The Granny Smith apple core at the edge of a coffee saucer

The single carnation set to balance on the edge of the English Department’s bike rack

The old man whose slowly biking his way down Broad St. whistling a tune I can’t recognize

The old woman whose taking a break from weeding at the edge of her vegetable box

the single star that’s somehow fought its way out from under the clouds to show itself off in the cube of sky my window holds

chocolate sprinkled across a cappuccino

the touch of another human being against my shoulder, on a crowded sofa, in the palm of my hand

Every time I read Sohrab Sepehri’s poems I’m awed by his ability to  notice such fine threads of vibrancy in life’s tapestry, but I think this week I’ve learned: It’s only when the flame inside you is so weak that the smallest rush of cold breath could put it, that you burn through every potential piece of warmth.

I’ve realized since coming to Oxford that my writing process is considered quite strange. I often go through at least three to four full drafts of work before I start to think about grammar, word choice and all those juicy details. In fact, my first draft is a ‘free-write’ of everything I think on the topic I’m writing about. As strange as my process is, it means that I usually have a full draft before most of my colleagues , though my first draft will probably require far greater editing/rewriting than their first draft. But I find this ‘free-write’ process not only incredibly enjoyable, but also essential. All students in the humanities know that you don’t REALLY know what you’re really even striving to say until you’ve finished the final sentence of your first draft. To write the first draft, I usually put on good music and then just start writing with the rule that I can’t stop for a good two hours and by then I will have all my ideas out in some sort of logical order.  Once it’s over, I’m exhausted. Try writing for even ten minutes non-stop. It’s not easy. It demands a state of intense concentration. But there’s a thrill. It has speed. It has drive. It takes on a power of its own. Soon you find yourself sitting behind the wheel, just taking it in, enjoying the ride, the view, only occasionally making a move to make sure that words don't jut out too far from the lane.

But this time it’s different. I can’t start. I just don’t have the energy right now. I started out in the library, and couldn’t get through a paragraph. Now I’m sitting in a coffee shop, an Americano and vanilla pastry later, I’ve barely moved through a page without stopping from mental weariness. How will I ever turn this in by tomorrow? Everything in my life has become so exhausting. I’m climbing to get to the top of a slide, and with every step I’m finding that the ladder is getting taller and taller.

Nests & Things

If I was asked what animal I would like to be, I would say bird (at least this week, I would). Not because they can fly (to me, running is like flying).But because the nest I saw yesterday, on the branch of the tree painted in autumn’s shades of red, yellow and orange, nestled in the walkway between my college and my department building, was very messy. The nest was disheveled. It had bits of branches sticking out of its sides. It had pieces of yarn, and paper candy wrappers, and even a bit of cloth poking out its sides. It was messy and disorganized, and yet perfect in every way because I knew that the bird who had built it earlier in the Spring loved it. Not only was it just enough for her, but it was where she fluffed out warmth to her eggs. It was where she taught her babies to fly and watched them learn to swallow.

And yet, she left it. She flew away and left the home with all of its woven memories. Wherever she is, she knows that the autumn that’s easing into winter will unravel her home and all its branches will fall to the earth.

But she doesn’t mind. When it’s time again, she’ll build another. Maybe again on this tree. Maybe one in a walkway that gets more sun. Maybe, not even in Oxford.

Last night when I got home, I rolled up my sleeves put on thick washing gloves and cleaned the bathroom, kitchen and my bedroom. Once all the loose paper in my room was in ‘neat’ piles across my desk, and my clothes were all hidden in one way or another in the closet or in my drawers, I knew I was ready. I put my backpack in the center of the room. I reached in and pulled out what I’d been thinking about all day—the two big pomegranates I had bought from the small market. I placed each of them on my bookshelf, nestled between my favorite novels and the photos of Mehdi and my sister. And then I stood back. Yes, this home is ready for the weekend.

This morning I woke up and noticed my crooked ceiling lamp. The broken fridge irritated me. The water in the shower that’s either burning hot or freezing cold annoyed me. The desk chair with its broken back nearly drove me mad. The lamp shade that’s dislodged and wobbles dramatically from one side to another….

There is so much I must learn from birds. 

Walls at their breaking point

In the middle of our complex lesson on Attached Pronouns in Classical Arabic, our tutor slipped in a short aside on the “guarding alif.” The alif that appears in perfect plural verbs. It’s not read. It’s silent. It just stands there like a wall, he said, as he drew a sharp, vertical line down on the white board. It stands there to let you know that this word ends here. And its stays there. Well, that is until we need to attach a pronoun or something to it. With a swipe of his thumb, he obliterated the guarding alif and gave it ownership.  

Last night I came home from Paris. I’d spent three days talking incessantly to one of my dearest friends. When I rode to the airport on Friday, I felt like I was scrambling out of Oxford for a breath of fresh air. Last night, when I returned, I climbed up the three sets of stairs to my attic room. I opened the door and felt the rush of iced breeze. My radiator had been off for the length of my three day trip, and steeping into my room felt like stepping into a freezer. The central heat was off for the night. I changed and slipped under my duck feathered duvet, and pulled another blanket over myself. The air was so cold that my forehead was starting to pound. I shut my eyes, and while I was so exhausted, the freeze in my nose was so alarming I couldn’t sleep. I spent hours going back and forth between suffocating under my blanket and bringing my head out only to freeze. The night passed. I woke up with the headache I’ve had all day. Sleeping in cold isn’t unfamiliar. I do it often, only not in a room with walls. I sleep in the cold when I’m in the mountains, when I’m near the highest peak in mainland America, when I’m at the edge of the Sierra lakes. I take the cold as a gift from the star ceiling over my head. But in this room, in this house, in this city that is defined by its medieval walls, this air was painful.

This headache has been a lens. Everything I’ve done today, touched today, I’ve seen and read and experienced through this headache and the story that came with it. I’m immersed in a world of invisible walls: my hard book cover, the gloves that protect my fingers from the slashing breeze as I ride my bike, exhaustion, the locked café doors.

I’m reading a book about ultrarunners, people who never ran a day in their life, who become proof of man’s unlimited and boundless capabilities by running hundreds of miles in unimaginable natural terrain. They break every physical, mental, and emotional boundary we think exists. I’m close to the finish line, only 20 pages left to read, and I can’t decide if this book has been uplifting or miserable. Because every time I’m confronted with such inspiration, with people who break every link in their chain, I’m upset by how bounded I feel. Knowing what we can achieve and knowing how to achieve it are different from actually believing you, yourself are capable of it.

Walls are as easy to bring down as they are to build. I’ve realized this even more from this painful and stubborn headache. It’s not the swipe of the finger that really matters, but what we attach ourselves to once we’re standing in the vast boundless openness before us that gives it meaning. 

There is such an unsettling silence without him. I never realized how accustomed I've grown to having someone always present in my space. The strange thing is that I love solitude, or so I thought. It isn't that I no longer love solitude. It's that I've realized that I like the solitude that comes by choice. I like pulling away from it all, but I like to keep him close. I don't expect us to talk when we're in the same space. We don't have to do anything. Just as long as he's there, as long as he's in my space.
He's so far.
This time difference is brutal.
Why am I here?

Yosemite Backpacking Glen Aulin

Mehdi and I have decided to start writing down our backpacking experiences, so that we can remember the details of the places we're going. At first I thought of starting a new blog, but then considering the number of un-contributed to blogs that I've started, I decided to just write them down in here.

I'm going to start with our most recent trip. 

To backpack in Yosemite, one needs to either be very organized and a plan far ahead, or be willing to endure a series of strenuous early hour-long wait sequences. We, of course are far from organized, so to obtain a backpacking permit for our chosen "Glen Aulin" trail, we had to stand in line the day before. 

Mehdi and I left for Yosemite around 2pm July 25th and arrived at the park's gates around 5pm. Our backpacking permit pick-up location was one the other side of the park at Tuolumne Meadows. From the entrance to Tuolumne Meadows is about 1.5 hours. Once there, we went to the closest campgrounds and realized they were all packed full. We had heard that in order to successfully obtain a permit, people stand in line form 3am. To make sure that we had an opportunity to get the permit, we decided to spend the night in the car and hit the line at the break of dawn. The car was surprisingly comfortable, once all the food was stowed in the bear boxes and the chairs were brought down, the sleeping mats were laid out, the sleeping bags unrolled and Mehdi's position confirmed so that his long legs would be comfortable. 

Our alarm went off at 5:30, and we jumped out of the car with our jetboil, tea bags, biscuits and two mugs to stand in line. We were first! I sat on the rock right behind the sign that read "The Line Starts Here." Almost instantaneously, several other groups came out of their car and stood in line. The Tuolumne permit office didn't start giving out permits for the next day until 11am, so safe to say all of us in line ended up becoming pretty good friends by the end. 

Once we had our permit, we headed over to the backpacking base camp and reserved a campsite, and then went and explored Yosemite Valley. It was Mehdi's first time. It was also our anniversary! And we searched for a nice place to eat lunch, and escape the heat and couldn't find anywhere but the crowded food court with frozen burgers. :-) 

The backpacking base camp was very cozy and crowded. Our site alone had at least 4 parties camping in it, but everyone was really friendly. We met a young man who was doing the entire John Muir Trail in 11 days for his fourth time! Quite the inspiration. 

At 7:30am the next day, we met my mom and Milad at Tenaya Lake. We parked one car there and all drove in the other car to the Glen Aulin trail head. After putting all food goodies in the bear boxes at the trail head and adjusting our bags we started on the trail at 9:00am. 

The trail was about 6.5 miles. It was gorgeous, stunning, and not difficult at all. It was mostly flat with a few downhill stretches. The trail rain along limpid waters and across large granite surfaces. If it weren't for the stacked rocks, we would have surely lost our way. At about 3 hours, we got to the sign marking Glen Aulin, and it was another .3 to High Sierra base camp. We walked for another 20 minutes before we were welcomed by a wide, but short waterfall running into a dark blue and green swimming hole. 

We crossed two bridges over the water and then entered High Sierra camp. High Sierra camp has a store and several tent lodges. You have to walk past the lined tents and the dinky store before getting into the backpacking campground. We picked an amazing campsite farther away and more elevated. 

A note of caution: Bear boxes are only located near High Sierra Camp. There is only two and they are incredibly fetid and disgusting. We were very happy that we had brought our own bear canisters, (one for every two of us). 

Our first night was incredible. My mom and Milad took a nap since they had been driving from 2am, but I couldn't resist. I wore my swim pants, and went right down to the waterfall. The water was so much warmer than I expected. It was so refreshing and calming to swim in natural waters. Mehdi came along, he waded up to his knees and took photos. We made a cup of tea, as I shivered from the cool breeze on my wet clothes, before making our way back to camp. After changing and drying off, I woke up my mom and Milad and we made coffee and tea and snacked on dried fruits under the sun on a large piece of granite, secluded from any other group. Afterwards, I followed my mom down to the brook using the small path we had in our campsite. And in less than 10 minutes we were both in the water. We tempted Milad in, as well. 

On Saturday, we day hiked to the "Water Wheels." It was only 3.5 miles, but a steep downhill in one direction. We found a magical place to sit and eat lunch right at the edge of the Water Wheels. Our hike back was an intense climb in striking, draining heat. But once we returned, we stopped at the Glen Aulin falls and all went in for a swim. I was so happy that I seized the moment and swam yesterday, because on Sunday the water felt far far colder. 

On Sunday, we woke up at 7:00, ate a delicious breakfast of oatmeal and peanut butter and then backed up. We were taking a different route back, that began at the same place that marked the "Glen Aulin" location and "High Sierra Camp .3 mi." It went past Murphy Creek and came out at Tenaya Lake. The pros of this trail was that it offered variation in scenery. It moved through forests rather than large open spaces of granite. For this reason, it also offered a cool shade. But it was filled with mosquitos. We could barely sit for a water break without feeling at least two pinch at our legs or necks. It was also relatively flat. We made it back in 4 hours, drove back with the car parked at Tenaya Lake, picked up our goodies from the bear box, returned the bear canisters to Tuoloumne Meadows and began the four hour drive home (with a stop for a hearty pizza lunch, and iced coffee). 

There's a rainstorm/windstorm/thunderstorm in the middle of June. It's kind of miserable for us, sitting inside, staring at computers, withstanding the grueling process of editing dissertations. But the trees--the trees' leaves and branches look like they're swinging, headbanging, turning, dancing. Their trunks like the strong, defined arms of a dance partner. The grass shivers, as if its giggling.
How genuinely nice it must be for the rain to feel so appreciated, so needed. What a reward for such a responsibility.