Dancing for Me/Them

Walking and dancing
swinging my hips
in revolution
dancing
pushing past
unuseful anger
despair

dancing for me
them
who never got to be
here
hear
who after cleaning
caring for children
not theirs
got on the bus
with
small money
and
small smiles

Dancing for me
them
who couldn't
imagine
ease
saw only
white danger
always alert
to the moment
they would
be hit
with lash
or words
that sought to
extinguish
hard-fought
joy
from home

Dancing for me
them
who built the mills
long gone
except for signs
attributing their labor
to slave masters
who robbed and
raped and murdered
and drank drinks
while
overseeing

Dancing for me
them
who were
hung on unwilling
branches

Dancing for me
them
My joy
Their joy
a weapon
of our survival

Dancing

Precious At Last

The Black woman is the most unprotected, unloved woman on earth…she is the only flower on earth…that grows unwatered.-   Kola Boof, Egyptian-Sudanese-American novelist and poet 

I had feared that I would be one of those Black women who is truly loved after she is dead. I have been to funerals throughout my life where Black women lay in their caskets and the people that now love them look down in deep sadness and sometimes surprise that she, their rock, their shelter is gone. I feared I would join them, getting my reward after I had spent a lifetime not living my life, but doing what I must to make life better for others.

I, like too many Black women, often only find our love reciprocated after we have sacrificed time, money, energy, and dreams in an effort to be enough, be worthy of love. What I have, in the past felt loved for was my utility. Whether in the church, mosque or home. I, and most of the Black women I have known, are not treasured and certainly not viewed as precious. We are, like our female ancestors, valued for our labor. No longer the plantation, those fields are now reconfigured, we now labor for family and community, often doing work in isolation. In fact, the more solitary my activity, the more arduous, the more strain it caused me the more accolades I received.

I feared that I would always have to barter work for love. I would perform the alchemy of turning my loneliness and pain into the fuel that would enable me to do even more, give even more, and therefore, be even more. There was no one that would come to me and say "You've done enough." As I observe women who are literally giving themselves to death, they like my former self, may be waiting for someone who loves them to give them permission to just be, to stop and just be loved.

On my sixty-second birthday I realize that I no longer have to fear having a funeral in which those who ignored my preciousness will howl at my departure. My life s peopled by those who see me as worthy, as wonderful, as precious and for them the only thing I have to do is breathe. Their arrival in my life only occurred as I began to step into my own heart, my own spirit, my own dreams. My movement was and often continues to be tentative, but all along my journey there have been those that moved toward me, the courage with which they lived their lives encouraging my own strength. I thank all of them and myself for choosing to live our lives in authenticity and courage.

I am celebrating my birthday by writing--my gift, my joy, my journey.

It is a wonderful and wondrous thing.

Freedom: Confronting Myself

When I dare to be powerful -- to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid. Audre Lorde

I am daring a lot these days. The greatest dare is to be free. I have left a marriage that defined me in ways I am only just discovering. I am daring to have faith that my son will "forgive" my disruption of his world, even as I know that I am opening a new and better world for him to explore. I am daring to explore my strength, develop my vision and to explore what it is for me to be without fear.

Resting in the grooves of an oppressive person or environment has served the delusion that I must be free of Him. This gigantic presence I've tried to appease over the years lest I be demolished, was and always has been simply a man. I invested him with such power and now that I have stepped away I bear the scars of submission to that illusion and know I will have flashbacks like any veteran of a war, but I am now reacting (when I do) to the past.

I have moved on. There is no destination now. I wander groundless and exist in the love and support of a family I could not have imagined. I have fear, but I also have courage. That courage showed itself in my ability to leave and live. In the end the great confrontation is with myself. I have freed me and now can look in the mirror of this world without any filters.

Embracing My Wise Woman/Crone Self

Do not become alarmed when you experience yourself in totally new ways," sighs Grandmother Growth tenderly. "You are changing, getting ready to be initiated into the third stage of your life. Are you ready for the ride of your life?
Susun Weed, Menopausal Years the Wise Woman Way, Woodstock: Ash Tree, 2002

Over the last few years there has been a settling, a growing fearlessness. It can take the form of a kind of sassy attitude, but most often it is a deep sense of appreciation for the great joys and the terrible difficulties of this life. I think all women, all people, as we get older must decide whether we will not only live with our past, but embrace it or if we will instead, extract anger and bitterness as our primary life lessons.

I have chosen at this stage of my life, as I'd chosen earlier, to take the path of love, compassion and joy. I can't think of another way to die with a smile on my face and expectation of the existence to come, except to embrace this path. It is the fearlessness that enables me to embrace not only the difficulties of the present, but past trauma. I am saddened by harsh self judgements of so many of my younger friends and family.

I offer to them, when I can and when they are willing, the perspective and lessons that have come with my age: (1) love yourself, hating yourself for real or imagined failures don't move you forward; (2) love others, even if you can only do that from a distance; (3) don't stop doing either.

Metta

Friends and Their Views

"Don't rely on someone else for your happiness and self worth. Only you can be responsible for that. If you can't love and respect yourself - no one else will be able to make that happen. Accept who you are - completely; the good and the bad - and make changes as YOU see fit - not because you think someone else wants you to be different.” Stacey Charter

“What is the quality of your intent?

Certain people have a way of saying things that shake us at the core. Even when the words do not seem harsh or offensive, the impact is shattering. What we could be experiencing is the intent behind the words. When we intend to do good, we do. When we intend to do harm, it happens. What each of us must come to realize is that our intent always comes through. We cannot sugarcoat the feelings in our heart of hearts. The emotion is the energy that motivates. We cannot ignore what we really want to create. We should be honest and do it the way we feel it. What we owe to ourselves and everyone around is to examine the reasons of our true intent.

My intent will be evident in the results.” Thurgood Marshall quotes

Friendship, particularly when its lasted over a period of years, is a crucible. It is a test of my ability to listen deeply, a way to see my similarity and differences with them. I am blessed with several who are very clear and/or very certain about what they think is right, and sometimes what I should or should not be doing. Sometimes their views come from great spirituality and conviction, other times from a place of pain and fear. Their views are training, a place for me to find my own strength.

As I change my life, my dress, my thinking, I have learned to see how resolute I am regarding all those things in how I react, choose not to react, or see their views as having validity in my life. It is interesting to be at a place and an age to feel so calm in the face of other strong people. These strong minded folks are sometimes mentors even when I deeply disagree with their views about me or others, but they remain my friends. As I grow and change, I hope they can continue to hold me as their friend.

I am blessed.

Hands

My hands are a lot like my mother's and a lot not. The contours similar, but these hands do not reflect the harsh work that she did, strong detergents and cleaning agents that were part of her work. Yet, they are a part of her, a part of my lineage.

I come from a long line of women, who like me, have lasted enough to see how time has massaged us. Those so-called wrinkles, feared by so many women were embraced by my All Mothers. An indication of our endurance through pain, sorrow, and despair with laughter, food, hugs from children and other women and even occasionally a man or two.

I have softer hands because my All Mothers gave me a life with less hazardous choices. I have these wrinkles because I have lived through time with focus and serendipity. I bow to the love of my All Mothers, I bow to myself.

This Second Spring

I began this blog as a place to explore aging and growth. Several months have elapsed since my last post and much has happened. The details are irrelevant, but the understanding that come from them are significant to me. Age brings knowledge that I can live through things, even very terrible things. My Buddhist practice allows me to enjoy the next breath, even if it follows a scream.

I am in my second Spring. It is not much like the first. There is no dewy skin and courage that comes out of ignorance. Instead, it's the ability to smile in the face of sadness and pain. I no longer seek refuge from myself. I love myself and others because this being human is a wonderful and difficult enterprise. I am no longer interested in justice, only wisdom and compassion.

This second Spring is not about the exuberance of youth but the joy of life.

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

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!