I watch the moon unravel
weaving slivers of itself in waves.
Tossing beaded threads of light,
watching waves scamper and chase, curl and twirl in play
And when the beads scatter,
on the sandy shore
a mirror reflection of the night time sky they form
Tickling the shore to giggles
as the sand lifts up and glitters
And the Pacific already looks up and
eagerly awaits another.
All night, I watch the night play its silent games
Mesmerized by the moons blushing cheeks and the Pacific's soft flowing hair
their laughter like hums and lullabies rings.
Until, from behind the sun slowly chugs
thumps over my back
clamps its locks in the tossing waves
with every minute anchors and tightens its chains
quelling the growing beauty and color of the game.
All dawn it screams in envy
with displays of color and light
but I keep my back turned
saying my goodbyes to the playful, humble night.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Seasons
Fall
As she squeaks open her rusty, rickety chest
She takes another look at her always almost finished canvas
She lifts her palette and a thin tailed soft brush and begins
Gliding her hand over the edges
Of vibrant green leaves with a shade of yellow
And knows tomorrow she will be back
To fill other edges with a rusty red-brown
On every tree
On every leaf,
She’ll set her brush, and it’ll do its deed.
In several weeks
She comes back again
Her fingers squeeze through the openings of small, red scissors
She snips away one by one
The thread that keeps
The leaves with trees
Some leaves she leaves untouched for tomorrow.
Winter
Again, she sits down at her page,
With a small, wooden file
She begins scratching and peeling
Bit and pieces of the sky
And watches as they
Tip and tap, pit and patter.
The deeper she scratches
The thicker the drops
Until at last, her art lays covered.
Spring
With a sky wide open
She sets to work
Recreating and renewing
And her elbows and arms
Slowly blow away the residue of the sky on the plains.
With her canvas clean.
She takes new colors with bright shades.
And mixes and flicks
She fills the page with slivers of color in every corner.
Colors and textures unimaginable as compatible.
Vibrant red dresses, white speckles, deep green bangs.
Dark green spinach against purple cabbage.
Cliffs bended brown and gray with a string of dark gold.
Of course not all of it she fills today.
She draws the orange buds of some.
The green stems of others
Some, she said
She’ll finish tomorrow.
Others, she smiled.
Are meant to dry.
As she squeaks open her rusty, rickety chest
She takes another look at her always almost finished canvas
She lifts her palette and a thin tailed soft brush and begins
Gliding her hand over the edges
Of vibrant green leaves with a shade of yellow
And knows tomorrow she will be back
To fill other edges with a rusty red-brown
On every tree
On every leaf,
She’ll set her brush, and it’ll do its deed.
In several weeks
She comes back again
Her fingers squeeze through the openings of small, red scissors
She snips away one by one
The thread that keeps
The leaves with trees
Some leaves she leaves untouched for tomorrow.
Winter
Again, she sits down at her page,
With a small, wooden file
She begins scratching and peeling
Bit and pieces of the sky
And watches as they
Tip and tap, pit and patter.
The deeper she scratches
The thicker the drops
Until at last, her art lays covered.
Spring
With a sky wide open
She sets to work
Recreating and renewing
And her elbows and arms
Slowly blow away the residue of the sky on the plains.
With her canvas clean.
She takes new colors with bright shades.
And mixes and flicks
She fills the page with slivers of color in every corner.
Colors and textures unimaginable as compatible.
Vibrant red dresses, white speckles, deep green bangs.
Dark green spinach against purple cabbage.
Cliffs bended brown and gray with a string of dark gold.
Of course not all of it she fills today.
She draws the orange buds of some.
The green stems of others
Some, she said
She’ll finish tomorrow.
Others, she smiled.
Are meant to dry.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
From My Grandmother's Window
Motorcycles fly so fast by
They paper cut the sky
Leaving just enough time so
The girl and boy who walk towards each other
Can gently bump, slide each other their number
Passing
Vendors hold worlds in walls
Piled cucumbers the hills
Oranges the sun
Scooped
In the bags of old ladies
Holding out their hands in front of
Long lines of cars
Black Exhaust
Trailing
Lovers on a wooden bench
Her heart fills up her cheeks
As he turns his chest
Blocking
Smoke, gently writing stories in the air
From cigarettes held in a teenager’s fingertips
Slowly lifting it up to his rosy lips
All of it nestles in a reflecting bubble
That gently floats
Up to my grandmother’s window.
They paper cut the sky
Leaving just enough time so
The girl and boy who walk towards each other
Can gently bump, slide each other their number
Passing
Vendors hold worlds in walls
Piled cucumbers the hills
Oranges the sun
Scooped
In the bags of old ladies
Holding out their hands in front of
Long lines of cars
Black Exhaust
Trailing
Lovers on a wooden bench
Her heart fills up her cheeks
As he turns his chest
Blocking
Smoke, gently writing stories in the air
From cigarettes held in a teenager’s fingertips
Slowly lifting it up to his rosy lips
All of it nestles in a reflecting bubble
That gently floats
Up to my grandmother’s window.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Call for Change
I walked into the first class in the morning on the first day of class, and my professors told me that she was looking for another job, because this one would not pay!
I walked into my second class on the first day of class, and my professor told me that professors are living under the poverty line for the East Bay!
She told me that professors were leaving.
And those that were staying were staying because they loved what they were teaching.
I attend the number one public university in the world, and am ASHAMED that my professors are being forced to leave! The University we have is world renowned and instead of having faculty rush to join our community, they are running away.
Along with them our education, our enthusiasm for change, our love for knowledge, and our hope that we can CHANGE the world one person at a time.
We are being drained from our most valuable resources.
I'm writing to urge you to begin re-investing in California's public higher education system...
Join the Cause: http://www.ucforcalifornia.org/cal/home/
I walked into my second class on the first day of class, and my professor told me that professors are living under the poverty line for the East Bay!
She told me that professors were leaving.
And those that were staying were staying because they loved what they were teaching.
I attend the number one public university in the world, and am ASHAMED that my professors are being forced to leave! The University we have is world renowned and instead of having faculty rush to join our community, they are running away.
Along with them our education, our enthusiasm for change, our love for knowledge, and our hope that we can CHANGE the world one person at a time.
We are being drained from our most valuable resources.
I'm writing to urge you to begin re-investing in California's public higher education system...
Join the Cause: http://www.ucforcalifornia.org/cal/home/
Monday, August 31, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Fasting in FSM (Free Speech Movement Cafe)
written by a hungry, fasting girl.
You chew.
I watch.
"You want a piece," you say--
a mouth spraying crumbs
your teeth pestles ever so gently grinding
the food against the walls of your cheeks.
"No, thank you," I say--
all the while looking at your lips
gates of heaven opening and closing
to sour dough bread embracing
fiery cheddar cheese
ripe tomatoes
crunchy cucumbers
bread pieces soaked in heavy, red tomato soup
"All right," you say.
the redness of strawberries caught in the cracks of your teeth
and melted chocolate against your lips.
I think the glee held in my stomach,
escaped through my eyes
at the sight of your meal.
And as doors to my stomach's desires,
my lips uncontrollably smack,
yearning to recreate the sound yours do.
You chew.
I watch.
"You want a piece," you say--
a mouth spraying crumbs
your teeth pestles ever so gently grinding
the food against the walls of your cheeks.
"No, thank you," I say--
all the while looking at your lips
gates of heaven opening and closing
to sour dough bread embracing
fiery cheddar cheese
ripe tomatoes
crunchy cucumbers
bread pieces soaked in heavy, red tomato soup
"All right," you say.
the redness of strawberries caught in the cracks of your teeth
and melted chocolate against your lips.
I think the glee held in my stomach,
escaped through my eyes
at the sight of your meal.
And as doors to my stomach's desires,
my lips uncontrollably smack,
yearning to recreate the sound yours do.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
She sneaked a handful of tea leaves
from her mother's tin tea can
In her palm they looked like thick, shriveled, black ants.
Between the edge of her home with peeling, blue paint
and her red bicycle thrown on its side
she dug a hole,
and one by one the speckled daytime stars
fell from her fingers into their underground sky.
She had watched the tea leaves fall from her mothers fingers
into her teapot always gently humming on the stove
and she had watched that with her mother's touch
these speckled shriveled leaves came to life in full bloom
So now she sprinkled water on her tea leaves.
She gave those same black tea leaves from her mother's tin tea can.
room to grow underground
so that they could bloom
without glass walls caging them in.
from her mother's tin tea can
In her palm they looked like thick, shriveled, black ants.
Between the edge of her home with peeling, blue paint
and her red bicycle thrown on its side
she dug a hole,
and one by one the speckled daytime stars
fell from her fingers into their underground sky.
She had watched the tea leaves fall from her mothers fingers
into her teapot always gently humming on the stove
and she had watched that with her mother's touch
these speckled shriveled leaves came to life in full bloom
So now she sprinkled water on her tea leaves.
She gave those same black tea leaves from her mother's tin tea can.
room to grow underground
so that they could bloom
without glass walls caging them in.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Raining Against the Windows of My Office
pit patter against the windows surrounding my room.
It's difficult to work in front of a computer when the only thing separating you from feeling the drips of rain strike your cheek is a solid pane of glass.
Sitting behind the glass window under the rain is a tree with bright green leaves and tiny white flowers sprinkled across it's stems. It's leaves and gentle stems drape across my window like curtains.
At times I fall into a lull with the rhythm of the rain pit pattering against my window, and the greyness of the sky that seems to put a shade of color on all that sits below it, like the world's blanket, protecting it from the disappearance of the sun.
Then suddenly, across my window a sparks of color fly by- the breast of a robin perhaps. Midst the gray it was refreshing to suddenly grasp the color. I always wondered why it is that the under breast of a bird is the one of the only features in rain that seems as if it is invincible to the gray shade of the clouds.
Perhaps it's because with rain, the birds huddle among themselves, they face their breasts in as they sit near each other in a circle, and they silently whisper the songs we normally hear to each other, lullaby.
So I guess the robin that flew across my window, must have been the one who finds the rain across its wings, sliding down its beak, fitting gently into its undersides exhilarating. The robin that flew across my window must be the one who finds a way around the single glass pane window.
It's difficult to work in front of a computer when the only thing separating you from feeling the drips of rain strike your cheek is a solid pane of glass.
Sitting behind the glass window under the rain is a tree with bright green leaves and tiny white flowers sprinkled across it's stems. It's leaves and gentle stems drape across my window like curtains.
At times I fall into a lull with the rhythm of the rain pit pattering against my window, and the greyness of the sky that seems to put a shade of color on all that sits below it, like the world's blanket, protecting it from the disappearance of the sun.
Then suddenly, across my window a sparks of color fly by- the breast of a robin perhaps. Midst the gray it was refreshing to suddenly grasp the color. I always wondered why it is that the under breast of a bird is the one of the only features in rain that seems as if it is invincible to the gray shade of the clouds.
Perhaps it's because with rain, the birds huddle among themselves, they face their breasts in as they sit near each other in a circle, and they silently whisper the songs we normally hear to each other, lullaby.
So I guess the robin that flew across my window, must have been the one who finds the rain across its wings, sliding down its beak, fitting gently into its undersides exhilarating. The robin that flew across my window must be the one who finds a way around the single glass pane window.
Monday, March 23, 2009
The Artist and his Palette
One week ago I went on a trail that passed by a creek carrying a steady hum. That passed through trees whose branches were bare, but carried powerful character and hills that were carpeted in the a shade of green not typically seen. It was a as if the color in the sun's deep yellow rays and the forest green from leaves that were on trees earlier in the season were literally blended on a palette and sprayed across the hills. The trail would ultimately lead us to a single bench on top of a hill with green grass carpet at its shoulders.
As we stepped on the thin dirt trail that ran like a beautiful woven braid from the back of this bench to the tips of our feet, I was given a California golden poppy picked from the trail and placed between my fingers.
This poppy has changed my view of the world.
As I held the poppy between my fingers and gradually stepped on the braid so delicately situated in its surroundings, I began to notice the complete coordination in its coloring. The poppy was painted with colors I would never imagine complimented each other. A bright green, similar to the blend of the green grass in its surroundings was wrapped around its stems. The petals were orange as if their artist had taken an orange and flattened its surface replacing bumpy texture with silk-- letting color move with more flow and grace through its veins, free from obstruction. And what held the green stem with the orange petals wrapped around each other was a bright, pink ring.
Green. Pink. Orange.
Three colors I would never paint together in an image, or wear together in an outfit, and yet side by side in this poppy it seemed as if they were three sisters, all born from the same mother, standing side by side--complete compliments.
Since I held this poppy between my fingers while standing on the world's shoulders, I notice the beauty and design of nature's colors on a daily basis.
Strawberries with vibrant red dresses and white speckles, and deep, green, bangs.
Salads with dark green spinach and bright purple cabbage.
Trees with patches of green moss sown into deep, brown trunks.
Cliffs blended brown and gray with strings of dark gold running across.
Since the poppy, the world around me is overflowed with color. Vibrant, passionate, jovial color. It's a world no set of words will ever be able to describe sufficiently. And rightly so because its a world I don't need to describe. Lift your head and open your eyes and you'll see it for yourself.
As we stepped on the thin dirt trail that ran like a beautiful woven braid from the back of this bench to the tips of our feet, I was given a California golden poppy picked from the trail and placed between my fingers.
This poppy has changed my view of the world.
As I held the poppy between my fingers and gradually stepped on the braid so delicately situated in its surroundings, I began to notice the complete coordination in its coloring. The poppy was painted with colors I would never imagine complimented each other. A bright green, similar to the blend of the green grass in its surroundings was wrapped around its stems. The petals were orange as if their artist had taken an orange and flattened its surface replacing bumpy texture with silk-- letting color move with more flow and grace through its veins, free from obstruction. And what held the green stem with the orange petals wrapped around each other was a bright, pink ring.
Green. Pink. Orange.
Three colors I would never paint together in an image, or wear together in an outfit, and yet side by side in this poppy it seemed as if they were three sisters, all born from the same mother, standing side by side--complete compliments.
Since I held this poppy between my fingers while standing on the world's shoulders, I notice the beauty and design of nature's colors on a daily basis.
Strawberries with vibrant red dresses and white speckles, and deep, green, bangs.
Salads with dark green spinach and bright purple cabbage.
Trees with patches of green moss sown into deep, brown trunks.
Cliffs blended brown and gray with strings of dark gold running across.
Since the poppy, the world around me is overflowed with color. Vibrant, passionate, jovial color. It's a world no set of words will ever be able to describe sufficiently. And rightly so because its a world I don't need to describe. Lift your head and open your eyes and you'll see it for yourself.
Monday, March 16, 2009
I Journey Through My Heart...
Take my hand. I’ll take you somewhere you’ve never been before. Take my hand. Follow me. I have places to take you, a life to show you
I hesitantly slid my fingers into the hand stretched before me letting the breeze push me gently along in the direction of the imprinted footsteps ahead.
Let go of my hand. We’re in the meadows. Don’t put steps in front of another. Pause. Look around you. There’s no one in sight. It’s all yours to hold.
I let go and for a split second I was afraid. She was right. It was only me.
The grass twirled between my toes, wrapping itself around feet, dancing around my ankles. I lowered my hand forward, mesmerized by their ability to bend in thousands of directions yet remain graceful. The instant the tips of my fingers brushed against the tip of the meadow’s hair, I was no longer in control. Each blade of grass ran through my fingertips—veins in my body, surrendering my movement to the will of the wind. My feet stepped in sync with the dirt below me. I was blade of grass in a meadow, dancing to the rhythm of the wind I was immersed in. The breeze would rush up through the roots my heels had grown in the dirt below, and move my body backwards and forwards. With every beat my head would fall back toward the sky embracing the meadow with its vast ceiling of clouds. We were synchronized dancers—unified—the blades of grass and I. We kept our rhythm so as to bleed into the dirt below us.
All we were missing was a heartbeat strong enough to prick lives and engrain my heels deeper into the dirt. I felt my heart, but it lacked beat. It was void of a rhythm to push us in sync.
And as if waiting for a reason, our heartbeat started from the ceiling of dark clouds above—drip by drip, slow at first but quickly gaining speed. Every beat struck upon my tender body was a burst of hope. Every beat lost from the clouds was one bestowed in the depth of our veins. We were complete, surrendering and overpowered by the beat. No longer did we simply move with the guidance of the wind, but every heartbeat pushed us into a new direction.
With every beat, my heart gained momentum deepening its rhythm.
I felt it push against the walls of my chest, stretching its walls. And with a final beat it broke through and out it stretched…
Take my hand. I’ll take you somewhere you’ve never been before. Take my hand. Follow me. I have places to take you, a life to show you…
And so I took the hand that was extending from my body outward, from where my heart used to be. I pulled my roots out from the dirt. And I followed.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
X-Ray
I saw bare bones,
naked
no flesh, no thick red meat to protect them
no skin masquerading their appearance.
I saw bare bones,
and they were painted with tiny, vibrant wild flowers,
stems weaving through colors,
and binding around the whiteness
"For every time she felt love and was loved," He said.
And as I stared in awe I came across a deep, dark crevice
"Scars of when her heart broke," He said.
The darkness, filled with desire, to wrench colors from the flowers
A vacuum to unwind stems and suck them down.
Just as I was drowned in the power of a broken hear to agonize existing beauty,
A young, green stem appeared struggled in the depth of the crevice.
It pushed through the bends and dents,
blind in the darkness,
Its head peeped out,
It gained speed and began to thicken.
Color appeared,
blooming into the largest, most vibrant flower,
standing out among the rest.
I turned to Him in awe, suspicion.
He gave a smile.
And I understood.
Better than the thickest flesh,
and the strongest skin--
A flower that can fight through the crevice,
resist the hallow,
and blindly find its way,
will hold her bones together.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Smile With Me
I wish there was a word that acted like the instant smile on a face. A word that when reading it would turn your body towards the sky. Either lifting the tips of your lips or the spirit in your heart.
A single image. A single moment. A snapshot.
With our bodies as the force, a smile will do more power than the longest list of words I can pen out or you can draw.
And yet we never stop trying.
For every time I take a pen or sit behind this pad, I hope that my smiles will transfer through my fingers in between these words, and even if it is for a snapshot or moment in time, your spirit will be moved and your lips will be curled up.
I'm smiling now. Did it translate?
A single image. A single moment. A snapshot.
With our bodies as the force, a smile will do more power than the longest list of words I can pen out or you can draw.
And yet we never stop trying.
For every time I take a pen or sit behind this pad, I hope that my smiles will transfer through my fingers in between these words, and even if it is for a snapshot or moment in time, your spirit will be moved and your lips will be curled up.
I'm smiling now. Did it translate?
Monday, March 2, 2009
I thought of you just like I said...
When I wear her pearls around my neck, I feel her sitting beside me from her home in Dubai.
Standing in Aziz's room, to the left of the balcony window, in an old wooden closet with two doors that open outward, she kept the few belongings she had. She opened the right closet door on one of those lazy afternoons when everyone was laying down, fast asleep in some corner of the house. I sat on the ground, my back against the wall facing the closet.
I love watching her. There is a warmth in her soul, a fire that has lasted through the worst. Women of her strength tend to tuck their flames in the farthest corners of her heart, away from view. But my aunt has used her strength to build up her fire. It is her warmth that keeps her company and gives her solace.
As she reached into her closet, she pulled out her necklace, and I told her that they were beautiful.
"You can have it if you like it. I don't wear it," she said with a smile on her face.
I was drawn to them. I felt like she was giving me a part of herself. So I held them between my fingers and placed them against my neck.
"They're not real, but they're nice," she said not realizing that I thought they were beautiful because they had once been placed around her neck, and not because of their physical appearance as pearls.
I held them between my fingers and told her that when I wear them, I'll think of her.
Two night ago I wore the pearl necklace around my neck to a concert, and I felt her there beside me. Moments when the music filled up the room, and lifted my mind through the curls and spins of its sounds, I would see her sitting in front of me lighting a cigarette while laughing and saying "Shokoofeh, cigarettes are bad for you," just as she set it against her lips and took in a breath. I would see her standing in the kitchen pouring herself a cup of tea, or getting ready to leave the house.
But most of all, I would see her telling stories with all of us sitting around her. Stories of her students who would outsmart her, of her walks home from work in Dubai. Stories from her childhood during the revolution, or the power of her sixth sense to warn her against danger.
With the music filling the room, I would feel her build her stories around my neck through the pearl necklace, tying each pearl together with the smoke of her cigarette and melting the clasp in the back to hold it tight with her warmth. And though she's far, her pearls stem from her heart to my neck. She's always only a necklace away.
Standing in Aziz's room, to the left of the balcony window, in an old wooden closet with two doors that open outward, she kept the few belongings she had. She opened the right closet door on one of those lazy afternoons when everyone was laying down, fast asleep in some corner of the house. I sat on the ground, my back against the wall facing the closet.
I love watching her. There is a warmth in her soul, a fire that has lasted through the worst. Women of her strength tend to tuck their flames in the farthest corners of her heart, away from view. But my aunt has used her strength to build up her fire. It is her warmth that keeps her company and gives her solace.
As she reached into her closet, she pulled out her necklace, and I told her that they were beautiful.
"You can have it if you like it. I don't wear it," she said with a smile on her face.
I was drawn to them. I felt like she was giving me a part of herself. So I held them between my fingers and placed them against my neck.
"They're not real, but they're nice," she said not realizing that I thought they were beautiful because they had once been placed around her neck, and not because of their physical appearance as pearls.
I held them between my fingers and told her that when I wear them, I'll think of her.
Two night ago I wore the pearl necklace around my neck to a concert, and I felt her there beside me. Moments when the music filled up the room, and lifted my mind through the curls and spins of its sounds, I would see her sitting in front of me lighting a cigarette while laughing and saying "Shokoofeh, cigarettes are bad for you," just as she set it against her lips and took in a breath. I would see her standing in the kitchen pouring herself a cup of tea, or getting ready to leave the house.
But most of all, I would see her telling stories with all of us sitting around her. Stories of her students who would outsmart her, of her walks home from work in Dubai. Stories from her childhood during the revolution, or the power of her sixth sense to warn her against danger.
With the music filling the room, I would feel her build her stories around my neck through the pearl necklace, tying each pearl together with the smoke of her cigarette and melting the clasp in the back to hold it tight with her warmth. And though she's far, her pearls stem from her heart to my neck. She's always only a necklace away.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
My Clan of Crazies
It's that time of year again when the libraries begin to fill. Students stride past the doors with heavy backpacks, thermoses filled with the highest levels of caffeine hidden at their sides as they quickly walk past the front desk, and minds filled with facts that need to be ingrained before the nights end. It's this time of year when I begin to steer as far away from the library as possible.
I love the library during the early weeks in the semester, when students go there with merely the intention to study, and since no tests exist in the near future to gauge their understanding of the hours spent in the library, they find a place at a table and open their books, hold their pens between their fingers, simply to feel studious for the time being.
It's during these times when tables of students suddenly giggle in whispers, and lovers sneak glances and hold hands under the table, friends write notes to each other, students walk aimlessly through the books picking and choosing whatever sounds interesting.
Unfortunately these times are short, for conditions change way to soon, and tables begin to fill with students whose bottoms are chained to the edge of their seats, whose elbows are glued to the edge of the table, and whose books are nailed to the wooden surfaces.
Though I try to steer away from the library during these days, I occasionally step in--waiting. Waiting for someone brave enough and strong enough to unlock a few of those chains and make a table of students jump quietly in their seat with laughter.
Perhaps I'll recruit a team myself. I'll recruit a team of students who will step in every four hours or so--some sort of disruptive clan of crazies-- who will sit at tables "in disguise" and randomly burst into uncontrollable laughter for a whole minute before calming down. I'm sure it'll force a few smiles to creep up on people's faces and that alone is enough to tickle and shake up this heavy, morbid vibe.
I love the library during the early weeks in the semester, when students go there with merely the intention to study, and since no tests exist in the near future to gauge their understanding of the hours spent in the library, they find a place at a table and open their books, hold their pens between their fingers, simply to feel studious for the time being.
It's during these times when tables of students suddenly giggle in whispers, and lovers sneak glances and hold hands under the table, friends write notes to each other, students walk aimlessly through the books picking and choosing whatever sounds interesting.
Unfortunately these times are short, for conditions change way to soon, and tables begin to fill with students whose bottoms are chained to the edge of their seats, whose elbows are glued to the edge of the table, and whose books are nailed to the wooden surfaces.
Though I try to steer away from the library during these days, I occasionally step in--waiting. Waiting for someone brave enough and strong enough to unlock a few of those chains and make a table of students jump quietly in their seat with laughter.
Perhaps I'll recruit a team myself. I'll recruit a team of students who will step in every four hours or so--some sort of disruptive clan of crazies-- who will sit at tables "in disguise" and randomly burst into uncontrollable laughter for a whole minute before calming down. I'm sure it'll force a few smiles to creep up on people's faces and that alone is enough to tickle and shake up this heavy, morbid vibe.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
"The Secret"
They say that the "secret" to life is the law of attraction. It's to understand that every thought you have has a frequency; positive thoughts translate to larger frequencies, and negative thoughts to smaller frequencies. And every "thought" attracts the "thing" it is made of. Ultimately, your life's thoughts are manifested in the world around you.
Today, I started thinking about this phenomenon again. It crosses my mind every few days. It's hard for me to accept it. Not because I don't believe in the energy of thoughts, but because to accept it would be to accept that every inward pain I've ever felt, I've brought upon myself. Friendships that have crippled my soul and left me to dust, moments of weakness that have made me ashamed, tears I've brought to the eyes of those I love- to accept "the secret" would mean to accept that these have all been my doing. And usually, thinking about this part of the "secret" results in me setting it aside for a different day.
Today was different.
Today I thought that to accept the fact that my thoughts have attracted my realities would mean that making my mother smile on her birthday, feeling love, being talented, seeing the peace of the world more than the pain-- these would be all my doing. That my heart had brought the people who I love into my life.
I finally came to a conclusion about "the secret," and can cross it off my list.
Even though there's no way to prove its truth, no way to carve out numbers or facts or statistics or reactions...it can train my mind and heart to think of love over pain and talent over failure. I don't think that will be all too bad.
And since I've accepted it, I try it on pretty much everything- including scenic routes in movies, and pictures of houses with wooden floors and bay windows that let in a lot of light.
I'll let you know if they come my way ;)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_b1GKGWJbE8
Today, I started thinking about this phenomenon again. It crosses my mind every few days. It's hard for me to accept it. Not because I don't believe in the energy of thoughts, but because to accept it would be to accept that every inward pain I've ever felt, I've brought upon myself. Friendships that have crippled my soul and left me to dust, moments of weakness that have made me ashamed, tears I've brought to the eyes of those I love- to accept "the secret" would mean to accept that these have all been my doing. And usually, thinking about this part of the "secret" results in me setting it aside for a different day.
Today was different.
Today I thought that to accept the fact that my thoughts have attracted my realities would mean that making my mother smile on her birthday, feeling love, being talented, seeing the peace of the world more than the pain-- these would be all my doing. That my heart had brought the people who I love into my life.
I finally came to a conclusion about "the secret," and can cross it off my list.
Even though there's no way to prove its truth, no way to carve out numbers or facts or statistics or reactions...it can train my mind and heart to think of love over pain and talent over failure. I don't think that will be all too bad.
And since I've accepted it, I try it on pretty much everything- including scenic routes in movies, and pictures of houses with wooden floors and bay windows that let in a lot of light.
I'll let you know if they come my way ;)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_b1GKGWJbE8
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Pieces of my Playground...
Recesses with my forehead against the concrete wall near my class, and my hands on my head. Time out they would call it. I spent enough of my fifteen minute recesses against this wall, at some point teachers gave up on supervision and attended to better and bigger things. It was in these moments that my classmates would all gather around seeping into the normally-dreaded corner, and filling it with sounds of laughter. Scraping pieces of tanbark against the ground making stars and circles, I’d promise them that tomorrow I’d behave and we’d be in the sandpit instead of on the dark concrete next to the room we just came out of.
Shaka put Laila’s eraser into his mouth during recess and left it wet and slimy on her desk for when she came back. We decided that a decent punishment would be to go to a far off corner of our elementary school playground and dig a hole, deep like a well, fill it up with muddy water, cover the top with sticks and leaves and call him over with some excuse, watch him stand and fall in and then tell him that he should never put a girl's eraser into his mouth again. We never finished it. In fact, before we were able to avenge Laila’s eraser, all our feet had fallen into the mud hold at least once. Our deep avenging powerful well was left at a small dent in the ground.
Lunch times consisted of all of us making a massive circle, one of us standing in the center turning round and round. Cut the cake, cut the cake, lay the pieces nice and straight. From kindergarteners to fifth graders—all forty of us singing in perfect unison. Chasing each other round and round and round the circle till we tired.
I’d sit in the sand pit, and stretch out my hand, and, just as I promised, would let her practice her henna patterns. Only I never had the patience to hold my hand in empty space for much longer than five minutes. There’s too much to attend to in a playground…
…especially when you’re trying to find a way to get into the older grades’ secret clubhouses. Their clubhouse was built under the only tree. Their clubhouse with spare tires (ruins from our inner city surroundings) as walls, spare pieces of wood as tiles, and a nail against a tree for a framed picture.
Kickball, States, Hopscotch, Clap games.
These are my playground memories.
And now I’m twenty, and our schools no longer have playgrounds.
Twenty where the schedule doesn’t carve out a fifteen minute block in your day, commanding you to play, where no one sees a piece of chalk against a blackboard and thinks to grab it and draw out a large hopscotch grid against the cement, where you can no longer dig through the mud with high aspirations of playful revenge.
And yet, I’ve managed to keep my playground. I keep it, with its spare tires, cement, and sand. I keep it all, with its hopscotch, and mud and kickball fields in my head. It’s perfectly intact. It’s quite a fun place only I’m the only one throwing stones against my boxes, and my balls only bounce as they leave my fingertips, and the cement corners are only filled with my laughter.
So here I am extracting my clubhouse from the corners and boxes of my mind, and extending a hand. Asking you to bounce me the ball back. Hold my hand and make a circle. Run around as we call states. Kick the ball when it comes your way. Chase me to the swings. Draw henna on my hand. Spit on my eraser. Keep me out of the secret clubhouse. Send me off to corners.
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