Reflections on blessings

On my last blog post, I got the following comment:

WOW! You are so lucky! I wish I was that blessed... you got a husband that supported you through law school... and supports you through the book writing... AND... you live with some guy!! Rock on Girl!

I am going to go ahead and assume this person's intent was not to be sarcastic, or in any way bad intentioned, but this anonymous comment (and of course, they're always anonymous) disturbed me and I feel I must address it.

First, I don't take for granted that K is very supportive of my dreams and I appreciate it because I could not do any of this without his support. I am blessed, agreed. But to say "I wish I was that blessed" makes me cringe. Yes, I have blessings in my life. So do all of you. I also have my share of difficulties and struggles just like all of you. Some I have discussed outright on this blog, and some due to their extremely personal nature, I discuss vaguely. My outlook is a choice. I could bemoan the horrible economy and how difficult it is right now to find a job. I could cry to you about how we're no longer a dual income household and being home not bringing in a paycheck will surely be an adjustment. I could paint the image of my current situation in a very sad and deplorable light if I wanted to, but I don't. I don't because though it does not always come easy, I try to find the good in my life. I take this bad economic time, and the fact that I am burned out from a bad job, as an opportunity to work on my writing dream, instead of whining to you about how unfair life is.

While I do feel blessed, I believe this feeling is not so much as what I have but more so the choice I have made to appreciate my blessings. There are people with more than me who are far less happy, there are people with less than me who are far more happy. It's a choice. There are days I falter, there are days that hurt more than you will know, but overall I strive to maintain a good perspective on my world. With this blog I share with you a part of my life, but by no means does it mean that everything there is to know about my life is listed here. To my commenter, I pray for the same examination of your own life and for your happiness through the ability to choose to see the blessings you already possess.

On writing and its correlation with my blogging

If you read my blog when I was in law school you probably noticed I posted a whole lot more than I have been lately in the past year or so. There is a reason. You see, when in law school, while you spend a good deal of time in class, the majority of your time is spent studying, an optional (albeit highly encouraged) activity. To be fair, I studied a great deal but there is a magical thing about sitting down at the breakfast table to study: You suddenly remember the laundry piled up, the kitchen drawer, and you suddenly feel so darn creative. You just want to write and post and share your thoughts with the bloggy universe. Work kind of put a stop to that stream of consciousness blogging since I had to, you know, do my job, and when I got home between working on my novel, cooking, cleaning, reading, catching up with the guy I live with, I just didn't have the energy.

Now my job has ended and I am sitting at the breakfast table ready to work on my novel. The laundry is shaking its condescending little head, the fridge is asking me have you cleaned me this week? In short, I am the horse whisperer, except to kitchen appliances and the like. I am blocking out all those noises and I'm sitting at the kitchen table, ready to begin writing again. Ready to begin the query letter process, and get this book out of my computer and into the wide world of rejection and hopefully success. Why do I share this? Because this means ofcourse, I will be blogging a whole lot more.

Three Beautiful Things Thursday

1. Today a police car approached a four-way stop sign the same time I did. He went first and I drove behind him. He turned left, and I had to turn left. Then we both turned right. I ended up following him for four miles. I am so grateful I let him go first because I would have been super paranoid had a cop been following my every turn for four miles. I'm a law abiding citizen but a cop trailing my car makes me feel like I'm on the lark with a pack of koala bears stuffed in my trunk.

2. My Arkansas Family. We went to visit K's mamus labor day weekend and I had one of the best hangouts of my life. They are hilarious and I loved the constant back and forth teasing and the genuine warmth and affection that remained ever present in every interaction. Amen, if you're reading, it was so nice to get to know you better. You're an amazing person!

3. Walking with K in the evening and taking in the scent of jasmine in the air while cold wind gently whispers through my hair and cools my skin. In a moment like that it is impossible to feel anything but peace.

Inching Closer to the dream 090909

When I was president of my MSA a young man [let's call him Bobbullah] attended our board meetings with his visions for MSA. Daily Dawah tables! Large fund raising banquets with nasheed bands! Iftaar served daily on campus! Prominent speakers flying in to talk! He presented these ideas with a smug grin as he reclined in his seat with arms folded. One day I turned to him Great ideas! I said, I'm going to put you in charge of these things. His smile vanished. He looked at me confused. I know you're passionate about these ideas so please get to work and organize whoever is interested to help you. You have our approval.

We never saw Bobullah again.

My job ends today, 9-9-09, and I dreamed of this day for a good six months. Sitting in yet another meeting I daydreamed of figuring out the perfect word for the query letter. 090909 felt so far away. I can't believe its here. I can't believe the next time someone asks me what I do, I won't have a ready answer. People tell me to say I'm a writer. But its intimidating to voice this aloud.

Today I feel a bit like Bobullah. Grand schemes, beautiful dreams but now its time to do it. It's frightening to try to actualize your dreams because there are no guarantees. Hard work does not mean you'll succeed, but when I applied for dream job, only 48 hours to go in the application process I wondered if it was worth it when a friend said to me: If you try you're not guaranteed to win, but if you don't try you are guaranteed to lose. And its with this mantra in mind I go forward.

Each day I’m struck by life and how deceptive it is. Each day feels much like the last, lulling us into a false sense of security that nothing will change but before we know it nothing is the same, we just weren’t present to watch the season change. I must remind myself that each day I put off my writing for the next day is a day I won't get back. Each minute leads to the next hour, each hour on each day, and each day on the weeks and months and years to come. Each block, a building block of life, precious time I will never get back. Starting Monday, the new working life of Aisha begins. Not all of this is going to be in my hands but I will do the best with the part of it that is. Let us see what it will bring. I hope it will be good things.

Cordova- the loneliness that spans centuries

The birthplace of the Islamic Empire in Spain sprung from Cordova. The streets are narrow with white washed buildings with flowers draped over the window edges. The city is so well preserved you can stand by the Jewish Quarters and look at the synagogue and feel as though any minute now Maimonides in a dark black robe will walk by, book in hand, lost in thought. It felt bittersweet to see the Grand Mosque of Cordova. I stood inside the red and white arched building and stared at the intricate calligraphic Arabic etched into the green dome and yet I could not ignore the voice in a low baritone echoing through the loud speakers as the priest stood in the center giving mass.

Cordova made me think most of Abdul-Rahman I. For it was him, lost and confused who wandered in exile to Al-Andalus and became the leader of one of the longest standing empires of all time. Despite his great successes, the mosques he built, and the power he wielded, he remained lonely for his people and nostalgic for his home of the middle east, and the date palms, and the sandy desert floor. Chancing upon a palm tree he wrote a poem:

A palm tree stands in the middle of Rusafa,
Born in the West, far from the land of palms.
I said to it: How like me you are, far away and in exile,
In long separation from family and friends.
You have sprung from soil in which you are a stranger,
And I like you, am far from home.

As a left over from the days when Muslims and Jews were exiled or forced to convert, Spanish food remains filled with pork of all variety. I've read converts were tested by being observed at how they ate the pork filled products. Did they shudder, or turn pale? If so surely they were lying about conversion and were either kicked out or killed. Due to the lack of edible food K and I wandered the streets one evening in Cordova looking for a gyro stand to eat from. At last, around 10pm, we came across one, Kebob Cafe. Looking up from the menu we were startled to see two Pakistanis behind the counter, their foreheads dripping with sweat, white aprons tied around their waists, staring back at us.

We sat down to eat and one of them, Ahmed, brought us our food. He spoke Punjabi, he told us he was from Lahore. His eyes lit up as he wiped his forehead and shared about his family back home. Do you like it here? I asked him. His expression changed and he looked down at the floor, a small smile on his lips but his eyes now unreadable. It doesn't matter if I like it or not. I have to feed my family and they need money. Working here, I can make money. I don't think too much about what I like or don't like. I hope one day I will be able to go back home.

I felt struck by the universality of Abdul-Rahman's longing. Centuries later Ahmed toils in an airless shop selling gyros to tourists. His longing is real and cuts through this European city filled with Masjids and memories of the past created by a man who too felt the cutting edge of loneliness. These men lived centuries apart in very different circumstances but both arrived in this same city due to a need to survive. I hope unlike Abdul Rahman, who died without ever seeing his home again, that one day Ahmed will be able to return home.