I usually do this on my birthday, but missed that this year for an intersection of good reasons. This is my 49 year old face plus four months. This morning, I had to take care of a few things for an organization I work with; the rest of the day is mine and entirely open. So I have been doing my favourite things – I went for a run, and sauna, right after which I took this photo because I knew I wanted to write this piece.

I went to my record store and picked up four albums, amongst which is a ragtime banjo vinyl for $2.25 because you will never know if you’ll love the thing until you try the thing. I have a feeling this will be a summertime early evening record, TBD.

Tonight, I’m having dinner at the home of beloveds, surrounded by love and snuggles. I will be in bed early and heart-full. My weekend is one of molasses. I plan on seeing no one, baking all of the things, and keeping my lights off. Candles, only candles. Always candles. I’ll be listening to music, drawing, writing and sinking into a bath before bed both tomorrow and Sunday. Maybe I’ll watch a horror movie. Every night, I will be grateful.

G@za. This world. In this world. My heart is full. My heart is broken. My heart is so full, that she might explode if she experiences more love. My heart shatters every second of every day. And rebuilds herself to love again. I am wildly optimistic, and living a deep yearning every single day. I am multitudes; I am homesick. There is a new echo in my home, source known. I am terrified of it. And so I celebrate it, because what else is there to do but celebrate what I fear? Make love to it, turn it over slowly, quietly, inspect every part of it. Lay gentle hands to every part of her. Mouth lingering. Don’t break eye contact as I enter her. Does she taste like all of your dreams come true? You will never know if you love a thing until you experience the thing is a lie I tell myself. Our heart knows, but our mind exists in a logjam of terror when having to face the courage of our heart. In Islam, it is the heart (not the mind) which sees and knows Allah. It is why I allow my heart to lead.

Because. After the fear, the sun still comes up.

Because. Even while sad, the bird will still sing.

And I always find my way back to the quiet sunlit room.

We don’t know if my family’s homes are still standing in G@za. My uncle painted a beautiful piece of art work once, that has always lived in the living room of my grandparents’ home. As I fell asleep last night, I found myself wondering if it had burned to the ground, if it was buried beneath rubble, if it had been stolen. My heart broke apart. And then she rebuilt herself in gratitude for all of it.

Nearly a year after writing this, I can confirm that the painting is beneath rubble. Our home is gone, and I hope someone has dug through to pick up this stunning art.

Bloody knuckles against a necessary syllabus is where I live daily. It has brought out more softness in me than I ever imagined I could possess.

Softness. Softness. Softness. Tender loving. That’s all I need. Else I don’t know if this heart will rebuild after the next shattering.

Today I am grateful for my morning coffee, my record player, the arms that will hold me one day, and the hands that will touch this mouth. One day. Whomever he might be, whomever Allah has written into the stars for me; may he be safe and protected and healthy until that day. Happy 49th to my heart-full until then.

—————

Comments closed.