Ink of Love

And so, I'm going through a little bit of blues these past couple of days. I used to agonize over whether or not I should talk about my sad days. You know, some people may not expect to hear me nag or complain or just be plain sad! I think I'm past worrying about that, and when I'm sad I say I'm sad. I am a very ordinary woman, with my joys, fears, pains, and hopes. Some days are good and some days are bad for me, just like everyone else. I think the only difference between me and some other people is that I write about my life more than they do, so I take that responsibility seriously.

One of my young friends kindly criticized me recently, saying that I am always only talking about positive things, alluding to the fact that I might be making my life to sound "unreal" or "incomplete," for no life is perfect and devoid of pain. I told her that at my age and station in life, I have lived long enough to know that even on bad days, good days will definitely come my way again very soon, and that even the worst days of my life these days, cannot compare in intensity and pain to some days I experienced in my life not too long ago. I know the difference between temporary irritations and permanent miseries, and these days I have no permanent miseries in my life to complain about! Simple as that! I told my friend that when I was her age, I reacted to situations a lot more dramatically, but that I have learned to wait out the harder days with what good things I can find.

There have been things in my life which I didn't, couldn't, write about recently. I had some crises in some of my personal relationships which were very painful, bringing me feelings of anxiety, confusion, and betrayal. I felt writing about those feelings on a public medium wasn't in the best interest of the people involved, including myself, and would be unfair to all. I kept quiet during some pretty hard times, then. Was that "unreal?" I don't think so, because even on those days I could find something else to write about. A pen is a double-edged sword! It can do good and it can cause harm. Given a choice, I'd rather my humble pen write about hope, write about love, and write about things I find amusing and interesting and positive in life. I know I am capable of writing about powerful feelings of desertion, betrayal, and abuse, too. Those who know me a little better know that I also have personal stories which would fit into those categories quite comfortably. I don't want to talk about those stories, though. They may be a part of my life, but not all of it. I should like to think that my life is a lot bigger and better and more positive than those events. I truly believe that eyes covered in tears cannot have perfect vision, and pens which dabble in the ink of hate and rage and sorrow, cannot write good things. I write with the ink of love.

Photo by Mona Atashfaraz.

چون قلم اندر نوشتن می شتافت،چون به عشق آمد قلم بر خود شکافت

All The Women Inside of Me

There is a little girl, bright-eyed and hopeful, inside of me.

There is a young woman, with a brisk gait, a boisterous laughter, a pair of feet full of dance, and a deep curiosity about people and places never seen inside of me.

There is a sultry woman, a seductress, a mistress, a lover, full of knowing touches and promising glances and welcoming kisses, inside of me.

There is a giving mother, a nurturer, and a provider, inside of me.

There is a wise old woman, a teacher, a supporter, a leader, a shaper of future, inside of me.

There is a loving partner, a kind and devoted wife, inside of me.

I am all those woman and they are me.

When I look sexy, there is a little girl inside of me.

When I look like a little girl, I am a mother.

When I look young, I hold the wisdom of history in myself.

Never see me as only one of them. Never love only one of them. Never ignore the other women inside of me.

Just as you fall asleep, holding me to your chest, sweaty, content and satisfied, remember that tomorrow, the bright-eyed girl in me wants caring, the wise woman in me wants respect, the hard-working nurturer in me wants recognition, the young woman in me wants excitement, and the partner in me wants fairness.

And when you next run into that 30-, 40-, 50-, 60-year old woman in your neighborhood, look out for that little girl inside of her.

I know this writing is a little different from what you may have seen me write recently! Bear with me, as this is a part of a collection of scraps I have been writing over the past few months, keeping them to myself until I am brave enough to share! I hope it doesn't shock you too much. Do tell me what you think, as this is the first time I'm showing these writings anywhere. I thought I would share with my friends first. Have a beautiful Tuesday everyone!

Piles of Happiness

I am organizing myself, again! Papers, envelopes, bills, books, CD's, magazines, notes, and files are strewn all over the table, and I am painstakingly going through the disorganized mess on my dining table, trying to bring some kind of order to my madness! I am making some progress, feeling marginally accomplished. Now I have piles. Piles of bills. Pile of books. Piles of CD's. Piles of magazines. I am keeping at it. I have to finish this. The low-grade anxiety about neglected paperwork has been killing me. My older son comes home. I must look pathetic, as in an increasingly rare occurrence, he comes, hugs me, kisses me, and says some really sweet and wonderful words of greeting. He goes to watch basketball, his passion and joy. Immediately I hear him yell with glee for his favorite team in the TV room. I go back to my organization project. I move the stack of books to the bookshelf and put them back exactly where they should be, Hafez, Shams, Jibran, and Nima. I move the stack of CD to their containers and file them. I take the magazines into the other room. I come back and start on the paperwork. The table is already looking cleaner and tidier. I give myself an undeserved break, sipping my tea, and think: sometimes happiness is a clean dining table, some sealed and stamped envelopes containing paid bills, poetry books on a shelf, and a young man messing up the TV room again, as he roots for his favorite team.