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!

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!