She’s one of the closest sisters I have. Fifteen years ago when Sophia was born, I asked if she would raise her to call me Khalto which is the Arabic word for matrilineal aunt. Garnet was her second and he too calls me Khalto.We met in Uni, Aalya a barkeep at the graduate pub on campus where most of my time was spent for two years.

Instant love between us. Safety and honesty immeasurable. For near thirty years when either of us needed a reality check delivered either with compassion or without the gloves, we’ve known where to turn. No matter how painful the truth might be, we’ve always understood it’s coming from a person who is fully and completely in love with us, and whose only intention is for us to heal with authenticity and responsibility.

(How else is your world going to transmute if you’re never responsible for where you are today, my darling and daring reader?)

This is us throughout the years.

Of all of my beloveds, Aalya is the only one who has always been able to look at my behaviours, my stories, my intentions, and cut right to the chase of the matter. I am the same for her. We call one another the other’s Black Magic Woman.

It’s her who is most aware of the deepest wounds held inside of my body. I am the same for her. Because of this, every time we’re together, we learn something new about ourselves. As observers, we are able to connect the dots for one another where we ourselves cannot do so.

She’s the one who said some 15 years ago that I was put on this earth to hold up a mirror to the bad behaviours of men. That I was a crossroads in the life of every man who met me, my simple demand: the way you live so honestly and fully, Maha, is a mirror you hold up to men naturally demanding that they take responsibility for their bad choices and poor judgments and then elevate themselves above them. That’s where they’ll find you, and it’s only then that you’ll become their softest space and lover.

I was in her kitchen when she said this to me; I will never forget a word of it, because I dissolved into tears when she made the observation after another heart-challenge. I’ve since come to believe that this role is a thing for which I can only be proud. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

The only man who may sit at my table is a man who turns his intentions toward integrity alone. No matter his history. Everything he did and every good and bad choice he made is what brought him to my table; how can I not be grateful for even the most devastating of his past choices?

More recently, while discussing how we move through the world, and contrary to what most people misunderstand about me, she called me a bunker.

I was explaining my surprise at how calm I was in the face of a situation, and she cut me off to ask Why are you surprised? You’re a bunker. You’ve always been a bunker! I don’t even think you know how still and quiet you become and how deeply you bury and control your feelings when you’re in extreme pain. You’ve never even shown me. You just talk about those feelings in a rational way after you’ve dissolved the bunker. You’re emotional, but you’re also the least emotional person I know. You handle the extremities alone; you don’t let anyone see.

I’ve been stunned since she said these things. I’m still not even sure I understand how she saw this as clearly as she did when I hadn’t even come close to so doing until she said it.

Since G@z@ began, I believe I’ve become even more of a bunker. It was a slow burn, but at some point this summer, I stopped talking to everyone about anything painful; rather, I have talked about things as though an observer to the fact, after the fact. During the thing, I talk to Allah alone. I give Him my pain, seek His protection and guidance, trust in His suttor more than anything in this world. He is forever my only constant.

Oddest thing about what Aalya said is that if you ask almost everyone who knows me, they’re likely to answer that I wear my heart on my sleeve. Which I do. But only after I come up from the bunker. Only after I’ve finished shadowboxing. Only when I can move from a position of love and into spaces of greater love and deeper compassion. This dunya is such a kick in the head; I don’t wish to make it harder for anyone, no matter their choices.

My greatest lesson this year, in fact – how to ensure that this is the only movement I make. From love to more love. Everything else stays in the bunker. I was never fully and completely this way until this year. I thought I was before but I really wasn’t enough of it.

Everyone I have and continue to love has not actively wished to harm, even when their choices have resulted in precisely this. I’ve learned to offer understanding instead of judgement, kindness instead of hardness, more love instead of less. I’ve chosen to believe that everyone Allah has allowed me to love is worthy of that love and that it does not hinge on their bad choices or even on their good ones. It’s love with an open hand and an open heart, and without expectation.

The actions of others do not alter the abundance I carry, even for them. I have finally come to understand that to love others so freely is itself the greatest gift to ourselves.

This year, Allah placed me at a crossroads that asked me to prove whether or not what I said I felt, what I believed I felt, was true. It was. But only after a lengthy bunker stay and only after I could face my own truth did I finally understand what the test had been and how it has made me even softer and kinder than I might have imagined it could.

From one year to the next, I’ve found myself in her kitchen, either laying on her floor (as I am in one of the above photos) or curled up next to her wood stove oven (as below). Often times, we’re sitting wrapped in blankets on her porch swing. Every single time, we are in love with one another.

Like I’ve always written – my greatest love stories are the women who hold me. Aalya has a vice grip and I am eternally grateful for her presence in my most intimate worlds. Thirty years of friendship. There is no depth of gratitude enough. This latest photo is in addition to the tomes of pictures we have, but just taken on Monday; may there be another fifty years worth of her gorgeous face.

My heart is full. AlhamduliLaah.

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