8:08

I wake on Dec. 25, and the first thing I see is "8:08". Though the digits are not identical triplets, they are fraternal, and they stick to my mind.

I woke up un-hungry and uninspired, but anxious nonetheless. I had been explaining my position on the team of 18 and the adventure that awaits me some 4+ months into the future to my family members at a gathering the night before. I did not (and do not) yet know all of the details, and I still had (and still have) the slightest twinge of anxiety about whether everything will pan out smoothly. And those conversations were still in my mind....

...as were previous conversations from that day, this week, and these past months. And as were the people who have teetered into and out of my world at various intervals and integers of time and space--my mind focused on a specific 3: 3 lovely ladies who had been significant players in my history, and with whom I had reconnected in 2010.

And I think of the 1 I lost this year: Siddi. Three months and 1 day ago, he left. His 1 bed, the 1 recliner, and the 2 chairs that were in his room have now been replaced by 2 couches. I only know because I stole a peripheral glance when I passed the room last night. I didn't enter. I couldn't.

God tells us we are told what we need to know and given what we need to have, and we don't need to know and have everything. People, places, periods of time are all as they are meant to be when they are meant to be.

And now, it's 11:11, and I think about the new connections and adventures that have already started to shape and will, insha'Allah, come to full fruition in 2011.

And all of it reminds me that life is a funny little game of numbers and waiting, wallah.

Going

Friday was a weird day.

I woke up to a weird dream I couldn't remember; I deleted a contact from my phone; I added a contact to my phone; I reminded my friend that my life was the consistent one and there is never anything "new;" my plans to straighten my hair were foiled by an at-home father; I drank ice-tea that had stalks of lemongrass in it; I saw a friend who I hadn't seen in several years but had just mentioned that afternoon;  I played ring-around-the-Metro with hundreds of Usher fans; and I got a phone call that would change my life.

And now, I'm going to Mount Everest and Palestine.

I'm going with a group of 18+ Palestinians from around the world to share the Palestinian story and spirit with groups of people from around the world. Lammet Shamel bt lim il shiml.

I'm going to represent Beitilu and At Tur, dar El-Khatib and dar Abu El-Hawa.

I'm going to represent the Palestinian, Muslim, female, Gemini, "gingy"s.

I'm going...God-willing.

Mindless luxury

Here I am: half seated, half reclined--gazing past my laptop's top at my TV screen watching materialism and propaganda in 30 second clips. This is mindlessness.

This is luxury.

I pay no particular mind to the warm fleece blanket tangled around my warm fleece The North Face sweats on my queen-size jersey sheets. I admire my laptop's carrying case that I've yet to use and wonder about the many places that I will eventually transport it to--top of mind is Busboys and Poets for a hot chocolate date. I hear a chime on my iPhone and read the texts that have come through. I grab a tissue to clear my stuffed sinuses, and toss it in the fashionable silver-mesh trash can, which sits in-between my bed and my reclining chair.

I stare mindlessly again at the flat-screen TV in-front of me and see the dress that needs sewing out of my periphery.

This is the routine that will repeat itself for the next several hours of my at-home sick day. [cough, sneeze, ukh]

And during this mindless "at-home sick day," paid to stay home and tend to my ills day, I've thought of them--the people who don't even have regular access to a tissue box.

They have heart.  I pray they will soon have warmth, perhaps in the fleece form, and will be able to half-sit, half-recline in a safe, personal space--a home. I pray they will have access to what they desire, for a person with heart is efficient with his or her wants and appreciative of what they deliver. I pray they will pull a tissue at-will to clear their stuffed sinuses during their "at-home sick day," paid to stay home and tend to their ills.

I pray they will have luxury in their lives, and will have moments when, if only for a few TV soundbites and laptop keystrokes, worries melt away into mindlessness.

Electric blue

Two light rays beamed at me--the bluest blue I had ever seen. Had I filled you with the waters from the deepest depths of the most tropic oceans, I could never have produced that magnificent shade of blue eyes that Allah intended only for you.

And they seemed that much bluer juxtaposed against your olive skin--darkened even darker by the summer Falasteenee sun; your left arm darker than your right, marking you as one who drives often, and in your case, for a living.

Although I do not remember your name--I'm not even sure I was ever told what it was--I can never forget you: not just because I was hypnotized by your eyes, but because you were Ramallah through and through but had never seen Al Quds and that is why your du3a became mine and my du3a returned to you...insha'Allah.

As I stole glimpses of your blues in your rearview mirror, I listened intently as you told your passengers (my father in the front seat, and my mother and I in the back) about your failed attempts to cross to Jerusalem and pray in Al Aqsa. My father, ready to brag about his daughter at any opportunity, said proudly that I had gone several times. And, so, you looked at me in your rearview mirror, and requested...

...Id3eelee.

Our eyes locked for a split second, and then, I nodded a shy "insha'Allah," and lowered my gaze...

And right then and there, I prayed my first du3a for you. I've yet to pray my last.

I doubt you remember the rides you gave us to Beitilu and back to Ramallah and I doubt you recall asking this stranger/countrywoman to pray that the foreigners at the checkpoint will let you pass, and grant you the opportunity to drive the 20 minutes on your roads to Jerusalem, but I can never forget your request, your du3a, or you...

...electric blue

...eyes...beams...protection...prayer...

It's been three+ years and three visits since: I hope you made it to Al Aqsa and back again...to a place where even your stellar site/sight would get lost amid the grandeur of the edifice and holiness of the blessings--where your bluest of blue eyes would somehow absorb even more blue as they take in the tiles and stained glass and the words of God.

Insha'Allah, ya Rubb, you've made it there...

Lisa bad3eelak.

Sound it out

Falasteen...

Fa-las-teeennn...

Linger on the "n"--hold it, tongue tip to roof, secure it, imprint it ...

Then, release and breathe--ahhh, hawa w 7ureeya--Falasteeneeya...

Own it--make it sassy, sexy, strong ...

What you put into it is what it has put into you.

How you dress it is how it dresses you.

Your thobe sews its tatreez--red, gold, green--under the "Fa" through the "las" and into the "teen."

Ahhh, the teen...Beitin...the fresh teen. I remember you as you were pulled off the tree. Porch front, rooftop, and an entire universe ahead. "Oskot, akhairlak"...oskot, il khair lak. Isma3 u shoof....

"Kashi3 il teen wl 3nib wl zaytoon?" +++Beitilu+++ Ya ikshaylee...laysh tarakookee?

"EEE".... fal as teen EEE ... Allah yjazee ... Abee Falasteenee

Qalbee Falasteenee ... ow "k"lbee 3a Shari3 il Khala, At-Tur

At-Tur, where the medanee and fala7ee meld into one "cheef 7alkom"

Il 7al ... mashee il 7al ... 7alee balee ...

7alee Falasteenee .... yah ... Aa

Alif, il bidaya, il asil.

Aslee ...

... Fa-las-teen ...

... Falasteen

Taller trees ahead

I know that place that she sings of...that playground world, among the Maples, Beeches, and Pines, with endless supplies of bark cookies and tea leaves and green beds--I was all smiles and minimal freckles. And as innocent as I was, in retrospect, I feel like I was never unaware.

I feel like somehow I always knew the world was not a dream nor was it, in the slightest bit, dreamy.

I'm in that place she sings of...those woods behind the park, walking and "sub7an Allah"-ing as I climb the trees with my eyes and wonder what the world is like and what it looks like from atop the canopy, centuries closer to the stars--I am inspired and solemn with many freckles. As experienced as I am, I feel like I am unaware.

I feel like somehow, despite the reality that has shaped my existence, I'm still capable of hoping and dreaming--and I do often.

I've not yet arrived to the tertiary place she sings of...the wise, full one, soared to from the highest wing, the place my beloved grandfather and his son have flown to, and share with me only in my dreams--I am heart-broken and weathered with freckles cresting and relaxing under the rolling magnification of salty tears. But I continue on ... and as I walk in the woods, and marvel at the colors of the fallen Fall leaves, I am aware of how much there is ahead, and of how unaware I am.

I feel like somehow the awareness and unawareness that trek alongside me allow me to balance the real with the dreamy--so I can know and I can still wonder--and I am keenly aware of what a blessing that is. And I'm all smiles.

***

Inspired by "Dream" by Priscilla Ahn and the stages of life.

Confusion

I need saving right now...I need it as my eyes lose focus and my sight and sites become blurred.

I'm here and somewhere else all at once. I can feel myself drifting in and out of my subconscious. I don't know why I've been particularly sensitive today--well, maybe I do--but I don't know for certain if my knowledge is certain.

There's no reason to be hurting, but somehow I am. This is the third time today that I've been on the verge of tears--more like the second actually; the first two times, I brimmed over and cried.

Is it the song that makes me think of Siddi? Is it the fact that today is the birthday of a Khal I never knew but still love? Is it because my heart needs to release itself of all the prodding and poking that it's been withstanding?

I've come to find that I'm hardsurface but not hardcore. Things don't bounce off my soul or heart like they do my skin and shell--well, they don't bounce of my skin either if my scars are any testament. But my soul and heart cushion more than repel; they bring the crowds in rather than cast them out. I innately err on the side of caring more than less.

And it exhausts me...or does it strengthen?

I can't tell, for I feel that I've learned and retained and matured, but often fall back to that novice stage. It takes me less time to recover now than it did before though...so, in that sense, I'm in better shape, for that's the testament of an athlete's athletic ability--how quickly (s)he recovers. But what does it mean when she finds herself recovering repeatedly?