. This poem reminded me of the need to acknowledge, respect and celebrate those that labor in love’s austere and lonely offices. Talk does not always illuminate, often, it can be a weapon that can distort truth. Those of us that love words and their uses must not, assign intellectual or spiritual accomplishment for those that master the use these tools.

Ultimately, all means of communication are only tools for touching each other's hearts. No matter how eloquent the words, if they do not serve the heart they are empty. Love expressed by hands are equal to love expressed by words. Enjoy the poem.

Those Winter Sundays
by Robert E. Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

The Gifts of Aging #1

This is a picture of me in my "big girl"clothes. One of the reasons I started this blog is to write about aging. I was blessed to grow up in a family of women who demonstrated the power and beauty of a woman in her different stages of life. I wanted to show a picture of me in my "Sunday best." I look at this woman and recognize the child, girl, and young woman she was, but I also see a face and figure that no longer beguiles most people. However, one of the gifts of aging, if you take it, is the gift of freedom. I now embrace me and am amused at things that would have sent me to my bed in depression or to rage when I was younger.

I was sharing with younger friends at dinner, the freedom from others expectations or views of me. Clearly, the woman in this photo decided to wear jewelry that doesn't match and it's overdone (at least that's what I think some critics might say). For me, as a adorned myself, I thought I looked just right! The point is, one gift of my aging is to discover the Beloved in me. It doesn't inoculate me from pain but it takes the echo of the sting away. I've also begun to settle into myself and embrace my errors and shortcomings. I don't expect perfection from me or anyone I love or even like. In fact, embracing my "shortcomings" has freed me up to love myself and others more. We all need love.

Getting older also means I sometimes need help. It is the sweetest thing when one of by "babies" reaches back to help me out of the car. My weakness like my aging is a great blessing.

Called to be a Spiritual Mammy aka Mammism

I've been looking at pictures of mammies. According to Free Dictionary.com a mammy is, " A Black nursemaid, especially one formerly in the southern United States." I've been looking at pictures of mammies because recently I've understood that one of the ways white privilege expresses itself is the expectation that Black people, Brown people, Yellow people, and Red people will be their psychological and/or spiritual mammies.

Often when I've discussed a racist eruption with "progressive" whites they become confused by the very idea that their privilege somehow impacts their ability to perceive racism even when they are willing to acknowledge that racism exists. In the next breath I've been given the opportunity to "explain to them" about what I "think" happened. Intellectuals who will spend years studying the entrails of anteaters or Shakespeare, want to be fed a complete (and make it quick Mammy) analysis of racist acts that suits them. More than this, they've wanted me to gently take them in my psychic arms and feed them through my ample spiritual breasts, all the while rocking them and singing songs of their innocence.

I'm thinking about this in light of the events in my Sangha, in which once again POC are expected to protect our "sweet innocent white babies," even as like the historical mammy, to do this would mean we end up diverting the love and protection due to our own "children." Since we have decided not to don the head rag and the neck kerchief, there is a problem.

Refusal to be mammy provokes anger and frustration because we are supposed to take care of them. That at its core is, to my mind, where the frustration comes from. At this time the Sangha has made clear that we reserve the nourishment of our spiritual breasts for our own. That others think this strange is an indication of how much they need to practice.

A picture of the quintessential mammy in Gone with the Wind can be found at: http://www.gonemovies.com/WWW/Drama/Drama/GoneMammy1.asp

Love, Resistance and Refusing to Play Monster

"Your silence will not protect you." — Audre Lorde
"If they cannot love and resist at the same time, they probably will not survive." — Audre Lorde

I love these quotes by Audre Lorde, particularly the second one, which is part of a larger quote about what our children must do in the face of racism. Recent events surrounding my POC Sangha has made me reflect on the need to love and resist. Mostly, I've been thinking of the "bait" we are offered in dealing with the racist eruptions. The trick is that often those displaying racism will only acknowledge something is wrong when they are afraid.

Often when I've been frustrated in the face of that unacknowledged reality, I've taken the bait and have played "monster" to their "innocent." Whatever initial satisfaction I've received from my metamorphosis is brief. The "innocent" will acknowledge something is in fact wrong--I'm a monster. The racist actions are no longer relevant and focus is now my behavior. This trap is always waiting for me and for us. Strangely, my efforts at high-toned psychological speak or spiritual buzz words have had the same result as the metamorphosis into the "monster."

My best results and the one that is affirming of both reality and my soul is when I use short clear words and refuse to engage in the language of academics. An "untruth" is a lie. There is a need to question each statement. Was the misunderstanding a misunderstanding? (Keep your dictionary handy.) Often the word misunderstanding is a door of escape. A way to not acknowledge what has really happened.

Silence will not save me or you, but neither will "The Monster."

Miss Bettie

love
walking around in tee shirts
riding gold jewelry
and sparkling rings
elegant
casual
comfortable
swatting butts
giving hugs
an anchor for little children
sullen teens
grown women
lost men

that lady
that queen
is my friend
i'm her sister
she said so
she is aunt to my younger son
auntie bettie
who loves elegantly
who gives unstintingly
is an oracle
giving good advice
to those intelligent enough to listen
and will love you even though
she knows you are being stupid
jesus loves like that
muhammad loves like that
God loves like that
and i'm taking notes

Yesterday's Luncheon Menu

when i was younger
complicated
often filled my table
although it wasn't filling
i was proud of the complication
now
as silver begins the slow route
around my head
simple
tomato soup
with french bread
fill me up
i savor the different qualities
presented by both
different and complimentary
like Bahiyyah
who served the feast
with generosity
and love
and compassion
and sweetness
like Bahiyyah
sweet, nourishing
good for me
blessed with Bahiyyah
and tomato soup
i'll try not to burp
sweet

Rice, Beans and Sangha

I've prepared my West African black-eyed peas and plantain and I'm getting ready to go to visit my "family." They are the best kind of family because they are the family of my heart. I expect we'll have our regular wonderful time, but we share something even more special, I think. We all appreciate how blessed we are to get together. I think all of us are orphans of one type or another and I find great satisfaction and joy with being with people who are with me for me. I'm often concerned we I see people who so strongly eschew the need for deep connection with other people. I was one of those people who was so intoxicated by my own strength and youth that I obtained a sense of power from being "independent." I look back on that younger self with love and pity. I have only become stronger since I've opened my heart and mind to others.

Journey to Taos, New Mexico #1

Mushim told me about the POC Meditation Retreat and as I read about it, I immediately knew that I would be unable to go, but I expressed by pleasure that such an event was possible. As if explaining to a young child, Mushim sent me another e-mail further discussing the beauty and opportunity of the retreat. I read it with pleasure at the idea of the event, but was unclear why she sent me more information. I had already decided that I knew I couldn't attend. After all, I'm a stay-at-home, homeschooling mom, whose husband is solidly working class (i.e. our money is small and tight). Early Saturday morning, approximately 1:00 am, while I was sharing a conversation with a dear friend about the struggle of faith, I it occurred to me that I COULD GO. Before fear clouded my mind I sent Mushim an e-mail saying, I would attend, Inshallah. Inshallah, I will. I've sent an e-mail and left a message for the administrator asking for a sliding scale fee for the retreat and I am WILLING. Inshallah, the "How am I going to do this?" will come.

Why I'm Doing This

I have decided to share my life and what I learn because I've been inspired by some amazing people. Among them Richael, whose words and wisdom lift my mind and bless my soul. I hope that my words will be a blessing or of use to whoever happens upon them. I am particularly interested in speaking about my journey of spiritual growth, aging, and menopause. Too many young women in my life either don't have an older woman who speaks frankly about aging or do not have a relationship that allows these kinds of explorations. My desire is for them to know that as women and human beings we are never "done." I am pleased to report that the joy, awareness and contentment I have in my life far exceeds what I experienced as a younger woman. It is not age that has made that difference, but gratitude and awareness. I'll be sharing my journey of gratitude and look forward to hearing from others.