The Museum of Lago Atitlan 9 March 2009Posted by ANNA in ANNA, Culture, History, Spirituality, Travel.
A male cardinal in March; a flash of red against snow. He jumps up the branches of the oak tree wearing a black mask over his eyes. He is crimson from his crest to the tip of his tail; one is almost glad, seeing him, for the bareness of the season. Were there leaves on the trees or sun in the sky, he might not seem as bright. I throw burnt popcorn from the second floor porch. He fights sparrows for the seeds.
I trace the shape of the minor chords up and down my knees. My hand makes a small round shape, gloves curled, imagining keys. It is a habit of thinking; in the familiarity of the scales from C up an octave to C, I find familiarity upon which to daydream. I have learned enough of my religion to feel at ease with submission and belief. Islam and iman, the first two i-words, have meanings which are clear to me. One can list their requirements on two hands, and fulfilling them, feel complete. But what of the third i-word, what of ihsan? It appears in the dictionary under husn: beauty, perfection, excellence. Ihsan is a derivative verbal form meaning the enacting of these. To do what is beautiful, to do what is perfect, to do what is excellent; what do these mean? Each time I consider these questions, I recall the same hadith.
Narrated Omar bin Al-Khattab:
One day while we were sitting with the messenger of Allah there appeared before us a man whose clothes were exceedingly white and whose hair was exceedingly black; no signs of journeying were to be seen on him and none of us knew him. He walked up and sat down by the Prophet. Resting his knees against the Prophet’s and placing the palms of his hands on the Prophet’s thighs, he said, “O Muhammad, tell me about Islam”.
Ezkina’s Moon 13 February 2009Posted by ANNA in ANNA, Education, Spirituality.
The yellow is fading from Ezkina’s world.
She sits at her table, coloring, singing a sad song to herself. A story of bees rests under her crayon; she spreads lemon over pink. “Ezkina,” I call to her from my desk. “Ta’ali, mama. Come here, please.” She looks up from her singing with the surprise of one who has felt invisible. Her head tilts to one side. “Me?”
I nod at my palest child. She lines up her crayons on the edge of the tape which marks her First Grade seat. From the box in the center of the table, she has taken three: lemon, chartreuse, maize. Why do you love yellow so? My heart wants to understand. Most of the girls in our class love blue, or purple or silvery pink. Our boys love green or red or red and green. They are too young to realize that these are the colors of Christmas. For a moment I wonder how they will feel when they realize that their favorites speak of a holiday which we do not celebrate. Who among my children will change, and who will stay the same?
Crossing 29 January 2009Posted by ANNA in ANNA, Culture, Travel.
I lay three fatted twigs along the fireplace’s grate, and stretch an Ossipee log across them. I have loosened handfuls of splinters along its face, in the hope of encouraging flames. It is a dark morning; new snow has fallen. There is precious little paper, and no real kindling. I tear strips from a brown bag, and twist them into chords. These I stuff into the gaps between the log, the grate and the twigs.
The match in my right hand resembles blond hair, rigidly shellacked. It flares easily; no more force is required to ignite it against a sandpaper square than one might exert on a pencil’s lead, when signing one’s name to a page. I touch the matchhead’s flame to the tip of each twig. For a moment, they sweat grease. Then a sound like breath through gritted teeth, and one by one they ignite.
An inch and a half of each must be burned before the log will be met. My three small fires suck sap from these twigs like children emptying bones. A few of my paper twists start to burn; they are slow in unfurling. I grow tired of watching, and rise to make tea. My feet are cold along the floor, and in their stiffness I think of Abbu. He is the only member of the immediate family whom I have yet to meet. I ask my husband to describe his father, and comb his answers for clues. Abbu is the shyest, the most imaginative. He is a day-dreamer for all that I know; or perhaps like Baji, artistic? There is little satisfaction in guessing. I seek similarities between us in history. In railways, in camels, in poetry; in dua, migration, tea.
Lady in Waiting 1 January 2009Posted by ANNA in ANNA, Culture, Relationships.
Neela toddles across the bridal suite, and finds my makeup bag. At three, she is old enough to unzip; a gray kohl pencil, a strand of pink pearls and a collection of pins spill onto the floor. From these she extracts the pearls. Looping them around her neck, she shuffles in the direction of the windows.
Her presence is a relief. I didn’t know what to do with myself, waiting here alone. There are steps which must be taken: changing clothes, arranging my scarf, making wudu, praying. Perhaps other things must be done, but I do not know what they might be. Moreover, there is nowhere to hang my things. My wedding dress stretches along the floor, crepe over satin. White. I kneel on the floor by the collection of pins, pursing the carpet in my hands. One, two, three. One has a head of white, another of pink. The third is slimmer, black. I stick them through the makeup bag’s thin plastic sides. There they wait, like three exclamation points, ready to punctuate something.
Driving 31 October 2008Posted by ANNA in ANNA, Misc, Relationships, Travel.
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We’ve been together for two and a half weeks now, the five of us, mistaken at the tollbooth for a family. The journey between Sharon and home is thirty-six miles; when we’re lucky, it’s forty-five minutes. When we’re not, it can take an hour.
Our games to entertain each other are evolving: what began with “twenty questions (animals)”, has progressed from “two truths and one lie” to “math jeopardy”. On Fridays we stop for pop or snacks (less than two dollar each), if they give me an easy time the rest of the week. Sugar is the currency of bribes.
Bahadur leans out of the back right window at the tollbooth and asks the man making change how he gets home. The man, tall, dark and young, looks uncertainly at me. “What?” “He is wondering about how you drive home,” I nod my head, and smile. “He can’t see your car, and he’s worried about how you get out here.” “Oh.” The man smiles, and turns to Bahadur. “Biggens,” the homeless man at the end of the exit in Cambridge calls him. Eight years of good eating and exercise have formed a muscular child.