Remember My Face

Angels from Gaza

My dear friend Omid Safi saw this picture and wrote: “Every once in a while you come across a story, a person, a soul, that touches your heart, inspires you, and fills you with light. This little Palestinian girl does all that, and more, for me. I don’t know her name. I saw her story on Aljazeera American tonight. The Israelis bombed her house, destroying it. Her response afterwards was to comfort her younger brother. Her strength, goodness, faith, hope. I have never seen the resilience of an occupied people so beautifully encapsulated in one person’s face. Little girl, sweet, beautiful, and strong angel…. I don’t know your name, but I have seen something of your spirit in this one glimpse. And here is my own promise to you: I will never, ever, forget you. I will never put your life, your dignity, your wellbeing behind any one else’s. May you someday live to breath freely, walk freely, sing freely, pray freely, and play on the beaches of your ancestors.”

It was not my home they bombed
The little girl said,
But a thin shell 
which failed instead.

My home?
It is within a billion hearts
And beyond that,
part of every star.

My name?
It’s spoken in every tongue,
But a different language
For everyone.

And what ever for us,
was willed to be
Before the dawn 
of eternity.

No, it’s not my home,
This restless place,
But for the reflection of love
When you remember my face.

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Bliss is a Master of Disguise

Every story is story within a story.
And clarity doesn’t come while in lotus position,
chanting in dhikr, near death experiences, or love making

(although the latter two can be faintly indistinguishable)

Rather, it is not just in the “doing”
but first in the “being”
It is this that undoes the laxity of existence.

While on a mountain trail,
an epiphany came without a meaning
just a raw feeling that everything
was exactly where and when it should be.

It didn’t happen before or after I encountered this man
walking along a mountain road
with a wounded doe in his arms…
This view was as if it had always been happening,
and I just found myself “in it.”

Why toil the years unraveling something
that took an eternity to tangle.
I acquiesce my understanding
to the happening of now,
The doing of then.

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Killing time

aysha farooq pilotOppression is a disease to be eradicated.  Sadly humans are carriers.  But if this (photo of Pakistani female pilot, Ayesha Farooq) were an American male fighter pilot, flag on his helmet, in an American F-16 going on the same bombing run against the Taliban, would we “feel” the same way?  Fighting oppression (of which killing becomes part) does not require a political regime;  it requires first and foremost humans united under a moral ideology based on equality and freedom – vice imperialism, fascism.  And even this has loopholes – I shouldn’t have to fight to be who I have always divinely been.  
Ayesha’s achievement seems to represent the condition of women (especially Muslim women) taking up the cause on their own behalf.  She is not exercising her right to kill, but her right to live.  Despite her “uniform,” she doesn’t seek to reign over nations, but live equally among everyone.  If she could end oppression without firing a single missile, I’m sure she’d be grateful and so would I.   Like oppression, the natural entitlement of living free, comes with the unnatural ultimatum to kill. Thank goodness for the balance. 
Malala Yousafzai delivering a speech to the Pakistani congress or UN is not unlike Ayesha Farooq delivering ordinance on a Taliban guerilla training camp – may both their aims be accurate… but may Malala’s blast radius be widest!
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Pieces of Gibran

To marvel at Gibran the writer, his works, or the self disclosure both reading and knowing him brings. Which? Which? Perhaps, we should not try to disassemble anything that already

leaves us feeling whole. We cannot reassemble colors into pure white light simply by thinking like a prism.

The mind shreds, the heart keeps whole. The mind, the house…the heart, the home inside it. Even describing this duality, is dangerous. Perfect poetry cannot be heard… but do we ever love “imperfection!”

The poem is powdered magnesium, the ear is a burning flame, the heart is water. Disclosure is the explosion when they come together.

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Measured Time, Immeasurable Perpetuity

Measured time is illusory – so much, that memories, in so far as they can be remembered now, are no more real than the present moment, which itself is completely and utterly transient. Poof!
It seems the facets of illusion build up to everything we know with our minds – imagine the vast nothingness beyond the veil, the real Real. Where even illusion itself, is illusion. Yet, cut from the reed bed, as we drift serenely on still waters, we all hold this world, this trickery, in reverence…for even illusion – wrought, nurtured, and rendered with utmost sincerity – enjoys perpetuity.
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from whence we come

…it is the unsettled heart beneath the wool
fluttering the fabric over which we roam
pulsing rhythms and melodies
that harken voices along paths unknown
to singing sands of harmony
recalling, recalling whence we come…
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Missing Men

I’d no real idea what I was looking at – it seems a sublime visage foretells the future, more than it reveals the present moment. There is one channel, many rivers…best not to confuse the two.

Suffice to say, men have their own complexity – too often dismissed as confusion, or reactiveness. I’ve noted some of my greatest male friends pick up on some mystic scent when they – by others’ or their own self accounting – never thought it possible. The great men are comfortable with this… being both a man’s man and a woman’s man… or just spirit.

I find that men can be quite critical of their own gender… less than when they see themselves through their feminine qualities and more so when they see themselves through male qualities.

This does not mean we should rush out and go all furry bunny with our feminine side (fear not – Shakti will find its way into mens consciousness on her own – she’s VERY strong willed…and welcomed.) No, I rather think we need to sometimes hone the male energy (Shiva). I’m no expert in tantra – and we might not look so hard at male and female as gender differences, but rather as complementary and unique qualities of a single being. Each part, Shiva and Shakti, their own whole. As a singular man, we are less two lovers, than one and one.

I’m a bit weary – I feel like I need to take a trip to the desert with a few male buddies and bang drums, howl at the moon, yell, run, and then go silent…

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