My best friend is no longer my boss!

Rebecca, my best friend, and the official photographer of this blog was also my boss until today. She has now moved on to an exciting new position in another department, which means she can no longer boss me around. However, I have sneaky feeling that she will continue to try and boss me despite the transition. 

I haven't been here in a while, no little matter compelling me enough to come and write. You could call it a lack of inspiration, but you'd be wrong. It was procrastination, laziness, and the inability to make time for something enjoyable and rewarding when life is too occupied with things that do not possess these qualities. Today, however, I must write and say what I told Rebecca in a card I wrote her. I told her I didn't want to look back at the (almost) 6 years of coaching and guidance that she has given me and talk about how much I will miss sharing an office with her, which allows me to turn around from my desk and ask her any random question about work with the expectation of a readily crafted answer. Instead, I chose to look forward with her towards our mutual success and our friendship which will no doubt continue to thrive. She is after all godmother to my only child. 

This act of choosing to look forward instead of backward has inspired me to look at the past in a new light. Why does nostalgia have to hold an undercurrent of regret and guilt? Why can't memories just be collected as treasures and propel us forward? It seemed like the obvious thing to do today, to tell her that I am not going to dwell on how much I have grown with her mentorship -- she knows it, and so do I. She knows I am grateful. Now, I just have to bring the same positive thinking to the other aspects of my life. 

I imagine it varies from person to person. Some people fill you with a sense of positivity -- others don't. We can't always weed the negativity out of our lives, but we can limit it. Today, on the day when my best friend transitions to having just this singular role in my life (you see, it is all about me), I promise myself to take some important steps towards limiting negativity and focus on all the good things in life. Just as I chose to do today even though I am terribly scared of not having her around anymore. We all need to grow up and grow better. I will try to do so consciously and conscientiously. 

Photo by Rebecca McCue

There are no words

I have lost my words. I have tried to come here and say something, but the words are gone. I have tried to look for them in old photographs, in my daughter's laughter, in the aisles of grocery stores. I have looked for them at work, under my desk, and at home, in the china cabinet. I even played an old Kishore song, thinking they would tumble out in the notes of the sitar. I moved my daughter into the guest bedroom, fluffed up her pillows, arranged her books in neat rows on the nightstand. I gave her a warm bath, massaged her with lavender lotion, and we sat in her new room together, reading books. Then we cuddled in the bed until she fell asleep. I covered her with her Pooh blanket, turned the night light on, and turned the volume of the baby monitor up. I tossed and turned in my bed, thinking of the words I had lost and was awash with anxiety and grief. Giving up on my search for words, I padded into my daughter's room and fell asleep next to her. I woke up several times and gave her kisses, felt her warm forehead next to mine, breathed in the lavender scent, saw her content face. This happened on multiple nights. I gave up my half-hearted efforts to find my words and found comfort, instead, in my daughter. 

There are no words. I am too full of this world. It spills out of me when I try to examine the little matters that matter to me. It hinders me. It tells me there is no little matter that matters. Not really. Life matters. Children matter. But it seems a child of mine matters more... What a lark to have been born to me in this superior and free part of the world. Such good luck for this girl who has seen so little of life and yet is brimming with it. I don't know how to reconcile that in words. I don't know how to keep on reading "Little Monkey" every night when there are so many mothers who are trying to puzzle out this very phenomenon - how is the world still living when my baby is not? Children matter. Life matters. Children matter. Not just our own - every mother's child matters, each life is sacred. Is anyone listening? Because we sure as hell are watching. And it seems we have lost our words. 

Photo by Rebecca McCue

Love Saves The Day

me:  hello

usman:  was just gonna msg you

                  nice timing

me:  so gchat was showing you as blue,   meaning you were sending me messages, but it was not letting me open your chat window

usman:  oh

                 that's crazy

                 it's trying to keep us apart

                 i need to have a chat with google


Photo by Rebecca McCue

Gaza - A Found Poem

Out here in the world, Gaza hides within a mosaic: 

Maheen Shafi Khalid added a new photo

24 mins

 HuffPost Impact shared a link.

25 mins

His son was killed by an Israeli strike this week. The boy was playing soccer on a beach with his cousins when he died.

Real Simple

3 hrs.

Sure, it's easy to make fresh flowers look gorgeous on Day 1—here's how to keep a pretty display through Day 7: http://bit.ly/1yyvzRX

Fiona Simon > Cathryn Reys

When will you be coming through Kansas?

Newsweek Pakistan shared a link.

Yesterday at 01:00.

Drone Strike Targets Militant Compound in North Waziristan

Cracked Eye

Sponsored

Short story imprint. Entertaining readers. Paying market for writers.

Newsweek Pakistan shared a link.

Yesterday at 02:00.

How can Pakistan profit off the "trillions of dollars" in precious and semi-precious stone reserves in its tribal areas?

Brain, Child Magazine

Yesterday at 09:00.

On the blog, digging a big hole, YouTube and one family's summer fun:http://bit.ly/1tQWmtH

PLEASE HELP

Names of individual Facebook friends have been changed to protect their privacy.

So, Let's Talk About Entitlement

I have been thinking a lot about entitlement these last few days and the universe is giving me signs to continue to think about it. I was exploring it on my own in a different context, but a dear friend brought my attention to how important it is to ensure that we raise our children in a way that they are not consumed with this sense. My friend, while talking about the challenges of having a toddler and the merits of letting our children express their individuality said, "But I don't want her to feel entitled, you know. I never want her to feel like she can do XYZ because she is who she is." That really resonated with me. I absolutely want that for my daughter as well, and will strive to foster virtues of humility and determination and ambition in her - but it's such a fine, fine balance. Like most aspects of parenting, the success of teaching our children to rise above feeling blindly entitled teeters precariously on scales that can tip over at the slightest push in the wrong direction. While this is a continued and valuable challenge of parenting, this is not the type of entitlement I want to talk about today.

[Warning added after completing post: The part below devolves into a rant. Apologies. But this is where I come to write poetic truths, and this is also where I come to get bad things off my chest.]

What I want to talk about is the sense of entitlement that adults feel towards every damn thing in their lives - home, work, relatives, friends, household help, restaurant servers, services, goods, you name it. Why is it that most of us feel like it is an expression of our greatness and a representation of our generous spirit if we demonstrate this sense of entitlement brazenly? I will give you an example, an example that is probably at the root of this whole thing, anyway (and the truth comes out, you say? Yes, yes, apparently, it does). I am quite happy and successful. I love what I do both at work and outside of work. I have a beautiful home, a loving family, et cetera. Now, there are probably some people that I used to know back home in Pakistan who nurse the idea of having positively altered and helped me so fundamentally that I have reached satisfactory levels of self-actualization because of their efforts and not because of the obvious reasons, i.e., hard work, resilience, persistence, and obviously the help of remarkable people along the way (not unlike the ones who are the subject of this post at this time). The point is - I am the sum of all my parts. And to say that I am content with my current circumstances because of one person with whom I crossed paths in my childhood is simplistic to say the least, but let's also point out all the other things such a claim is: arrogant, ignorant, ignominious, ignoble, derisive, belittling, unsubstantiated, and quite frankly, absolutely and utterly false as anyone with an ounce of sense will attest, and what it has at its rotten black core is a well-oiled, well-nourished, rather rotund sense of entitlement. Pity. No, anger (as demonstrated) and pity. 

So here's the thing, O Person Who Would Love to Take Credit for Me, I will continue to be great, god willing. And you can continue to feel entitled to everything I do/achieve. But the stark truth is this:  You cannot be me, because I rather like being me. I am quite comfortable being me if I am to be perfectly honest with you. And next time I learn of your entitlement issues, I promise to bring my good humor along as I have gotten all the vitriol out of my system here. You should thank god for Goll Gappay. 

Photos by Rebecca McCue

Life Lessons for Jahanara

A few months ago, I started a notebook with random things I wanted to tell my daughter. I was consumed with this need to write lessons and instructions down for her in case something happens to me. I suppose this need also arose from the knowledge that I was privy to my mother's journals when I was living at home. Years ago, I read the entries she wrote just before my birth in which she detailed her anxieties and fears. She had learned she was going to have a C-section. It was her first pregnancy and my father had gone to England for work. I had heard the stories of what happened after my birth. My father came home with suitcases full of toys and clothes and little baby booties in every color. But my mother had never told me about the days preceding my birth, during which she felt utterly alone and paranoid. What astounded me was how much she loved her child before she even came into this world, and that's how she referred to me - my child - because there was no way for her to know back then in Lahore, Pakistan, whether her baby was a girl or boy.

I felt no such affection towards my unborn child. We bonded after she was born, after a long, hard labor, after I saw both harshness and gentleness in nurses, after I went several days without sleep, crying quietly in the bathroom for my own mother. And so, I was not impelled to write love notes to my child before she came into this world. When I wrote this particular letter to my daughter, the only one so far in this notebook, I probably didn't intend it to be a list of lessons and instructions. In retrospect, it reads like a litany of entreaties, do this, do that, things I have and haven't done in my own life that I would like my daughter to do. I am posting it here now, because I have distanced myself from it enough. It can go out in the world. She will find it eventually - but first she will hear all of this from me directly (I hope). Plus, the letter begins with a cliche that makes me cringe, but there is no other way of encompassing this feeling.

My dearest Jahanara,

I love you so much that it hurts. Since you have come into my life, my heart has grown so big. You are such a beautiful child with your fluffy ringlets and your chubby cheeks.

You will always be beautiful. Believe that.

Be honest even if it scares you. If you are honest, you have nothing to hide. Hiding from the world is very difficult, so stay honest.

Read a lot. Books will teach you many things about the world, but they will also teach you a lot about yourself.

Be kind. It is very easy to be cruel, but resist the temptation. Be kind to people and be generous with money, compliments, and possessions.

Be respectful of your elders.

Study hard even if you don't feel like it. I know learning can be boring, but do it anyway. You will be at a huge advantage if you do and a much bigger disadvantage if you don't.

Drink milk!

Take your vitamins!

Do what YOU want to do, do what will make you happy.

Fall in love. It is the most wonderful and the most ephemeral feeling you will experience. Do it whole-heartedly.

Your best colors are pink, yellow, and white, but wear what you love.

Eat healthy foods and pick up an activity: running, hiking, yoga, dance, anything.

Listen to music.

Be wise with money.

Read Harry Potter.

Learn how to swim.

If someone hurts you, try to distance yourself from them without wishing them ill.

Go to college!

Don't ever smoke.

Never do something because others are doing it. You are smart, confident, beautiful, and beloved. You don't need anyone's approval but your own.

Know that your Baba and I love you and you can share anything you want with us - our family is your safe space. 

You will make mistakes. We all do. Own them. Apologize sincerely. Learn from them.

Think a lot. Generate ideas. Execute them to perfection - perfection as you see it, not some prescribed idea of it.

Bake. It's good for the soul.

Think about Mummy from time to time and when you do, believe that you are the dearest thing to me.

Make your marriage a platform of partnership, not one of control or competition.

If possible, go to Lahore in the summer and the winter. I remember it as a beautiful city.

Travel.

Learn another language.

Love fiercely and without reservation or expectation.

Be firm about your beliefs, needs, and demands.

Always stand your ground and stand up for your truth and for what you believe in.

 Photo by Rebecca McCue

When a Poet Marries an Engineer - A Found Poem

me:  I'm extremely upset with you.

usman:  i apologize

me:  apology not accepted

          in fact

          apology trampled over mercilessly as if apology were a spider - now mangled and 

          killed by my high heel

 
usman:  that's a poem

Sent at 12:00 PM on Thursday

me:  what do you know or care about poetry

Sent at 12:01 PM on Thursday

usman:  my wife is a poem writer

me:  whatever

Sent at 12:14 PM on Thursday

usman:  when u coming

                misya

 Sent at 12:16 PM on Thursday

  

me:  3 30

usman:  Ok Luv

Sent at 12:24 PM on Thursday

Photo by Rebecca McCue

Squaw Valley Poetry Workshop - Days 6 & 7

I am home now. It's a regular Monday evening. Dinner is on the stove - chicken karahi, Jahan went to Montessori today and I went to work. The Squaw Valley Community of Writers Poetry Workshop is over, and I can't wait to go back. This was a healing sort of trip. Mountains and writing and cuddles with a cute baby at night. The last two days of the workshop were the busiest, which is why I was not able to update the blog while I was there.

On Thursday, I had my workshop with Don Mee Choi, whose book The Morning News is Exciting is what I am currently reading. Her poems are chilling in their matter-of-fact-ness. I wrote a poem called Dissonance for the workshop session that she led. It was a poem I had been struggling to write for a very long time encompassing the Peshawar suicide bombing attacks of 2013, but sending a broader message, a sort of reclamation of my identity, my country, my history, but I was afraid that the message would sound contrived. I was surprised at the feedback I received - heartfelt praise and encouragement. Workshop participants told me that this poem was important, this message was important and timely. Later, Don Mee Choi told me, "Keep writing! I like what you're doing." After the workshop, when I was talking to two new poet friends, I almost started to cry while telling them what this poem, this story meant to me, and I could see that they were genuinely interested and moved.

On Thursday night, Haryette Mullen gave a craft talk circling around her book Urban Tumbleweed - A Tanka Diary. She talked about her process, how she decided to start writing a tanka a day to get into the habit of writing, then decided to see if she could do it for a year, and eventually ended up writing for over a year and condensing to create the book. Later in the evening, the staff poets gave a reading, which was open to the general public. They read from their published and unpublished works. Of note, Matthew Zapruder's work evoked both laughter and reflection. It was a long and rewarding evening, but I still had to get a poem ready for the next day's workshop when I got to the lodge. 

For Friday, my workshop with C.D. Wright, I wrote a poem called Chronology of the Evil Eye, another idea I had been toying with for a while, all the tips and tricks and old wives' tales I grew up with. As usual, I got great feedback from the workshop participants and am ready to work on another draft of  the poem keeping their suggestions in mind. Later on Friday, Bob Hass gave his craft talk, which was based on the questions that poets submitted all week. Wonderful things were said in Bob Hass' signature style, many different tangents were explored, and we came back to the statement he made on the first day, "Out in the world, no one wants you to write poetry. They don't mind if you write poetry, but they don't want you to." This time he didn't have to tell us that the Community of Writers wants us to write poetry - we knew. In the evening, we went to the Hall House - the house of Barbara and Oakley Hall, the ones who started the Squaw Valley Community of Writers 44 years ago. SVCW is now managed by Brett Hall Jones, Mr. and Mrs. Hall's daughter along with her sisters, Tracy Hall and Sands Hall. The house was beautiful, and the view from the deck was spectacular. Curry was served from Mexican ceramic pots that were about 3 feet tall. The house was full of tables covered with cheerful tablecloths and candles. Real, not disposable plates were used. The food was divine! For dessert, cookies were passed around and there was also coffee. Bob made a speech after dinner thanking Barbara Hall and the SVCW staff. Then there was a long session of poetry recitation and singing. Poets recited Yeats and Dickinson and Issa and Plath and Tu Fu from memory. Joni Mitchell graced the occasion in the voice of Sands Hall and others sang along. I had a long conversation with Brett Hall Jones in the company of two fellow poets and learned a lot about the history of SVCW. When it was time to say goodbye, we walked outside and were dazzled by all the stars we could see in the sky. Expletives were uttered by one and all upon seeing the breathtaking night sky. I should have spent more time under the stars...

The next day, our last, workshop was held an hour earlier than usual. It was casual - no copies were passed around and we simply read our poems aloud to the group. I read a translation of my mother's poem, originally written in Urdu, titled Mai Har Soorat Maa Hoon translated very clumsily to Regardless, I am Mother. It was a short session and afterwards, we said our goodbyes.

This was one of the most delightful experiences of my life. The poet in me found sustenance and reassurance. I didn't have to use qualifiers and justifications when I talked with my fellow poets about the importance of poetry, what it means to me, why I write. We could all joke about the difficulty of getting published, our writing process, our tastes in poetry. There is no way for me to describe the satisfaction I felt while I was there. The change was profound and meaningful enough that Usman asked me to sign up for the workshop again and promised to take me back to Squaw Valley soon. Jahan, too, flourished in the mountains. She loved going outside and running around in the Village, she loved playing in the lake. I can't wait to go back, but until then, more poems and more reading. Also, I am changing my "Introduction" to something other than "dried-up poet," because if there is one thing I have learned, it is that a dried-up poet, I am not.

Photos by Rebecca McCue

Squaw Valley Poetry Workshop Day 5

Yesterday was Day 5 and the schedule was so full that I didn't have the chance to update the blog. I had workshop with Robert Hass. I read a prose poem titled Monsoons in Lahore. I got great feedback as usual from my fellow poets and from Bob Hass who asked me, "What is your relationship to the prose poem?" I answered, "I don't have one. I am just beginning to court it!" When I finished reading and looked up, Bob's face had a look that I interpreted to be one of delighted surprise, and his first comment was, "I love that this poem is exactly about what the title tells us." He recommended a book called Short that has prose poems, flash fiction, and mini essays. I will definitely pick it up. He also commented that my poem would fit very well into the category of a mini-essay and sounded like the beginning of a novel. In retrospect, I wonder if that was his way of telling me that it was not really a prose poem and more like prose...The workshop was conducted in a beautiful house in the Valley. There was a spiral staircase to my left going up to a loft, which reminded me of the Gryffindor Common Room in the Harry Potter books.  

After workshop, we headed to the Lake Tahoe Elementary School where we played "Poet" softball, each person could bat until they got a hit! I stayed in the bleachers to cheer while many poets played. After the game in which both teams won, we headed to Meeks Bay for a picnic. The lake was spectacular, a few poets gathered at my table, and we talked about the all important issues of love and how we met our significant others.

I was exhausted when I came home, and worked on a poem titled Dissonance, which was workshopped this morning with Don Mee Choi, but details of that later.

Squaw Valley Poetry Workshop - Day 4

I had my workshop with C.D. Wright on the deck of one of the houses in the Valley. The house was beautiful. I found out one of the workshop's organizers had assisted her father in building it many years ago. The sun was maddeningly strong on my back so I didn't have anything to say for the first half of the workshop. A little reconfiguration of chairs allowed me to participate fully. I read Cooked Until Golden Brown.

In the afternoon, Don Mee Choi's craft talk moved me very deeply. She talked about her process of writing her new book, researching the Korean War, and read out some of her work that was chilling. During the talk, I wrote in my notebook, "Own your heritage," because sometimes I don't.

Today, I have workshop with Robert Hass - reading a prose poem today titled Monsoons in Lahore - and then we have the afternoon off to play Poet Softball, take a nature walk, and have a picnic at Meek's Bay.