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.

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.

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.

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?

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.