A piece of cloth

It was a Saturday evening, and she was surrounded by curiosities in all colors; red, blue, and yellow. And all other lights were out, except for the light coming from the tree, and the moonlight visiting from the window. Arrays of different aromas fluttered in the room, hot cocoa and cinnamon smells intertwined, sweetness that allured her heart, and then abandoned her, leaving behind a tingling lonely after taste.

Despite being wrapped in the warmth of having her family around, an ache in her arose; a groan resonated. She tried to distract her mind, joggling lame jokes and giggles, but she just couldn’t keep up. She flew from her seat, in an attempt to outpace her line of thoughts, what almost seemed like a deadly train that she unknowingly tripped across its railway, and now is fighting to escape the inevitable crash. She tried to rationalize how it was possible for someone to have those negative thoughts in the midst of so much beauty and life, in the day where she was supposed to celebrate the birth of a reason for her to hope in a better future, yet all what she could feel was emptiness. What could possibly be the lesson here, for she was accustomed to meditate amidst those heart wrenching moments, and find an escape to the maze of her own creation, but instead, there again was emptiness and grief.

She was grieving the future loss of family gatherings and this amount of beauty. She grieved her anticipated inadequacy to carry on the traditions, she grieved the possibility that she would not be able to carry the lineage of love and hope that she has experienced to another generation. And even if she could, how can she stich those faces, so that future generations could get to know their names and listen to their stories. She grieved death on earth; the course of time, and her unheard protests against it. She grieved the mortality of it all, her own skin, her humanity. She sensed the heaviness of her responsibility to pass on the same amount of love and acceptance that she has experienced in that room. How can she transform that which is momentary to something eternal, how can she despite her mortality leave an eternal legacy.kniting

”Annie, come honey ” her grandmother’s voice making its way from the kitchen’s window interrupted her thoughts, “Ma-mamita, something smells really good” glad to be interrupted she glided into the kitchen. Her dark eyes twinkling at the sight of her favorite pumpkin pie freshly served out of the oven and escorted to the table. Sitting on the edge of the couch, she stirred her tea unconsciously in recurring rounds, when grandma pressed on her hand, with a fixated gaze and then scooped her chin up “Tell me what’s wrong, child”, “Nothing mamita” anne stuttered forcing a smile. Her grandmother wasn’t fooled, but it was unlike her to winnow the grains, without an invitation, so she resorted back to her knitting. Anne relaxed her back on the couch, as she sipped her tea and ate her pie, watching as her grandmother hands danced from one knot to the other. With eloquent motions, a coordinated harmony, one needle received the yarn only to give it away to the other needle, . two knots… three knots and slowly a piece of cloth made an appearance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A slice of life

Took a shower, put my hair in rolls, trying to dry it out the natural way, fixed it with rollers waiting for the day to take its toll, clicking on the remote watching this and that. Because I am in the midst of enough crowd pleasing, enough trying to fit in, enough with straightening my hair, revolutionary phase. With a banner wrapped on my finger, an Arabic calligraphy that’s says I am enough the way I am, that says incomplete is ok, or more appalling that it is beautiful.

rollers sipping tea

In the midst of news about bombs and unsheltered children, wars and sickness, I rebel with my hair all rolled up and sipping my English tea. I rebel.

I am also preparing my future place, maneuvering my way through the mazes of design and fabric. I who didn’t have a say at where the cupboard goes in my own room, or which side of the room should I place my bed. Yet colors, designs, and materials and a life that I need to choose.

And a job that I chose, yet isn’t quite matching with who I think I am, I am stuck in between of what I want and where I am.

And friends, who’ve grown too busy, perhaps sipping their tea, clicking on the remote watching this and that.

And I ridicule the smallness of my life, and wonder how this life can lead up to change anything anywhere, when the smallness of my mess is too big for me to move an inch out of my bed today, laying all too heavy on my shoulders and on my heart.

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Hush.

Finally I’ve managed to sit down and face it. I am dead tired of Christianity, tired from all the quarrels arising from different schools of thought, tired of the propaganda, tired of the different phases, not that I am even still part of it, but just remembering it and looking back at it. Phases that only make me look back at myself with a motherly instinct that wants to hush that child, and embrace her childish and foolish ways.

One thing I did well, was being vulnerable all the way, and look where vulnerability has brought us?

But I do miss Christ. Terribly. I miss his words, and presence, I miss his friendship, I miss times of solitude and walks in the wilderness.

Hush perfection, hush pretense, hush comparison and achievement, hush revenge and give me Jesus.

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2014 in review

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,400 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 23 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

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Cause only you

When you look to the world with eyes of ingratitude
When whatever happens,its just not enough
Not enough for your heart to be satisfied
Not enough

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You long for the bridegroom who satisfies the soul
You long to impact the world with more than just words
You long to be heard
For your words to pierce through the darkness
And cast away lies and tears
To embrace that which is not whole
And with love and kindness draw it into the chambers of the king
Abba father in such a time as this
Come meet my heart

Old book and pen
For only you can satisfy my heart
And with only you does my days count
Let me write in the name of the king
Let me strive to find you in the night
Let us send decrees and love letters
To the broken and the deserted
To create the kingdom of love through attempted chapters and messed up drafts
Make me a writer of the heart of the king

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Pain

I repent from anytime I claimed that pain shapes us

It really doesn’t, not when its  intense and tragic

Not when it breaks your heart beyond repair

Not when the heart dies and no longer feels or hears

Pain has so many levels

And maybe on a specific  pain level , level 3 or 4 perhaps

You still got room to crawl to the lord and give him space

But I am speaking about the pain that shakes you to the core

Only to leave you feeling abandoned  in a vast dark space

Only to leave you unsure of who you were, what they were, and what it all stood for

To wake up feeling that the world is a dark gloomy place

That the search for god and one’s identity is too much of a hassle and too abstract

That theology and ideas you were once ready to give your life for are now lifeless

When your soul crumbles and wants to fall on a soft warm feather bed  that doesn’t have room to feel, think or be

Pain is unbearable

Hopelessness is too

It isolates you

And the only thing that saves you is grace lots of it

The grace of a friend that reaches out , assuring your heart that even if you are on an island ,boats are available 

The grace of a lover , who stays vulnerable and patient through it all

The grace of the familiar faces in the street , the police officer always standing waving with his hands to take the left opening like our lives depend on it, everyday.

The grace of that man who rushes to you after you park, to take his well deserved money

The grace of the office boy smile welcoming you to bravely live the day

The grace of the mundane and the usual

So you take it slow

You embrace your pain and learn to attend to it when it calls

Like a small child that needs to be pampered every once in a while

You sing it lullabies in hope that it sleeps

You don’t rush it, you let it be

And on an unexpected day

when bad news suddenly find their way to you

To break your heart once again

You realise you are not in an island anymore

And boars are available

And love is stronger than death

You take a deep breath , and you fall into him

You find the one who is acquainted with grief

You find the one whose nailed hands made a boat out of the cross

only to reach you and to reassure you , you are not in an island and boats are available.

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Uninspired out loud

I got the opportunity to write in one of my favourite blogs , but i haven’t been able to

They need an original piece and I am just not inspired

I’ve been waiting to get inspired to write something, but its not really happening

I wake up each day , drive to work , turn on worship songs to communicate  with the creator

Thats a progress which I am proud of

On the road of reconciliation I think ..slowly but surely I hope

But no, no inspiration

Not any

Just a piece of peace

I eventually arrive 

And type the word beauty on all different social media sites

In hope that i’ll see something that will leave me undone 

But i end up only feeling envious or hollow

I then hunt for an interesting article on some of my favourite blogs

I read, I sigh and thats about it

It has a temporary effect to watch beauty from afar

I remember cs lewis words

That we long to be part of beauty , we don’t only want to see it

We want to unite with it

In a way I want to be involved in beautifying things

I know that inspiration does not start from outside but from within

That its more about perspective than surroundings

But surely a walk by the ocean, the company of a great soul would help

Inspiration also comes in seasons of giving

I remember that often the times where I was mostly inspired

were the times that I was fully invested in giving

Wether it be giving time or heart

Maybe this culture of consumerism is ridiculously uninspiring

After all what is inspiring about enhancing one’s life

Maybe I am so caught up in improving my status

Socially, physically, financially

Maybe I should worry less about being inspired, and give more time, effort and money to enhance life of others.

Maybe I’ll start a challenge #100daysofgiving

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