It's Not Him I Lost - It's Me I Lost When He Left

I never thought it would take me this long to get over the man whom I count as my first love.

The interesting fact about human beings is that we can be highly intelligent and even intellectually superior on so many levels about our personal lives. We try to use our rational logic as much as we can in order to survive in this world. After all, this is all I've been taught in the western educational and training system. Of course, I am now waking up to the fact that we are now making way for emotional andspiritual intelligence. We are recognising that our empathy and our creativity will probably allow us to survive somehow the catastrophic events that we are witnessing daily.

Yet, when it comes to the most soul baring, identity stripping experiences, where does the logic even decide to come in? It arrives and stands besides you, as you agonise and ooze out all sorts of illogical emotions and cuss at the object of your desire when he rejects you.

Yes, I never met the guy in the flesh. So what? I never thought this would happen, falling in love with typed words and photographs on a computer screen. I don't plan on writing an entire novel about it. It's a non-event.

"You fell in love with someone you never met. Ahhhhhh, yes."

I met him online in August 2010 and it only seems that now after writing him two final emails in the last few weeks and my receiving two back (it is a huge reality check for me as to how fundamentally he has changed inside of himself in the last year to be that quick and civil in responding to me). I have real closure. Trouble is, I still never find the inner courage to open up his emails as soon as I see them in my inbox. They always shimmer with his light, his love and his energy and it makes me weep. I still need to build up courage to open them up a few days later.

Once, I remember, it took me two weeks before I somehow was in a neutral space to read his message to me.

I get images flashing through my mind about all the fun he is having with his partner. They travel the world, you see. Business class, you see. Cycling in the lavender fields of Marseilles and snorkeling in the clear turquoise seas somewhere nameless in the world. I HAD asked him where the photos were taken, but he was being his usual secretive self and never answered me that. So I'm guessing the Bahamas or Dominican Republic. The ocean was so clear that his dark, silky hair had made a soft crown all around his head.

My heart softens whenever I think of him and then the grief pours out in tears. For six entire years I have cried over my loss: over what I see as a stolen opportunity, as my never been given a chance to show my light and love in a relationship with someone I actually connected with so deeply.

The tears never seem to want to dry up. Neutrality and even indifference I have prayed for, yet this gullible, softening heart just cannot seem to understand those different opposite states of being.

What really hit my ego, identity or pride was what he wrote in his final email to me last week, "I never thought I would find someone perfect for me, until I met my Mrs."

It really pained me, and I started getting the thoughts back in my head about how ridiculous I was being and about how I was never good enough. To him, he was just stating the facts. For me, it seemed to say a lot about me and my flaws than it did about him and his life.

After a week, I am slightly more settled in my being. Only slightly. I still am weeping massive tears during adho mukha svasana (downward dog pose) in my yoga. To the point, the mat becomes slippery because it's so wet.

What I have never, ever understood is HOW on EARTH did I fall for someone so hard and deeply, when even I was fully aware we were not at all compatible? He is handsome and has very beautiful, expressive dark brown eyes, but so do a lot of men! His lifestyle is what I label as active, rushed, swanky and luxurious. He wears tuxedos to formal events and when I saw that photo of him at a wedding, something inside of me shuddered. It spoke of conformity and I have been doing my best to break free of that level of artifice in my own self.

I am more of a hippie, constantly seeking inner and thereafter outer freedom. So I eat simply and mostly vegetarian food sitting on the floor. I am constantly seeking my purpose and a way to make my own mark upon the world. I love to travel, we do have that in common. I'd be happy in a Buddhist temple meditating and learning or on a yoga retreat on a delicous beach, he would be trekking or touring somewhere. I also have had certain health issues that have limited my activities and ambitions for the last few years.

He never understood that, and wasn't prepared to take it on as part of his day to day life. I entirely agreed with that, but I never realised it would take me 6 years to recover and even then, not entirely.

Memories we keep in a box

And I asked myself today, "Really, Sukaina, you knew then as you know now that you guys would never be able to be together as partners. All the intense emotions, the complete blankness and inner excavation of your heart and gut that overtook you from 2010 to 2013 - yes, they all happened. He was oblivious to all of it, and had gotten married to his girlfriend by then.

So what is the real issue here? Why are you still crying over a phantom?"

I had even hit myself on the head with a blunt object until I bled when I found out he had gotten married and never even thought it would be kind to let me know when he had proposed to her. So that this stubborn and ignorant heart would stop loving him and praying for him to come back to me, to give me a chance to at least speak to him and meet him.

But what we must always hold clear is that this human existence is one that can be extremely trying to us and very confusing. What people do in one frame of mind is possibly their only recourse at the time.

We must let people go to the extremes of what is considered appropriate behaviour at times. Even and especially ourselves, as judgement doesn't suit the expansion and growth of the soul. So what was needed at the time for my growth as a person is no longer required.

At the time, to me he was the perfect person for me. I had never met anyone like him, with whom I could have a proper intelligent conversation. When we spoke, the air sizzled. My heart would beat very quickly, to the point it would physically hurt and cause breathlessness.


But that was then, in 2014. If we put aside the fact that I am yet to find someone with whom I had such a close connection with and if we put aside my current living circumstances that seem to close down on my desire to experience life as I'd like to, what is really going on here?

Why do I feel so lost, as though a part of me will never be replaced unless he is in my life somehow, in any limited capacity?

And softly, my heart responded.

"You miss yourself, not him. You lost yourself when you met him."

Mosaic of my psyche

I cannot argue with that. I just cannot.

I remember clearly that after he wrote me a few abrupt texts and decided I wasn't worth any more investment of time and energy, that version of me began dying a slow painful death.

Time slowed down and my mental functions slowed down as well. My body began hurting. I couldn't sleep at night. I kept weeping and scenes of my being run over by cars played in my mind constantly, especially when I was walking down the street. I stopped reading the books I had been reading and I stopped drawing mandalas. I still haven't drawn a mandala in six years, whereas before meeting him I drew them very frequently to help me calm my manic mind and the anxieties.

Courtesy Emmanuel Dagher

The person I was when I first met him and interacted with him is not the person I am now. She was naive and gullible as hell, and very sweet and childish. Extremely introverted, she lived her entire life through her imagination, books and film. She had complicated emotional issues as well and was still very disassociated from her entire body and being.

She didn't know how to interact with a man in a romantic capacity, since he was the first person to ever show serious interest and she had had a very sheltered upbringing. She was so shy, she told him to wait for a month before they spoke on the phone. And when they spoke, she had become so angry at him because he wasn't replying to her texts as frequently as she would have liked that he hung up on her after five minutes.

The words wouldn't formulate in her mouth. She felt intimidated and scared by him as a result of the intensity of the attraction. It was an effort to pretend to be a regular human being in front of him, when her entire body and mind had fallen in upon themselves.

It was around the time she met him that her dark night of the soul began, and everything fell apart. I mean, everything. No interests, no life goals, little sleep, little confidence, and the two things she prided herself on: her intelligence and her writing, they all dwindled into nothingness.

She stopped writing, the words wouldn't formulate... and she stopped making sense.

She cried a lot, and sought solace in New Age spirituality. She went to healing workshops which focussed on clearing past life contracts and relationships and learned that 80% of the energy, beliefs and thoughts in her energy field and pores were not even hers. She learned about epigenetic research, spiritual cords and how when you are obsessed by someone, it is because of the unhealthy cording in your solar plexus and that the cording is hooked into a core belief that needs healing.

She became even more of an alien to herself.

Her parents couldn't make sense of the new version of her she was becoming and attacked through their words and actions. He friends stayed as long as they could until something about her heaviness put them off so much, they left as well.

The funny thing is, she could see all of this as clear as day. And just couldn't shift it.

Black dog, Winston Churchill used to call it. I called mine Barney, so as to make him ridiculous. I couldn't laugh at it much. Still can't, to be honest.

That was then. She survived the cold, empty, loud nights by buying a battery operated Alan Titchmarsh second hand radio from a local knick knack shop and listening to the inane conversations on Absolute Radio. The crazy radio presenters really saved her life some nights. They would say something so obscure and ridiculous that she would chuckle into her tear soaked pillow and then be able to sleep.

She would look in the mirror as she forced herself to brush her teeth and just didn't know who was looking back at her.

Was it him?

Was it her?

His voice reverberated in her head, the phrases, the fonts, the laughter... there had been one good conversation. A few very fun and loving online conversations on social media.
 
His eyes blazed into hers when she closed them at night and she felt her heart sinking and leaking all over again.

She began overeating and developed a sugar addiction that only recently was diagnosed.

On the bright side, she came across dozens of very creative and healing sad Bollywood and Pakistani Coke Studio songs such as Chayi Hai Tanhai, Paimana Bideh and Neun La Leya to reflect the pain and disintegration of her being. More recently, the first Alan Walker song, Faded and Umer Farooq's haunting Keh Na were discovered and soothed her aching soul.

This was all then.

"So, my question again, Sukaina, is why are the tears leaking now, just as forcefully and passionately as they did then? 

Have the wounds not yet healed? 
Did you re-attach a negative cord back to him out of habit? 
Do you have toxic, nuclear levels of karma that just won't be cleared through your prayers and acts of service?

What is it? God, why does the pain not stop? He is just a MAN!

You know he is not a twin flame. We changed the fabric of the universe and entered a parallel universe whereby he is a soul like all the others you have no link with, to the point you will become indifferent to him. Forget him entirely.

We entered a universe whereby you are back on form with all the advocacy and changes you are to bring to people's lives, in the form that is best for everyone involved. Maybe kids, maybe refugees, and all to do with mental health and consciousness and clearing obstacles to expression. Definitely to do with art, music, writing and creativity to a level you've never experienced before.

So, what's up? Why the tears and the devastation in the heart? Why recreate the exact same feelings and regrets you had six years ago? You have all the pink, green and black crystals you possibly could to heal the heart and clear the cords! You even have the flower remedies to ensure you never repeat the same mistakes! You even became a bona fide SHAMAN to ensure you could walk your own sacred feminine path to God, and let go of the attachments to this world.

You prayed for relief at the sacred tomb of Jelaluddin Rumi in Konya, Turkey. And in the Valley of Kings in Luxor, Egypt. (Okay, well I prayed in the swanky hotel I was staying at the spiritual retreat at - we did past clearings then - well, so we said!)

Surely your ego isn't still so massive that you would even entertain the thought that he loved you at some point? Or that you guys had a chance and were somehow sabotaged? Or that him being with the woman of his dreams is somehow an insult to you, since you have had less than ideal experiences with men since him?"

The answer is always so simple.

We have the layers of karmic explanations, and the karmic debt 16/7 explanations and the Atlantis and Lemuria explanations... and then there is the practical explanation.


I lost myself when he left. Not BECAUSE he left.

I had lost perhaps 50% of myself before I had met him, then lost another 30% after meeting him and him leaving.... and my connection with my Creator became fragmented.

It still is, which is why he has such an impact upon me. When you make an intimate connection with a person or circumstance that interferes with your God connection, drama ensues.

I still don't read any fiction, which I used to devour with a passion. I don't read any of the New Age books either, unless it is really important, such as looking for an affirmation. I'm reading Matt Kahn's new book Whatever Arises, Love That: A Love Revolution That Begins With You because I have to write the review of it for this blog and another online magazine, but it's taking me an absurdly long time. I just can't focus too much.

I used to play tennis at university, and stopped since then and even though I have the opportunity to play here, I don't. I go to a few musical and healing or spiritual meditation events here and there, but nothing major. I have stopped running as well!

My flame keeps petering out.... I can't really persuade myself to become passionate about anything in my personal life. In my career and professional life, I have a clearer idea about what I wish to do. I am passionate about helping people, through writing and other means. To enhance lives. To bring about peace and joy and forward progress.

My yoga practice is my mainstay, and even that I have had to cajole myself into keeping up the classes because I know how it is benefiting me on all levels.I also know what happens when I stop going for classes: the cycle repeats itself.

That is basically it.

I do not miss him any longer, there is nothing to miss. We miss memories, we regret actions - and we are in the now. After six years, even someone as nostalgic and romantic as I am has come to terms with the real world.

Maybe I was under some sort of spell I wove expertly for myself. My soul always knew that I had to encounter many illusions and that the pain in their removal will bring about my refreshed and humbled soul.

It is just the realisation that, after reclaiming all my energy back from him, I am still somewhat adrift. I still don't feel whole, that fragments of my soul and self are somewhere other than inside of me. I still don't have any real plans, any real goals, any real interests that I used to have once, or that other people have.

And it has finally dawned on me that it had nothing to do with him, after all! It really could just have been anyone. The soul lessons are learned through any person fit for the role. It's never really personal in the end.

And so my soul cries and the tears drop onto the blue yoga mat during downward dog for the years wasted in illusions so thick and strong, they felt so very real to me.

I was expecting some sort of happy ending, in the form of friendship at the very least. Instead, he makes a lame joke about us being together next lifetime, and the headache he would experience in having two wives. When I read that, I knew that he was doing his best to be kind and friendly. Yet, there was no depth of connection and no flower of acknowledgement.

I did not appreciate his sense of humour. Two wives. Yes, quite an idea, just what I had been hinting at. Not!Almost as funny as his assumption I had intended to move to Turkey for reasons more insidious than to teach TEFL.

Connection, empathy and acknowledgement: those are the things I have to make available to myself from myself.

I am getting there.

Shamanic tools for healing

There is a theory in shamanic circles that we make ourselves go through trauma, then heal it but not entirely, as within the little scar lays the core of our supreme healing powers. I prefer that perspective to the one I have been telling myself: you're weird and emotionally naive.

I pray the empathy that I have realised through this experience will emanate to everyone who is also dealing with their trauma and wounds. As of now, it hasn't quite been the case as I am the one in need of my own understanding.

I became a character in a Jane Austen novel. The most poorly written one, with social media, emotional health issues, silence, passive aggression and ghosting taking centre stage.

What now?
Who am I without this obsession that took over six years of my life?
How do I redeem myself?

I am who I am. And I most certainly am where I am.

Judgements may flow all though my veins about where I ought to be, and yet, perhaps every single part of this roller-coaster video game is pre-planned before incarnation. My free will lays in my response.

And a response of absolute devotion and gratitude to the divine is needed.

And the response seems to always be love and forgiveness, for self and others.

My ability to be authentic about my weaknesses and flaws and mistakes is a good way to break through my self-made obstacles, in a way. One cannot be a writer if one cannot be willing to expose themselves through the words on the page.

For me, it mainly is to do with feeling all emotions as equally valid, and giving myself the love I have avoided giving to myself for years.

You see, God is waiting for me to call Him my Beloved.

In the end, God has been the Patient One (as-Sabur), waiting in the wings for me to accept and acknowledge the love between the exalted Creator and His wonderful creation.

The mystics and dervishes don't go mad for no reason, they have tasted the sublimity of Divine love and nothing else can compare after that.

Be noble, for you are made of stardust...

Come, come, again,
Whoever you are, Come!
Heathen, Fire worshipper or idolatrous,
Come! Come even
If you have broken
Your penitence a hundred times,
Ours is the portal of hope
Come as you are...
Ours is not a caravan of despair

Mevlana Jelaluddin Rumi

Let us hope for that for Sukaina. I feel she has taken powerful steps towards the esteemed honour of becoming entirely annihilated and thereafter to be solely in the world and definitely not of it.

In society, but not meant to be like anyone else. In pure service to His creation.

It has been a while since I went to a temple, synagogue or church to devote to the silence. I suppose my soul would like that sort of ritual again.

For Mere Trinkets

Danielle MacKinnon

2 hrs ·

We're still in a "stuff is going on behind the scenes" period so don't freak out that everything isn't clicking together quite yet - there is a lot happening that we all can't see and it's all for our benefit. Want it all to show up faster? Spend time now enjoying yourself! That speeds up the "good" coming in!




*****


This sleeplessness is a sickness... which turns into sleepiness and the soul continues to trail behind everyone else.


I just began to listen to Coke Studio Season 6. Oh, if my life was different, I could at least be a backing singer for Atif's Channa. My God, chaa gaye again.


http://youtu.be/Se3YjfBCVbQ


Well, at least my prayer to find new music to stir my soul into action has been answered. Thank You, Allah. Seriously. You know how music is an integral part of my life.


Atif Aslam also got married last year and recently had a son. This is all news to me. After all, I've been under a rock for thirty odd years. It saddens me that my life distances me from all of this. I had prayed so hard to somehow meet him when I was in Pakistan. Now I understand how could I, he was busy becoming a father. I've lost out on so many things, all in order to gain a soul and a heart that is filled with the love for Allah. Once that happens, then all this celebrity and fame,  I won't really care.


But until then, my ego cares. I saw what I did to myself in Pakistan.


We don't really love them, we love the shadows they portray us. If we were channelling fully and training in the arts and expressing our inner essence in totality, they would not feel somehow above us, or somehow better than us. They would honour our light just as much as we honour theirs. We would hear the cheering wherever we walked, rather than dote over someone else who found their own unique channel.


The decent, humble teachers constantly remind themselves that it's a group effort, and that they are nothing in their identity. That it only for the grace of God that they are who they are.


The arrogant ones, like myself, are then forced to fall.


The light dims from my eyes,
the rust congeals upon my heart,
my soul is in agony,
and the simplest of things...
are difficult to create, to bring into existence.


All of this is done with Love.
Your heart is so precious to me,
I cannot let you regress or retard...


I doubt this Allah.


I have perpetuated a cycle of self abuse, violence, deprivation, stagnation, blindness and ignorance.


Not only am I disconnected from the purity and the life that is the true core of Islam, I am disconnected from myself and from the outer world.


It is a full moon and I am least bothered about going outside to meditate.


I am encaged, whereas others travel without a royal butt kicking, take the healing courses they need to take - such as ENLP and Sidra's course and Divine healing and Soul Plan Reading and


My heart really wants to go into music and singing, learning the piano or violin - is it too late, not really. But all I find myself are in strings and chains.


For the most part, all of my dreams seem to be just dreams...


The full moon is in 12 or so hours and I'm meant to be doing releasing and allowing. That's what we do, consciously. I just can't see, to want to do anything, just so tired and cannot concentrate. Maybe that is the releasing.




******


An hour later.


Wow, I was listening to Paimanah Bideh by Zeb and Haniya, and wanted to post on Facebook to honour my shedding of the last remnants for the full moon. Suddenly have a craving to be seen. Very full moon like behaviour :p


Then this flowed through.


WOW.

http://youtu.be/gIi6vf4433A

In honour of the full moon in Capricorn (tomorrow, 1pm - ish BST), which is about healing and honouring the divine feminine. I love how I've been doing it without realising I was doing it, hahaha.

I honour my inner divine goddess and the inner romantic urges... I allow my emotions to wax like the ocean's tides, I heal those parts that are still festering, and I melt those frozen parts of my heart. I clear all contracts, pacts, karma, beliefs that keep me and anyone else stuck and unable to move and progress and expand. I unleash my creativity and my gifts and talents, for music, for dance, for expression. I remain silent and allowing, and nurture those aspects which need it.


Innocently enough, it began.

A gentle hum
of sweet innocent kinship
 
My light shimmers in your eyes,
because I reflect your brilliance in my smile.

You fear I will devour you entirely,
and I fear that I shall lose myself and
succumb to your charms.

We both say we love God,
yet we both know our lips betray our true intent.

We lie.

We feel ashamed at our weakness,
that we have made each other our god,
and the cravings increase with each nuance, each sigh,
each healing glance,
each murmur in the throat,
each careful caress of the pliant hand.

This tenderness will be my death.
I try to run away from it,
leaving my sandals at the tombs of the saints
resting upon the bloodied, purified sands.

I cannot hide,
the people on the streets can smell
the scent of my devotion a mile away.

The smoke of ardour is hardly ever hidden well.

"There goes the crazy one,
She has lost her senses.
She glides upon the earth,
we cannot see her footprints anywhere.

She stands in the sun,
yet casts no shadow upon the earth.

The junoon has her fermenting all over.

This young, shy, naive grape
is fermenting.

She is becoming wine,
a deep ruby red,
in just a fleeting instant of being
crushed under Love’s feet.

She has now become intoxicated
with her own image of beauty,
charm, tenderness, endless peace and tranquillity.

Let us go near and drink of her nectar.
Let us become immortal within her lilac flame.
Let us become divine just by gazing upon her
as she gazes at the stars in the dark, still nights.”

When you run too far from the beloved,
the beloved becomes tired of chasing after you.
It is easier to love someone who
knows how to receive it.

The mirrors all shatter,
and distort the truth for even more lies.

And, years after a continuous falling back asleep and being
shaken awake, until the veins bleed,
the chosen woman finally understands
that the divine is a benevolent, yet jealous benefactor.

Anything that takes her away from Him
is seized without warning,
leaving a trail of regret, harsh words,
unforgiveness,
and unfulfilled vows.

She prostrates upon the dust.

She becomes dust,
crushed under the weight
of aeons of solitude and confusion
until, finally, she looks up and
instead of crying tears of blood

her vision has been cleared with saltwater
and everywhere,
she can see the One who needs no one but Himself to sustain the All.

The forms change, their essence remains.

Slowly, slowly, her heart opens again
and the Beloved is her, her saviour is within her -
and they are magnetically drawn to her once again.

Yet, this time, it matters not what they do.
The repeated patterns are evident, amusing,
both those of hers and those of the Other.

As long as she reminds herself to remain true
to herself and her Lord,
she will remain safe from further humiliation.

She may have to pinch herself every day
to remind herself.

Yet, her battered feet have travelled upon shards of rock,
her skin has been ravaged by the desert winds
far too long
for her to now forget Who She Is
and revert to her former state.

Her gift to them is the knack to love with a sincere
o  p  e  n  n  e  s  s
that is also her very protection

To be loved sincerely and truly in return,
with them seeing her as her truth.

This is God’s grace.

To demonstrate the profound good opinion God has of you,
to reflect His deep, soft, undulating
sweetness,
so that your curled bud may
unfurl into its full glory.

“We have written it all in a Manifest book”.

Yet, she is the Book, the writer and the reader.
As is each of us.

A mirror has mirrors too.

When everyone remembers
they are their unique version of the light,
and each of very high value,
how can any sense of inferiority or superiority exist?

Open your palms to receive your own light through this vessel.
Let the words scrawled upon the page refresh your eyes,
so you may see....

And although she grieved,
those she lost came back to her in different forms.
All the more dear.
For their worth has been realised, as has her own worth.

And, this time, We remind ourselves
We do not gamble or trade the love of our Beloved,
for mere trinkets any longer: a glass of wine,
a life of companionship and mercy,
many a whispered word of tenderness,
respectability,
conformity,
functionality...

Be the state you wish to feel.

Be Love, then you will experience it.

Be Peace, then you will exude it,
causing their eyes to water at the sweetness
of willow,
of honeysuckle.

Be the healer,
the vessel, the channel:
then you will understand
your true worth.

~ Sukaynah Juma, 11 July 2014


WOW.

she is the one whom he could not love

She creates such beautiful pictures in her head.
The world and all its timelines are malleable in her hands,
just like the gooey substance that clay is made of.

She enjoys playing in the mud,
making a mess of something when, if she chose,
she could stand up and walk away.

Or could she?

She had really wanted him.

She had really, really wanted him.

Of all the things that confused her, the way he made her feel safe and gave her comfort confused her the most. Just by thinking of him, just by growling his name in her throat, she called him to her. He would be there besides her, comforting her, nurturing her heart and body in a way she couldn't do for herself.

He had had good intentions. He used fancy ways to express himself just to woo her. Just to make an impression on her bloodstained soul.

"I like you just as you are, little one. I am not going anywhere. If we have a connection, why are you hiding from me? Why are you rejecting me over and over again? Why won't you let me love you?"

Her heart responded, even though her lips could not, " You don't know how to love yet, my boy. You think you do, but you only love yourself, and even that... not fully. You pick and choose whom you love, when you love, and how you love. Is that what you wish me to settle for?

You said I am one of the few people you can tolerate.

Tolerance? Is that what I ask from you? Tolerance? Is that all you can give me?

I fucking love you, boy. Can you not feel it in your veins, in your pores, in every breath you take?

Does my voice not haunt your dreams the way yours does mine?

I. Fucking. Love. You.

It fucking scares the hell out of me that I can love you with such a deepness, with such a desperation, with such a falling and lack of control.

I feel guilty as hell for not letting you love me, be near me, touch my cheek, the small of my back, the beating of my heart, I can't even let you hold my hand. I want you to slowly rub the insides of my thighs until I orgasm my wetness all over your hands: your silky soft, dangerously attractive hands.

Have you seen how beautiful your hands are? Have you really seen yourself? The moment I saw them, I wanted to hold them, to feel them stroke me all over, until I vibrated and meshed inside of you.

Do you know how gorgeous your eyes are?

They are molten, alluring like a gazelle's.

You are soft inside. So soft, so vulnerable. I saw you, I wanted to take you in my arms and just hold you until you stopped hurting so much. That's all.

And all you have shown me is facade, bravado... and I can't break through to you. And, in spite, I choose not to let you come near me. Because... you will HURT me and I am done with hurting you."

He left. Because she loved him. He actually left the moment she told him she loved him. It was puzzling, it was interesting. She thought the boy she fell in love with would be immune to the cliche of giving up the chase. She thought it was a spiritual union.

She thinks too much.

An interesting exercise.

The dusk falls upon the town she lives in. She is tired.

Why did she think of him today? Because she did something she did a year ago.

A year ago he married his soul mate, the right one. She tried to rise above it and understand that he did not want to be with her. It was too much for her to keep inside, though.

Because it was her fault. She drove him away. There was something inherent in her that he did not like, for which he could not open his heart and love her with the soft tenderness she felt for him.

And so she bled. She made herself bleed and experience a searing pain.

"He can love someone else, commit to her, marry her, make love to her repeatedly, penetrate her body, buy her groceries, they will soon have a boy who will look exactly like him... so why not me? Why was he not the patient man he told me he was? Why did he not wait for me to grow open?"

She remembered him today. Just in passing.

We do not control the thoughts we think. They just enter our minds, then leave if we allow them to. We are in a big cosmic soup, a melange of energies and intentions and barriers and experiences.

He liked to play football and cricket. Those facts somehow aroused her at the time.

Sleep is vital for the undead.
Their pallid souls revive with sleep.
Their aching heads heal,
as archangel Raphael weaves his green threads
through the night.

Healing the girl who still aches for him sometimes.

She is the one whom he could not love.

An unfathomable silence permeates.

The veils are many, the barriers interject.
Rather than focussing on all of them, she sticks like glue to the one thing she can think of.
She cannot see.

When they do meet, he will be safe from her and she from him.
Neither of them will speak;
it will be clear and manifest in luminous writing.

Tolerance and safety cannot be a foundation for a relationship.

Let it go. Do not listen to the mind which says you are Lady Macbeth. Barren and bloodied.

It is only as true as you wish it to be.
Mercy and grace are forces which come through your sleep.
He is kinder than you give Him credit for.

She bows her head down in submission to the Lord of the Worlds.
She may be far from Him,
but that does not mean that she is damned for eternity.

Two things can happen:
both are acceptable once she truly surrenders.
Awareness comes first, though, my dear.

~ Sukaina Juma
9th March 2013

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