Incoherent

in·co·her·ent  (nk-hîrnt)adj.

1. Lacking cohesion, connection, or harmony; not coherent: incoherent fragments of a story

2. Unable to think or express one's thoughts in a clear or orderly manner: incoherent with grief


***

Don't you dare give up on Tomorrow because of the way things look Today. Don't even think about it. How bad things may look right now means nothing. It's how good you know they can look with God's help that counts.
~ Neale Donald Walsch


***


Who am I when I truly surrender the inordinate desire to be noticed?

To be understood?

To be appreciated?

To be cared for?

To be loved?

Who am I when I am not to be understood?

There are things that have risen in my heart... and I canvassed my mind to find a soul,

I looked through my shrinking lists of friends and kindred spirits,

and there is not a single soul to tell these things to.

I flick through name after name after name... and call no one.

Perfection...

Does that mean that Thou hast entrusted me to mine ownself?

Or that these things are as inconsequential as the tide

that washes itself time and again,

that never remains true, or false

or at all....

Dis-ease has riddled my body.

Dost that mean that Thou loveth me that much,

that my shadow, my illusion is rubbed in the khaaq again and again

as I stumble, fumble and become incoherent in all senses of the word...?

***


Khaaq se mila de mujhey, main khaaq hi toh hoon....
tere azeez shaheed ki raeth sey mujhey mitaa de.
Shaayad yeh khaaq-e-laal main mitne se hee 
tahaarat aur salaamat ka maqaam mil jaaega,
aur meri aag jalayi jaayegi.


***

"Opinions, agendas, inane conversations, situations dragging on in life way beyond their expiry dates..."

And all of it is Thee.

I felt separated from Thee, abandoned by Thee...

until I wrote this as I travelled to where I needed to be, in that metallic-glass tube in the underbelly of the earth we affectionately call the Tube:

Bullcrap, bullcrap, bullcrap - and more bullcrap.

It really doesn't matter - what matters is your impeccable character. Good food, bad food - good conversation, bad conversation - who cares? When dealing with what is, you are dealing with what is.

You speak a lot, say an awful lot of crap because you feel you need to fill the silence. This full moon better be good to me, this eclipse. I am a good person. I deserve the best. If not London, please just take me to where I need to be.

Please.

I remembered going to that play that I didn't like two years ago. August. Why? Programming.

I don't like all this bullcrap.

But my judging the monarchy or even my younger selves... on ne peut rien faire, OK? Your soul chose death and the associates and friends that showed up - so that you end up aimlessly wandering about London.

Il n'y a pas d'ocean!

Remember - regardless of the external appearances, understand your inner nature of peace, dignity, compassion, love, faith, trust, hope, Light, wisdom, calm...

Who ARE you when you have nobody? Really, beloved, who ARE you?

Nobody to give you false praise.
No one to share and exchange random, off-kilter behaviour with.
Nobody to please,
to impress,
to romance,
to beg for mercy,
to fear,
to emulate,
to envy,
to wish ill upon,
to feel inferior or superior to,
to dissimulate with,
to allow yourself to lie to through remaining inauthentic,
to censor yourself with,
to censure yourself about...?

Who would you be without the complaints and  the complete ILLUSION of helplessness?

Without the books, the yoga, the healings or the meditation?

Without the blame and the HURT...

without the past?

GRATEFUL, FREE, HOPEFUL, LIBERATED...

Who would you be without the dis-ease?

None of it adds value...

Tu te souviens quand t'as vu le mer du Labrador de l'aeroplan en route au Canada, seulement le mois dernier?

QUI l'a crée?

How you continue to bow down to the opinions and agendas of others!

"No headscarf? You should ditch it completely..."

"You are selfish! ...there are people who want to be with you, yet you hide yourself, you don't want to share yourself with them"

"I cannot be myself with you..."

***

There is nothing to do.
Just be.
Do nothing.
Be.
No climbing mountains and sitting in caves.
I do not even say: ‘be yourself’, since you do not know yourself.
Just be.
 Having seen that you are neither the ‘outer’ world of perceivabes, nor the ‘inner’ world of thinkables, that you are neither body nor mind
— just be.

~ Nisargadatta Maharaj

***

If you are still failing at the mundane, daily tasks... interactions and situations and miss the opportunities that keep presenting themselves....

you cannot be given any further responsibilities....yet.

***

See if you can catch yourself complaining in either speech or thought, about a situation you find yourself in, what other people do or say, your surroundings, your life situation, even the weather. To complain is always nonacceptance of what is. It invariably carries an unconscious negative charge. When you complain, you make yourself a victim. Leave the situation or accept it. All else is madness.


To offer no resistance to life is to be in a state of grace, ease, and lightness. This state is then no longer dependent upon things being in a certain way, good or bad. It seems almost paradoxical, yet when your inner dependency on form is gone, the general conditions of your life, the outer forms, tend to improve greatly. Things, people, or conditions that you thought you needed for your happiness now come to you with no struggle or effort on your part, and you are free to enjoy and appreciate them – while they last. All those things, of course, will still pass away, cycles will come and go, but with dependency gone there is no fear of loss anymore. Life flows with ease.


~ Eckart Tolle, The Power of Now

***

Surrender and let go... surrender and forget what they've told you...

***

let go of your past lives
they are only silhouettes of what you could have been
a new you yearns to be born
so make space in the night

***

 Miracles seldom occur in the lives of those who do not consider them possible. There could be a miracle waiting for you this minute. Please make room for it in your thinking.
~ Neale Donald Walsch

***

Umeed peh duniya qaayam hai...

Parting the Red Sea

I remembered Moses yesterday.

He is one of the mentioned prophets. Raised as a prince. Led a nation. Manifested miracles. Killed a man, was forgiven for it. Learnt to transcend his anger and impatience. He settled down and had a family. Meditated for forty days and nights and his nation went astray - again. His right hand was Aaron, the next in line for prophethood. He turned staffs into snakes.


Yesterday, I remembered him as the child in the reed basket, floating from the arms of one loving mother into the arms of a second loving mother.


Betrayed by memories of a prophetic dream, he was presented with a plate of dates and a plate of live, hot coals.

He had a choice. He had a choice between the easy life and a more arduous life.

He was divinely guided toward the easy life: to save his earthly life and allow him to fulfil his destiny, he burnt his mouth permanently when he chose the glowing coal and attempted to eat it.

Only after which was he able to accomplish everything that is mentioned in the holy books.

It was only after he burnt himself as an innocent child who had forgotten his path that he, much later, was in a divinely destined position to part the Red Sea and bring his people to their unique salvation.

Not before.

*** 

I can relate to some of that.

***

Which parts of your forgetful Self now need to be burnt for Me before you can be raised to the level of Moses and part your own Red Sea on your way to liberation?

Songs Of Innocence and Of Experience

Songs of Innocence and of Experience
by Sukaina Juma
13 April 2012


Introduction (William Blake)

Hear the voice of the Bard!
Who Present, Past, & Future sees;
Whose ears have heard
The Holy Word
That walk'd among the ancient trees,
Calling the lapsed Soul,
And weeping in the evening dew;
That might controll
The starry pole,
And fallen, fallen light renew!
"O Earth, O Earth, return!
Arise from out the dewy grass;
Night is worn,
And the morn
Rises from the slumberous mass.
"Turn away no more;
Why wilt thou turn away?
The starry floor,
The wat'ry shore,
Is giv'n thee till the break of day.''

 

***

"Writing is my passion. But..."

"... but you haven't found a way to earn money from it. Whenever you feel inspired to write, just write. Don't worry about the fact you should, logically, be doing something more practical, like looking for jobs."

***

Day and Night

The television flickers shut. I lay my weary body onto the bare floor. Stare out into the dusk. You know you're in trouble when you switch on the telly and watch Coronation Street, then switch over and start watching Eastenders.

Another day, another night.

The twenty-eighth year ends. I know within my heart that... at least I am not where I used to be. I hang onto that thought.

I have some of that clarity back, although I know it keeps leaving me for long, inexplicable periods of time.

Why would you do that, God?

***

Don't Leave Home

Tonight, this feels as though it is her home. It used to be her home. It isn't any longer. Neither is anywhere else...

The memories have been melted and chased away... the little six year old girl no longer peers at her, trembling, from underneath the sofa. She is around... not yet completely at peace.

She still lives within her, staining the wallpaper with her handprints.

She hides when he comes home. She waits until he leaves before she leaves her bedroom. Different country, same survival strategy.

Yet, this is where she chooses to stay. Year in, year out.

London used to haunt her dreams. She would walk the streets in the snow. Walk aimlessly down roads and pass many terraced houses.

Sometimes the sun would shine upon the tree-lined avenues. She was possibly walking alone. Except when she was not. Her soul did this. Granting her hope that, in spite of all, she would return, the prodigal daughter.

And she walked the same streets when physically here. Parts of St. John's Wood reminded her of having been there before, as did the tiny passages along the Embankment and Victoria.

She walked past a place from her dreams, it ended up being the road on the other side of her old primary school.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. And that was it. No epiphanies. Just a simple, "Yes, I dreamt of this" and the mystique was no more.

***

She walked the streets today. She walked twice the length of the Common. She passed the house of her second mother from when she was three, entrance now only by invitation.

Self invitation.

She could no longer stand the solitude and asked for shelter. She silently blessed them and asked for guidance as to how to live a "functional" family life the way they did.

The alien needs to be retaught, retrained into the ways of the world.

Her warrior planet, Mars, had retreated for a few months.

Artemis had lost her footing. Her arrows missed their marks, piercing and wounding those she was charged to protect.

She cannot feel her fingertips.

Lips are still parched.

The pavements are just pavements. Not hers, never hers. But at least she stands tall on them now.

They still do not make way for her. It must be her impregnable invisibility cloak.

***

London (William Blake)

I wander thro' each charter'd street,

Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,

And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,

In every Infant's cry of fear,

In every voice, in every ban,

The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweepers cry

Every black'ning Church appalls;

And the hapless Soldier's sigh

Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro' midnight streets I hear

How the youthful Harlot's curse

Blasts the new born Infant's tear,

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

***

Wake Me Up Before You Go Go

They tell her she is safe, loved, protected.

They look with harsh eyes, not really human and say,

"You need to wake up! Wake up! You've lived your entire life disassociated, you can change it. It need not continue that way... you are avoiding living the truth, you continue to avoid becoming your authentic self! You're just not bothered... you will need to make a choice soon.

...WAKE UP!"

She doesn't understand. Obviously.

The sleeping have no clue what it means to be awake.

Which annoys those who are, who can see.

Of course, it also annoys the one who is asleep, who is desperately doing her best to wake up. But she's not only responsible for herself, she's fighting a crusade for the entire lineage, the entire line of souls afore and aft... at least, they tell her so.

She's clearing and healing for them all.

"When I asked my uterus why it was there, I'm apparently carrying the rage, fury, anger, resentment, vengefulness and frustration of millions of women who have been cheated, abused and clamped down upon, humiliated. Including the experiences of my mother... it started when the second husband was messing her about. Left her cold."

She wears glasses to hide the truth. She can't hear that well, either.

As for feeling anything...

***

Rogue

She is Rogue. The one who poisons, harms, destroys and annihilates upon being touched or touching. The one who has been invisible for so long, people just bump into her in the street - still.

The only one who finds herself in the places where they gather and can clearly understand that she's only there because of Divine plan, not because she is needed or wanted there.

And so they do exactly what she fears: they do not care. They are not present. They do not touch her.

Untouchable.

How she aches to be touched, caressed, loved poured into the heart from the Source. She knows she carries none of it within.

No one can be who she has been or continues to revert to being if they could truly love, accept and give of themselves freely and without a second thought.

She holds the gathers of her cloak close, shield upon sheath...

She still chooses to manifest that which she manifests.

Vacancies. No contenders. Regurgitated conversations, places, faces, situations.

Screaming unto the crowd.... which only sees itself and gives off theories, philosophies, personal anecdotes that she has surpassed long ago. And she cannot tell them this.

How can the sleeping know that they are asleep?

How can the stirring know how to be awake, when they've only known slumber until a year afore?

She feels.... quicksand... trick mirrors. Apparent progress, falling back, stagnancy... what is this path?

***



Treading water, so as not to drown - she remains where she is.

The others swim, glide, across the seas of fortune...

And all of it is okay.

"You don't have to wake up... no.... you can remain as you are."

They pretend. It makes her skin crawl.

She needs an upgrade in her entourage and her support system. The old system no longer works, Lord.

***

Notorious

Forget safety. Live where you fear to live. Destroy your reputation. Be notorious.

~ Rumi

She cannot sell these writings. She is no Virginia Woolf, no Sylvia Plath. Well, even if she did what they did, she's still not white enough.

The world no longer works the way it used to.

No amount of stones in her pockets can save her reputation.

The image of tortured genius no longer appeals to the masses. They all want high vibrating literature. Ushering in the New Era. Anything vibrating at a frequency lower than Love need not apply.

The amount they spit in her face fascinates her.

Random strangers are regaled with tales of her doings when she was the tortured, wretched, dead one.

She buried those echoes of herself today - 23, 24, 25, 26, 27...

***

Zombie

They appeared to her as pallid, crippled, bleeding, malformed foetuses.

Each of them wailed and screamed: Why did you do this to us? Why did you kill us? Why did you choose this?

Why are you STILL killing us, torturing us, making us suffer?

She was sobbing loudly: I don't KNOW! I'm sorry, I don't know why I did it! I don't know why I'm still doing it!

Ho'ponopono is muttered.

The heart releases new waves of grief.

Come into present time... be who I am now. I am not that any longer. I can think. I feel the earth under the soles of my feet. I giggle, I literally laugh out loud and can shift the sadness. It dissipates.

Please heal me, Raphael. Make. Me. Whole.

This no longer resonates. What still keeps me chained?

I gave them all up... every single one I couldn't be my true self with... without a fuss, they left, I left. I asked them to treat me in a manner that was full of dignity and respect. They couldn't, so they left.

How could they but leave?

The shards of all my mirrors of horror splice my face into ribbons.

 ***

Scars in their eyes

"Can they not see?"

Canst you not see? It is safe to see the Truth.

No, she wears fog glasses around the eyes... she'd rather not see the truth. What is it, anyway? She's forgotten.

All of it... fallen from Grace, she is.

***

Losing My Religion

It started out so simply.

What did we start out as?

"I bear witness that there is nothing but that is Allah,
that Muhammad is the messenger of Allah and...
that Ali is the friend of Allah..."

***

"Call upon Ali,
he is the manifestor of miracles,
All the hurt, pain and grief,
he helps to remove them.
By the greatness of Allah,
by the apostleship of Muhammad
and by the authority of Ali...
help me, help me, help me!"

***

You are just as I want, so make me just as You want me to be...

***

Naive

This was her first mention of him in written words. The first time she had created poetry for a man. This was one of the many she actually did not send him later on.

Small mercies.

Not quite so naive, after all.

12 September 2010

Hello, you!

I want you to know my entire Soul, my entire being. 

I want my smile to be imprinted in your memoire for eternity.

And yet.

I seek the best from God.

And it seems that there's a flaw in the system.

I knew it was too easy to be true. The first time, with you ticking almost all the boxes?

Cosmic playthings, we are. And He's laughing at our ignorance. Yet not ready to show His cards.

Eh, ben. Quoi faire?

Je lache tous les attachements à la mémoire et l'idéal de toi.

Que sera, sera.

***

 
In Transition


" ...it is hard for me to see your beautiful soul as anything other than that....beautiful and in transition. You will work it out. You are strong and know fully what you are up to on a being level. Love you honey x"


Pure Shores

Sand. She is covered in sand. She lies in complete stillness, cocooned into the warm, pulsating womb of Gaia. Her limbs are supine, she does not break free.

Incubation must follow its due course.

She is one with the Earth.

She is being reborn. Again. Archangels Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, Haniel, Chamuel, Uriel and Zadkiel are the midwives.

The ocean whispers her name, calling her to baptise herself in its sparkling, redemptive waves - to wash herself of herself.

To free herself from herself.

The sound of the ocean haunts her in her dreams, in her quiet moments.

Come home, dearest mer-maiden, come...

Moisten and replenish yourself from the dryness of life, heal the cracked lines in your wizened visage... 

Release your bondage, exchange your weary human legs and grow back your glorious tail.

Discard all your clothing, become truly vulnerable and succumb your entire being to the temptress that is I, the Ocean.

Surrender to my ravishing you in entirety: mind, heart, body and soul.

Allow my salt to be the balm to your wounds. Heal thyself in my arms.

Penetrate... 

...and allow yourself to be penetrated... to your absolute core.



***

She never really had had an affinity with the ocean before. Interesting how things shift.

Like the sands.

But now, as she walks the London pavement, she feels the white grains of Mauritanian sand trickle through her toes. Grounding her in a most delightful way. Exfoliating the calloused soles to reveal the soft, tender flesh that is her true skin.

The left foot finally tingles with the life force. She is slowly agreeing to come out of the shadows.

***

They tell her to lighten up. To smile and laugh more often.

To live her life.

"I had to re-do my intentions. In a nutshell, my intention is to live my life. As so-and so has told me to do."

Laughter.

It is ironic, when you only choose to live your life after someone else tells you that's what you need to do.

***

Flint
 
"Can you kill a mammoth, make a tent out of horse bones and light a fire from flint?"

"Yes i can kill a mammoth, build a tent from horse bones, light a fire from flint??? Huh... woman, all i need is a tarpan slither, a stick and dry grass... Hahahaha... We’ll go camping one day and I’ll show you..."
 
***

The most powerful force on earth is the human soul on fire! Without passion man (or woman) is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint which awaits the shock to ignite.
~ Unknown

The power of our unconscious thoughts and words: she had no idea that, in actuality, she was the flint, and he was the shock that her Soul had patiently awaited to ignite her... into an all-engulfing, all-encompassing, devouring and self-annihilating fire.

Thank you, O beautiful Soul.

May you find it within you to allow Spirit to ignite your own soul and activate the artistic creativity within you that yearns to express itself. Nobody can write so beautifully, to glow so brightly even when they desperately try to hide it and then continue to delude themselves into believing that they have no creative talents to express.


Your Soul is urging you to become totally creative, focused and to share your vision in the world.  Allow this creativity to flow through you and share your ideas and visions to help and inspire others.

I love you... for the wonderful being of light you are. Up until now, I've only had that spark with you.

And if I am not the one to catalyse you into you being your authentic self, I give you to the Universe so that you can do it your way... under the protection of Allah. I love you that much. You matter this much to me.

You are doing a disservice to yourself, to me, to your loved ones, to the entire world by refusing to wake up, by refusing to unveil yourself, by breaking the contracts.

And that is okay.

Not really a disservice. Just making choices. Exercising your free will.

So much more she wanted to tell him, to tell them about him... and she chooses wisely this time around. Her ego was tired of playing about with his ego.

She's deflated that story, popped it for good. Burnt it into the ashes - yet again.

Unnecessary happenings. Another layer to shed.

Her heart contains the secrets...  

but melt away the memories that no longer serve you, little one. He is lifetimes, time frames and dimensions away.

He healed himself, became whole, grew up enough to give of himself, open up his heart and commit to his Eve.
 
You still need to learn. You still need to wake up. 


And that is okay.


Wake up. Wake up. Lève-toi, chère, lève-toi.


***
 
Nothing is truly hidden, or separate. He already knows it all. It is written on this page. The message has reached.

Everything is a choice.

Let go, child. Let go. Trust in the perfection of all things.

Have you truly woken yourself up, yet? Truly?

Wake yourself up from your illusive sleep. Become your authentic self. That is all that the world needs. You to be yourself. How can you be anything but who you truly are?

Find your passion, dissolve the fear, discover your Divine work in the world, and be amazed as I guide you to the unfolding of your heart's desires.

***

What is my own Soul Purpose?
 

To experience creative endeavour, divine inspiration and a greater understanding of the deeper truths of life through experiencing the challenges of everyday existence in society. The experience gained and use of your gifts and talents can help inspire others to connect with the intuitive wisdom of their souls. 

Occasionally the 'Soul Purpose' or more accurately 'Soul Destiny' can be indicative of a Soul who is ripe to become one with the divine on the inside and out. That is they will receive the realisation at the experiential level that all is one and the same.

How do I achieve it, Lord?

***

And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.


If someone isn't what others want them to be, the others become angry. Everyone seems to have a clear idea of how other people should lead their lives, but none about his or her own.

Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dreams, because every second of the search is a second's encounter with God and with eternity.

 People are capable, at any time in their lives, of doing what they dream of.

~ Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

Be like melting snow - wash yourself of yourself.


Forget safety. Live where you fear to live. Destroy your reputation. Be notorious.

~ Rumi

***


In The Arms of The Angel

She is the rogue.

The one who loved her the most... the part of her soul... has set herself free. To be her authentic self. She soars.

She could see through the lies and deceit. The omission of truths.

The hatred and contempt.

And none of it matters. She let her go, to make her own journey.

A soul mate is an ongoing connection with another individual that the soul picks up again in various times and places over lifetimes. We are attracted to another person at a soul level not because that person is our unique complement, but because by being with that individual, we are somehow provided with an impetus to become whole ourselves.
~ Edgar Cayce

Perhaps they finally grew whole... and apart... after all those years.

She is the rogue who could not transcend into Love.

Perhaps in the next incarnation, my angel. I shall be in the arms of my angel, then. Perhaps I shall also be the sheltering arms for my angel, too. Of true love and assistance, not just fluff and words and lies.

I love you. In spite of myself.

You said as much about your love for me, my soul sister. What else is there, save for this thing called Love?


***

Dante's Prayer (Loreena McKennitt)

When the dark wood fell before me
And all the paths were overgrown
When the priests of pride say there is no other way
I tilled the sorrows of stone

I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me your love in the light of the stars

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me

Then the mountain rose before me
By the deep well of desire
From the fountain of forgiveness
Beyond the ice and fire

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me

Though we share this humble path, alone
How fragile is the heart
Oh give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of the stars

Breathe life into this feeble heart
Lift this mortal veil of fear
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears
We'll rise above these earthly cares

Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me
Please remember me


 ***

Written in the stars

This one she sent him. To explain the inexplicable, and make him understand. It didn't really explain much, in the end. Or people choose not to understand.

Sometimes, people choose to not read long letters written to the Beloved... 


15 September 2010

I leaked so much yesterday

The Emotional Alchemy book said it was good, the body releases that which needs to be released. I felt empty and unlovable for a bit, then the waterworks transformed into a soothing balm for the heart.

I couldn't sleep, for the most obvious of reasons, even after listening to an hour of Darren Hayes, Keane and Atif Aslam. That's also partly because I shot down 60g of plain dark chocolate in one go yesterday while going through the emotional release.

So, I went to the kitchen to make some chamomile and then I noticed how clear the sky was after the rain. So, I opened the back door and went into the garden and....

If any of you have a chance, meditate at 2:30 in the black night on the little grid of stars that He has put there for us. Add the cooling wind for a calming sound effect. And I looked, and I gazed, and I regarded.

And I contemplated.

And, slowly, calm and trust and acceptance came into the heart. Once again, the stars and the winds and the velvet sky whispered:

"He has a plan. You are small and insignificant and don't understand. 

He, who made this, who continues to add to the Creation, who is so loving to you and to the object of your interest and to the people flooded out in Pakistan and to everybody - He knows what you don't. 

Now, put your trust in Him. If it is meant to be, it will happen in its own time, perhaps the timing is off.

If it's not meant to be, there is no ownership. You all are One in the Realm.

He has taught you so much. Take those lessons and reflect on them. But, more importantly, trust in Allah's guidance and end it. Something better shall come from this. Let go of attachments to this world. 

Touch your dreams and let them go."

And I managed to feel so much gratitude towards myself and towards God that, five months on from being a complete whack-job and bed-ridden due to severe depression, I have been able to find my voice again and open up my heart so much that I allowed someone into my life and loved him and could imagine a life with him and not focus on his flaws, but on his absolute beauty and perfection for being who he is.

So, I'm going to cease being a twat to myself and to him, and do the cerebral, rational thing and just stop thinking that this is going to happen. It is not. If I'm lucky, we'll still manage to remain friends. If it doesn't happen that way, I smiled and sang and danced for 22 solid days.

I will always remember and always be grateful for that, you dear man-boy. You've made me grow exponentially and I've just had so much love and affection and compassion for you.

I have just become a joyous little bundle of light.

It's so unusual and novel.

Me, attractive.

Me, desirable.

If someone was to check out my mind and Soul and have compassion and unconditional positive regard for those parts of me, he'd have me through and through.

I thought I had found him. But, God says otherwise.

So I was wrong and have to seriously start working on the third-eye and crown chakras now. Because my intuition and inner voice and the ability to listen to Divine guidance (without resorting to flipping random pages of the Quran) is seriously shot.

Always has been.

Now, that's all I will say today on this.

It will take time to grieve and I accept that.


***

October 2011

"... there is always hope."

"It'll get better tomorrow. It always does... Yes, this is a random email. How are you?"

***

29 November 2010

"Sounds like you have a decent selection, but you cannot blame them as they dont understand what to say to a woman like you.

You are special, so i hope that you will find that person who will appreciate you for who you are.... (wow i sound different when i listen to my heart!!!)"

***


I tasted everything.
I found nothing better than you.
When I dove into the sea,
I found no pearl like you.
I opened all the casks,
I tasted from a thousand jars,
Yet none but that rebellious wine of yours
Touched my lips and inspired my heart.
~ Rumi


***


Eighteen months is quite enough time to grieve, little soul. 

Touch your dreams... and then TRULY let them go...

***

The Tyger (William Blake)

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?


In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?


And what shoulder, & what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?


What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?


When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?


Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Critical Mass

Critical Mass
by Sukaina Juma
25 May 2012


At certain times of the day, she feels light headed. She has to sit down: either on the grass, or on the pebbled pavement.

When they get back to the house so she can get ready for the second wedding in her extended family, she has to take five minutes of sitting on the carpeted floor and close her eyes and steady the whirring energy at the back of her head.

She wonders why.

Then realises that perhaps it's concussion.

The skin at the base of her skull must have split at the first contact of the ceramic. The pain was instantaneous, unbearable. She heard him slam the front door shut as he left the house in disgust.

Her friend was right. If she couldn't come up with another strategy to make him be quiet and get away from her, she would groove in this pattern - again.

Repelling a menacing, verbal attack from the old, familiar, paternal, ancestral, unaware, threatening masculine energy with a physical attack on the self... because she deserved it.

She screamed, screamed, screamed.... the pain was really different from the previous pain.... and she swore at herself.

Why would she do this to herself, again? After so many years? This is her defunct, teenage behaviour, her old pattern of unbelievable dysfunction. Reminiscent of a vibrant history of violence.

~~~

A few weeks before, she was asked: "Why do you hit yourself?"

Her wound was clearly demarcated on the left part of her forehead. A huge bump and a small, bloodied wound. There was also a cut on her hand, resulting from picking up the broken pieces of ceramic on the floor.

She couldn't comprehend, or it was meant to be misunderstood.

"Why do I hit myself or why do I hate myself?"

A smile. "Both. If you didn't hate yourself, you wouldn't hit yourself."

Blankness. "I don't know."

What is there to love?

~~~

She didn't feel the steady trickle of blood until much later... actually, it was the metallic smell of congealed blood that first took her notice a few hours after the actual event.

She then placed her palm on the nape and touched blood-matted hair for the first time. Cool. Another experience checked off the list.

There was no way she could wash her hair, the wound was open. There was also no way she could wear a head covering. It hurt too effing much. She also didn't want to show submission to a Lord when she treated her own precious body with such disregard.

She got herself out of the house, after asking for her entourage to protect her. First, someone told her to visit the cemetery. She hadn't done that in quite a while. But her legs couldn't carry her that far.

She didn't even feel like eating.

Someone called her a few hours afterward, after she had distracted herself by surrounding herself with people who would not see her through the myriad clothing racks and glitz and affluence.

"Are you still alive?"

"Yes, pretty much. You can't do much damage with a mug."

And then... she thought of the smell of blood, the congealed mass, the fact that she couldn't put her head against the seat of the car or on her pillow because of the pain...

"...actually, I didn't realise it would be so bad." She says this because she bled.

She doesn't need the human support, she has done worse without a single soul knowing or caring.  Just so that she could sleep.

The Divine presence was there. And on the off-chance it wasn't, that too was perfect.

She didn't tell her that she had bled. It wasn't important. Besides, it was several younger versions of herself screaming for attention, not this 28 year old crone.

It is interesting to be split into several versions of oneself, to view oneself dispassionately and to know that one is doing everything because this is the work. On another level, it really is all redundant and mundane.

And absolutely heart-breaking.

"You want everyone in your vibration to worry about you."

This doesn't register. It is not the first time she asks the caller to repeat the mystical phrase. After the fourth repetition, she realises that it is not just plain stupidity, or defence mechanisms. Or the inability to understand encoded messages because she is a measly medium evolved being (MEB).

She has lost enough blood to be lightheaded and disembodied. It doesn't make sense because it doesn't need to make sense.

It also doesn't have to be completely true.

As Wayne Dyer says, guilt and worry are two absolutely useless emotions.

At least her vision has cleared, the shops in Wimbledon sparkle in high definition in the spring sunshine.

"Did you want to kill yourself or just kill the problem?"

"I think it's the first one."

"Liar, liar! When people want to do something, they find ways of doing it."

"If you give me your foolproof plan, I promise to follow it step by step."

They both laugh. At the end of the day, this linear living is funny business.

The car drives into an underground parking lot and the phone connection is severed, and the energetic connection is also severed... once again.

It sometimes feels lonely to have a really small soul family. Especially when more and more of the existing soul members are choosing to drift away to join higher vibrating souls.

And create entirely different destinies.

***

She thought that the cousin's sacred marriage ceremony, which is famed for opening up the connections to the Heavens and to dissolve the veils and blocks would shift the energy.

The scholar spoke of marriage... as the recognition of two souls completing one another. Of the masculine and the feminine joining and leading one another to a new level of perfection.

To look for the beauty of the Soul in the person you choose to marry.


This biryani wedding is possibly the most beautiful, soulful and loving ceremony she has ever attended.

Perfection.

Perhaps the ego-mind had succeeded in completely disassociating her from her roots.  The last time she had been to this mosque was three months ago.

Perhaps, as her dear Imam Ali (a.s.) has said, look to the truth of what is being said, not to who is saying it.

But there was never any guarantee. Most of the lectures made her skin crawl, so she'd rather not go.

***

And yet, the pain of hearing those words on marriage and love and soul to soul union simultaneously accosted her.

Because of a fated encounter that brought distant news of a third union of two destined souls, minds and bodies.

Because she had deluded herself about her own love story... and the marriage contract and sermon verberated as though she were at that inevitable third sacred ceremony.

The naive, sentimental 26 year-old inside of her commanded attention.

The heart is deceitful, above all things.

She got up with the excuse of needing water.

She was ever grateful that this mosque was on her home turf, and that she was not having this meltdown in Stanmore, where she had been the previous weekend.

It was the result of His Infinite Mercy that her conscious mind had temporarily forgotten the reality of his exchanging wedding vows with his bride only a few weeks ago.

It must have taken place in exactly the same mosque. Possibly on the very the day that the Shi'ite mourning period ended. The day they wear red in celebration.

She had shared the same energetic space with the both of them, only with linear time and reality separating them.

It is a blessing that she can not read energies as yet.

The Universe is kinder than we give it credit for.

There are no mistakes, coincidences or shortcuts. Everything happens exactly as it is meant to.

Unfolding in Perfection.

***

She had had an amazing time at her other cousin's wedding. Wedding cake, plus three other kinds.

She met relatives she had last seen while at university. Her younger cousins were the same loving, angelic beings as she had remembered taking care of and playing basketball with during her time in Canada.

The youngest boy was pure light. He allowed her to ruffle his spiky hair as many times as she liked. She finally understood why she liked doing that to boys. It reminded her of stroking a cat.

***

She wearily clambered up the stairs to the children's section. She usually ended up doing that every time she went to the mosque. She could only feel at ease around animals and children. Sometimes, the children even smiled back.

That night, she was the only one there.

She cried for a bit. Sat down, and let the light headedness take its course.

She took out a turbah from one of the baskets and prostrated and her soul wept out all the crap once again.

Her carefully applied eyeliner and mascara smudged and created blackness around the eyes and onto the whiteness of the tissue.

Clearing, clearing.... it had been one and a half week since she had last cried.

Her soul had tried out laughter in the mean time and had liked it.

The soul also liked variety and desired a thorough, deep, profound cleansing.

"Please help me. Let me look less like death. I consciously choose to not go through this again. It's absolutely ridiculous."

She looked out of the window to the new crescent moon and the two solitary stars... the man giving a wedding speech said they were Jupiter and Venus.


***

Her mother had been calling every day... and most times, she had not been able to answer.  In another room, or on the Tube. Or just didn't hear the phone ring.

They finally connect.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes, just on my way to a friend's and then to the cousin's wedding tonight."

"Oh right, I forgot it was today. Look nice, and have fun."

"Yes, I'm just writing out the wedding card right now."

" I don't know why I am so worried. Are you sure you're okay? Everything will be fine, have faith in God. Things come in their own time."

She tells her about something completely separate, that did have an impact, but not the core cause of her injuries.

The mater says she'll give money in charity.

***

She couldn't eat the biryani, samosa or baklawa.

That's what happens when you buy doner kebab and chips at 3pm with a friend and hang out at Streatham Common for three hours, talking randomness.

She felt sick, and restless. Nowhere to go. So she went up and down the stairs, finding solace in the dark quiet upstairs, then going down finding solace in the chatter, the perfume and the glinting sequins of the variously coloured cloth.

She wiped off the trails of eyeliner, reapplied her lipstick and tried to make her hair look less straw-like in the bathroom mirror.

She practised her smile to match the occasion of her third (or fourth) cousin's marriage.

***

And yet, the grace of God encompasses even the most miserable of creatures....

They recognised her from when she was little, they remembered her mother's name. They shared memories of when she was "this small" and would knick their purses during the lecture, and then have her mum look for the owners later on.  They told her to visit the mosque more often.

One of her aunts asked her to visit the family in Kampala.

***

Kampala. That was the last year her grandfather was alive and would buy her "jugoo" (roasted peanuts in their red skin) rolled up in a newspaper cone when they went to the post office. That was the year they went to Jinja to eat freshly caught and cooked fish.

She remembered the scent of the wet, red earth after the torrential rain would rain down relentlessly on the grooved metalled sheet roof for an hour and then magically stop and the sun would force its way back into their reality. The peat would smell of baking then...

Kampala... lush, green... Africa.

Roots.

Roots that dig deep into the Earth, grounding one into the reality one finds oneself in.

She shivered as she remembered dodging the flying cockroaches at the cemetery.

It was a time of limbo - a year's reprieve from the business of living "real life". Amazing how, even in the depths of luscious Africa, one can find oneself in chains.

And continue the business of pining for, yearning for the impossible. And living in a constant daydream.

She had written a story about a powerful witch in a forest for her English project that year. She got the star for best story.

Hardly surprising. She is extremely good at telling stories.

***


Another aunt said she looked uncomfortable and flustered, and asked if everything was okay.

"Yes, I've just got a fever and a virus due to the change in the weather."

"Yes, but you had that same fever last weekend at the other wedding."

She smiled.

What can she say?

Last weekend was actually a good weekend, chère tante... and one cannot stop one's menstrual cycle, can one?

I've been trying to look and feel less than death, chère tante. I even pinched my cheeks and splashed water on my face.

I suppose the loss of blood has done funny things to me on both occasions.

***

They smiled at her. They asked her if she had eaten.

They hugged her.

They called her by her name.

They remembered her.

***

She stands outside the mosque, and carefully registers the people, and the building.

She grew up as a child here.

The brickwork is familiar. The air smells the same. A letter is missing from the name plate of the mosque.

She thinks to herself, "If they add another L instead of an S, it'll read Illamic Centre - a centre for llamas. Oh, I think I am so funny!"

As she waits, yet another ritual from the past, she turns her back away from the madding crowd and looks to the sky for the two stars, Venus and Jupiter. She can't see the crescent, nor two stars. Just the one.

"I need help, here."

***

At least she cleans up nicely.

She had bought clothes of the latest style from Southall two weeks ago so as to blend in with the rest of them. So as to measure up, not show up as a sore thumb. She had a hair straightener to tame her unruly curls. Her sole pair of heels matched with her sole evening bag: both an elegant, sateen black.

She had asked for her head to be healed during the night so that she could wash her hair: the invisible stitches threaded their way in the depths of her sleep.

Rinse and repeat, three times.

Imagine rainbow showers clearing off all the karma, the stuck energies, the core root cause.

Then take a ritual ablution to greet the new month, to wash off the blood, to wash off the heaviness, the hate, the grief, the confusion, to wash off the cords, attachments and blocks: to purify with a thorough purification.

Her legs ache. Her feet ache. Her head hurts.

Funny how that bruise from September re-emerged a few weeks ago, in sympathy. In order to clear the trauma created.

Or so she cleverly deludes herself into thinking.

***

"You are rotting," can also be misheard as "You are rotten".

A natural progression for carcasses.

***

Still waters run deep;
deep waters can also be mistaken as still,
they may be whirlpools of despair that sink all who come into contact with them.

Even lighthouses and rescue ships.

***

The message behind the words
is the voice of the heart.
~ Rumi

Seek not here the words,
Search them elsewhere.
Sing to me in the silence of the heart
And I will rise from the earth to hear
Your winning song.
~ Rumi

En-light-ened

The stage is set...

This time I trust in Thee.
This time I know it is all facade.

This time... I KNOW.

I feel that my wanting to remain in Spirit has caused me to lack the humanity I was seeking to become when I came here.

Can there really be times when you're running too quickly towards en-light-ening yourself?

Does one really have to go through the charade of living through and being human and having these dense emotions and really nonsensical impulses and thoughts?

Sometimes, trust is a feeling.

Sometimes, one cannot trust until Thou grants me Grace and allows me to trust.

And even that is ephemeral.

Hope. There is always hope, little one.


It is all play, though. All not really real, yet so real.

This is the work.
This is the work.
This is the work.


Let go, trust, keep the faith... you are being guided...

Am I? How can I possibly know that? All is chaos.


Ask your heart... ask it how it feels today. 
Not how it felt yesterday, or a year ago. 
Or how it might feel in the future.


How does your heart feel now?

Steady,
at peace,
blissful...
calm,
trusting,
happy!

It is unbelievably light... and I'm thriving in this state now. I like this feeling. It is my natural state. It is safe to feel this expansive :)

Is that not grace from God?

'Tis indeed... something I have hoped for and wanted for years now.

And the ego chirps: you're still not psychic enough, you're still where you were a year ago.... you still haven't accomplished a single thing, look at them all! Look at what they've all gone and done!

And I say shhhh.....

I have grown. 
I may not be where I'd like to be, 
but at least I am not where I was.

Today, those words don't seem hackneyed, or cliché.

I trust, I have faith... have I surrendered? There is ever such a fine line between surrender and resignation.

He knows best.

I feel loved, lovable and loving - even though there is not a single person here.

Even though all my relationships have gone for yet another massive overhaul.

It is not about the externalities.

I need to stop using those battery jacks to use other people to ignite me....


Relight the inner flame... there really has got to be something in there, somewhere....

Or am I really just a carcass... destining myself daily to wander the hallways of this earth,
without grace, without a trace of purpose... without any fire left in the heart and belly?

Why do I still forget?

Why, in the perfection of all things, do I still forget?

Flares, retrogrades.... me....

I am not the personality... I am much more than that.

Transcendence means pain, and going through all of it one last time... or more than once, depending on how masochistic one is!

What a system!

I am supported, I am not in this alone.... all I have to do is ask for help.

So please... help!

Help.... me... if only because that makes me feel like helping those others I am meant to.

But next time, God, next time, I choose to be pure light - none of this light worker business.

Too darned complex and confusing.

Can't understand a damned thing!