I Ain't Dead Yet

I've been sick, feeling old, fighting and confronting stories. Today I experienced a beautiful fall day and reached out for help, a very hard thing for me to do. I remembered Edgar Guest's poem, "I Ain't Dead Yet." I wanted to remind myself of the beauty and wisdom of this poem and share it with whoever stops by.

Time was I used to worry and I'd sit around an' sigh,
And think with every ache I got that I was goin' to die,
I'd see disaster comin' from a dozen different ways
An' prophesy calamity an' dark and dreary days.
But I've come to this conclusion, that it's foolishness to fret;
I've had my share o' sickness, but I


Ain't
Dead
Yet!


Wet springs have come to grieve me an' I've grumbled at the showers,
But I can't recall a June-time that forgot to bring the flowers.
I've had my business troubles, and looked failure in the face,
But the crashes I expected seemed to pass right by the place.
So I'm takin' life more calmly, pleased with everything I get,
An' not over-hurt by losses, 'cause I


Ain't
Dead
Yet!


I've feared a thousand failures an' a thousand deaths I've died,
I've had this world in ruins by the gloom I've prophesied.
But the sun shines out this mornin' an' the skies above are blue,
An' with all my griefs an' trouble, I have somehow lived 'em through.
There may be cares before me, much like those that I have met;
Death will come some day an' take me, but I


Ain't
Dead
Yet!




[The end]
Edgar A. Guest's poem: I Ain't Dead Yet

Birthday

I had a birthday, an amazing birthday this past July and I am still filled with the beauty, love and reality of it. Dearest friends came together and ensured that my birthday was spectacular. I had not slept with, had children with, or married any of them. Aging for me is so wonderfully strange. Seeing love and support and adventures coming from people and places where I have planted no long ago seeds that I'm now reaping and looking at the garden I tended, not perfectly, but with good effort continue to produce indifferent crops. I am not angry (most of the time), but fascinated. I am fascinated how I am slowly moving from what I thought to what I experience. Here is a poem that caught me on my journey and insisted I write it.

Independence Day 7/4/10

It happened today
Independence
Like birth is irrevocable
Even if I wished to return
To past servitude
I am unable to
I have discovered my power
And so have you
Though the aftermath of our struggle
Played the same dueling perceptions
It was only form
Not substance
And we both recognize that
We reside in different kingdoms
Only our geography remains the same
For the moment
Just for the moment

ayesha ali

peeking

with a shy
eye
i peep at my coming
death
curious
no so much in the manor
she'll caress
my face
but
after
the after
the end
the beginning
another journey
i glimpse her
with a shy eye
and
smile

ayesha ali
10/22/10

The Mammy and the Momma

Momma, mammy--so different, so alike, so much of who I am. Lots of mmmm's, lots of giving, lots of love. But however much they appear the same, the conditions that create them are very different, and that difference is why it is crucial to me to embrace the momma and free the mammy.

I remember watching old movies with my grandmother and seeing black women with head scarves clucking and catering to the likes of everyone from Mae West to Vivian Leigh (pictured). I later saw the movie "Imitation of Life" and was both ashamed of and inspired by the love and care shown by the character Annie (Did she have a last name?). I was also intrigued by the nowhere land she dwelled, alone and unloved, even by her own daughter. All those women were anonymous except to the regard they loved and nurtured without being truly included in their "families." They also shared another characteristic, their continued survival (economic as well as emotional) required them to be "loving" and "supportive." Such is the lot of the mammy.

Momma, of course, comes from a very different place. She is multidimensional and is part of the "family." Most important her love comes from a place a freedom and not necessity for economic, social, or spiritual survival. She is aware of her beauty and strength not from her care of others. It is the reverse, her love and care is a projection of her own heart. I grew up with women who at their hearts were mommas, but society both white and black needed them to be mammies.

Mammy is a caricature, and her historical existence is not from the chattel slavery south, but from the period of "Emancipation." (See http://www.ferris.edu/jimcrow/mammies/) She is a utility.

I've experienced the desire to use women, particularly black women as "workers" for the church and mosque. But it is not just religious settings that call me to sit on the mammy throne. Replace "Scarlett" with any and all institutions, including family. So often it seems that only the mammy is wanted. After all, she's asexual, without needs, without boundaries, without desires except those she is called upon to fill. She's overweight and unkempt, self-care is, of course, selfish and must be avoided at all costs.

How do I free this person and awaken her to her own self? It seems I must embrace her and recognize and honor her humanity, even while the world views her (and she views herself) as a tool. She's not. She loves even knowing that those she loves may join the chorus of negation that bombards her. I will model loving that doesn't require self-immolation.

Emerging from Pain

"Let us rise up and be thankful, for if we didn't learn a lot today, at least we learned a little, and if we didn't learn a little, at least we didn't get sick, and if we got sick, at least we didn't die; so, let us all be thankful."
- The Buddha

Pain is a gift and a tribulation. Whether it is physical or emotional it has the ability to distort and enlighten my view of myself and my world. There is an old saying that says, "The best thing about being sick, is how good you feel when you're better." For weeks I have "manfully" ignored my body, falling into the delusion that I could hop over the sensations that were giving me messages calling me to attention, like a person whistling in the dark, believing the whistle will keep her safe.

My whistling didn't keep me "safe". Not listening, not practicing mindfulness, resulted in a physical flare that brought a great deal of pain and suffering. The gift of the practice and age is knowing that the cycle is inevitable whenever I drift from the present moment. I am humbled by my stupidity and my courage to begin again, to present myself to this present moment. So, I emerge from the cave of pain and delusion that I've been in for several weeks and gratefully turn my face toward the sun that always awaits me.

When Life Makes Me Mute

My silence has arisen from great difficulties and great joy. These extremes can overwhelm me and I am left with the comfort and certain knowledge of impermanence--this will change. My faith has been confirmed and I am speaking again. I'm sitting in the quiet middle of a number of hurricanes. My dharma teacher says, "sitting is not the same as doing nothing" but it has felt that way and feels that way. But like bamboo, I often do most of my growing before it is apparent.

Bamboo Woman

underneath all this time
you thought
i was dead
and
i did too

we were both wrong
growing is what i was doing
in darkness
growing

we are both suprised
when i punch though to
greet
the
sun

Early in the Morning

So I gotta get up early in the morning
To find me another lover
So I gotta get up early in the morning
To find me another lover

The Gap Band 1982


There is mercy in even the most difficult times. Buddhism teaches that freedom resides in the space between action and reaction. For me there is a physical manifestation of this space, it is the predawn. The predawn is such an amazing time. Allah's forgiveness reigns. It is a time of freedom for me. It is a place where I am pure and unmarked by the life I've lived. I am grateful for the time before light.

early
by Ayesha Ali

I get up early
escaping
my judge and sins
sleep deeply
certain of the case against me
the just punishment meted out
but for now
I am free from the litany of charges
until court resumes
I will enjoy my innocence

Stopping at an Oasis

I saw the documentary, “The Buddha,” last night at the Freer Museum. It was a lovely film that did a good job at covering the life and teachings of the Buddha. The animation was wonderful and the music touched me. There were not many “talking heads” which is always a good thing in my opinion. What was interesting was the producer shared that the monk and nun that spoke so eloquently and seemed to embody Buddhist teaching were “accidental” and the people that were scripted to appear, with the exception of the Dali Lama, were white.

Even more important was the joy of being with Sangha brothers and sisters. I took the sweetness and love with me when I returned home.

Weeping and Wonder

As life becomes harder and more threatening, it also becomes richer, because the fewer expectations we have, the more good things of life become unexpected gifts that we accept with gratitude.

Etty Hillesum
An Interrupted Life

This is a “desert time” for me. This desert time comes to many. A dear friend in responding to one of my “Adventures in Gratitude” where I spoke about this “desert time” shared this poem with me:

Desert Places
by Robert Frost

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it—it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is, that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less—
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars—on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

In my desert place there often seems to be nothing but the heat of anger and grief of what is not. Closer to the truth is like too many I wanted life to be like a beautiful flower bouquet that is loved for its bloom and discarded for the next bouquet. I had thought to step outside the natural rhythm of bloom and the inevitable dried and dried-up flowers that follow. So here I stand with my withered stems.

Like many women my age, this is a time of pain and opportunity. Will I mourn the loss of the “bloom” or appreciate this desert for its own sake? Like age, the desert can destroy or by its fierce winds uncover beauty unknown.

This desert is harsh and stark in its exposure of what is. Life and age strip away delusion. I am confronted with the truth of impermanence and the inevitable sadness that accompanies inevitable loss. Yet, the desert has it has its own beauty. I find myself examining my tears and am surprised that sometimes I find sustenance in their wetness.

The harshness of this desert time has caused much weeping these past months as my health has declined and my heart was again broken by what is, but it has also brought great wonder. Love blooms even in this arid place. As I examine my desert I find that it is not bland or lifeless. It is a place that calls for toughness and even thorns. I am becoming stronger here.

So here I reside in my desert place. I do not throw away my withered stems this time. I clutch them to my breast and love what they and I were and are. Not everyday is about survival in sandstorms, recently my beloveds come and turn my attention away from sand to the many oases that reside in my desert land. I am grateful.

A Many Woman Story

Once there was a woman/girl who hungered to be the best of what she could be in this life. She discovered giving love and encouragement was her special talent. Then she discovered that her grandmother was right, "People mistake kindness for dumbness." She became selfish and was rewarded by the people she mistreated, but mistreatment was a boomerang and her heart and smile became plastic.

It hurt so much that she decided to start loving again. She draped herself in sweetness and love and enjoyed the outfit. She paraded it in the community and her family. She was intoxicated in her own gifts, but never took the time to understand them. She never knew what made them grow and flourish.

After awhile, she noticed the beautiful garment/her heart had lost is shimmer. Not knowing her heart or forgotten it she went to the people she had loved for a solution. They had none. In fact, they told her that nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong, nothing was wrong. She did not believe them, but since she didn't know how to solve her wounded heart, she pretended that nothing was wrong.

One day, many years later, she stopped pretending nothing was wrong. TBC

Big Girls

Big girls cry
Big tears
So be kind to me

My tears are magic
And history
And freedom

No longer wearing
Dewy smooth skin
Be sweet to me

I am becoming
A beautiful sculpture
The road maps on my face
Leads to treasure

I leap no bounds
My steps deliberate
Careful
Be slow with me

Now see/feel things forgotten, ignored
Wisdom resides at a
Slower pace

Joy in my tears
Treasure in my skin
Wisdom in my walk

Let my mystery renew you

Ayesha Ali
December 18, 2009