My Books

I have unpacked most of my books and music. Something about their sitting in those dark tight boxes was bothering me. I set them free, dusted them, and put them on the shelves with love, looking at every one of them, looking inside for reminisces of where, when, and how they came to be mine, reflecting on hand-written notes of my friends and family, and in some cases, the author him/herself. I love my books. I once had a large library which I had put together for 20 years. It was entirely lost (to me) in 1996 under unmentionable circumstances. I have re-built this small library now since 1997. When I was leaving Tehran, I brought them all with me, because I couldn’t imagine living without them. As I put all the poetry books together, I took time to read poems of Moshiri, Shafiee Kadkani, and of course, making a wish, my Hafez. I was just standing there with the dusting rag on my shoulder and a silly grin on my face, looking at my books and thinking how very rich I feel because I have books! The most important assets in life, I am continually reminded, are the ones that are free or not very expensive. My books helped last night to begin turning my house into my home. I am lucky, indeed.

These books are actually my books on my table at work. I couldn't find the camera to take a picture of the shelves at home last night! The Hafez book is calligraphed by Ostad Mehdi Fallah, who not only is a Farsi calligraphy artist, but also a gifted musician, and an exceptional individual.

Where Are My Shoes?

I can’t find anything. My kids can’t find anything, either. Their dilemma is understandable—they didn’t pack anything. My dilemma is three-fold, because I packed for three people and now I don’t know where anything is. I wore strange clothes to work today. Tomorrow isn’t going to be that much better, either. I should have taken this week off work. I need a vacation; that is what I need. But I won’t be able to pack for a vacation, because I don’t know where anything is. I’m crabby.

My Iranian Mona Lisa

So, O.K. She is not as pretty as Mona Lisa, but could Mona Lisa play music? This one quite obviously could, AND, to look at da Vinci’s Mona Lisa I will have to travel to The Louvre, but this one, she lives with me! Of course like many other Ghajar era painters, the anonymous painter didn’t know how to implement perspective in his painting, so my Mona Lisa looks like she is playing her Dayereh inside out! But that’s O.K. She stays just the same! I can’t wait to put her up on the wall.

Mementoes

I have officially moved to a new home! More than relocation, the past few days had an amazing amount of reflection time for me. I came face to face with many memories, some of which made me happy, like running into my son’s baby book, complete with his first lock of hair from his first trip to the barber. I found the little baby outfit in which I had taken my younger son home from the hospital when he was born. I found my college graduation tassel, which says “Class of 1983!” I found things you won’t believe and I have every intention of taking pictures of them and putting them here for you to see, like my childhood stamp collection and LP’s from my teenage years!

But I also found old photographs and mementos of a man I once loved, things that I had buried in corners of my closet and drawers, only for me to know and see. Love letters, pictures, a beautiful pen, maps of places we had visited together, silly mementos from those trips which only made sense to us, like a newspaper clipping of an Italian newspaper with just the date on it, business card of a tea house in Vienna, or a book bought in an Iranian province where they stamped the inside of the books with the bookshop’s name and date when they sold you the book, and a brief note on a hotel stationery, announcing brightly: “Good Morning. I love you. I’ll be back in 45 minutes.” Memories flooded and engulfed me for a while there, stopping work and thinking.

You know, just as it is hard to imagine my 6’4” son in those baby clothes anymore, it is also hard to imagine and remember the man and woman in those pictures. The thing to remember about memories and mementoes is that in time, they remind you not necessarily of a person or a place, but of a feeling of joy, love, and excitement that was present when those events took place. My mementoes are not of that man any more, but of the love that once existed, beautiful and bold and real, but which ended a long time ago.

Anyhow, I reflected and worked hard, and I’m ready to relax now! I was listening to a John Lennon CD this weekend. The song I absolutely love is called “Nobody Told Me” possibly the last song John Lennon ever sang. I listened and sang along and worked with that CD all through packing and unpacking. The funny thing is that when I came in to check on the Comcast guy’s progress, he had his back to me and I saw him moving his hips to the tune of the song! That was hilarious. I quietly left the room.

Watch the video clip here.

Moving......

12:00 Noon Today

Packing Begins......

The last time I packed boxes and suitcases, I was crying. I was reflecting on my long journey through life, packing boxes and suitcases for the past 28 years. Moving out of my parents’ house, moving to America, moving to Iran, moving back to America, moving back to Iran, moving back to America, moving back to Iran, and finally moving back to America, packing, leaving, crying. When I arrived at my sister’s house last year, I was thinking how tired I was of moving, moving, and moving, and never really arriving to stay for good. I reflected that everything in life gets better with practice; that you get used to everything. The only thing you never get used to, the only thing that the more you do, the worse you get at it, and the less you want to try it again, is saying good-bye. Each time it gets harder, because by now you are familiar with the pain that awaits you, loneliness, homesickness (wherever that home was), missing your family, missing your friends, missing the places and people you left behind. Over the past year, I have missed Tehran so much. It was a hometown I got to know again--on a very intimate level this time. I miss the afternoons of Tehran. In winter I miss the trays of piping hot red beets (laboo) on street corners. In spring I miss the green baby almonds (chaghaleh), and the gorgeous sweet fresh white berries (toot sefid) which come around in June, displayed in huge, heaping trays everywhere. I miss seeing the hundreds of happy families going for an evening picnic in Park-e-Mellat, carrying their food, their carpet, and their badminton sets. I miss the smug-ridden town, offering the deafening sound of honking horns on a constant basis. I miss the grid-locked traffic, where each car you pass has a group of young men and women in it, playing different kinds of loud music, talking in an animated fashion, and laughing. I miss the smell of nazri food, a gorgeous bowl of beautifully decorated sholeh zard. I remember when we were children, people offered this food to us in real white bowls with red-rose (gol-e-sorkhi) pattern. My mother always had us deliver the bowls to their owners with a red rose from our garden in it. Ah, the smell of those velvet roses and their nearby Persian Jasmines still have me drunk with memories of a childhood which was nothing short of perfect. I miss all traditions that make Tehran my hometown. I miss the vendors who, as you got ready to pay for your purchase, offered whole-heartedly, “mehman bashid,” be my guest. I have the boxes and the wrapping material ready. I’m sitting here looking at them. This time when I move, I won’t cry. I am going to a beautiful new home, a home that will have room for all of us to be and do as we are accustomed. It has beautiful trees all-around, and you can see the green hills from its windows. It is a home for which I have waited for many years, maybe my whole life. My own home. I already know where around that home I will plant my pomegranate and fig trees, the ones that will bring prosperity to my Iranian home. I don’t cry this time. I now live in my old, new, hometown; a place of which I have many good memories, and freer and lighter than I have been in years, I have every intention of making many many new good memories here. I still miss my beautiful ugly Tehran, but I feel my city of childhood, love, and so many memories, has blessed me with good wishes for moving on, for building this new life. I pick up a piece of bubble wrap, and carefully wrap the first item. I am smiling.