Womanhood

(As posted in February 29, 2012 issue of the Armenian Observer in observance of International Women's Day)

It was a beautiful March morning and I was touching base with Deegeen Dzila again.

"I'm glad you're visiting," she said. She sounded unusually alert.
I poured my coffee.
"Talk to me. What's new?" she asked, commanding, but with the curiosity of a child.
"Well, it's International Women's month," I gleamed with pride. Deegeen Dzila, an educated woman herself, had encouraged independent thinking of women from as far back as I could remember. She had raised the bar for many a young girl of her generation to stand for the right to be equally educated. Women had come a long way from our grandmothers' and mothers' worlds of holding tight to their chests the anger of submission and inequality. In my chest was great pride for the women who had achieved substantial gains in the field of law, business, medicine, behavioral sciences, politics, engineering, the corporate world and other areas of professionalism that were traditionally thought to be man's domain. The Women's Movements of early years and Feminists of the 70's had paved the way to the plethora of choices that became ours as a direct consequence of our liberation, externally as well as internally.
"Women worked hard and with great personal sacrifice," I said, "to give the modern woman the opportunities and powers that we now enjoy in...."
"It's not about getting power," interrupted Deegeen Dzila. "It's about how best to effectively use the power that we have." Silence suddenly dominated the room. It echoed as I set down my coffee cup. She took a deep breath before she continued. "When you come right down to it, our God given power born of millions of years of evolution to carry the maternal mission and nurturing grace of making a home and raising children is our most crucial dominion. It is a woman's reality; a sacred mission."
I felt crushed. Was Deegeen Dzila telling me that after all these years of individual and collective plights of women to prove that we could work as well as men and think as well as men was not to be celebrated as an achievement of our God given right? I understand that in the beginning of our plight, we devalued the feminine, denying ourselves our own unique characteristics so that we could be free to behave like men. Words like "maternal" and "nurturing" were considered feminine and therefore weak. We became tough as nails. If men could make business their bottom line, so could we. Our verve to be out in the world where important things were happening overpowered our traditional stay-at-home and somewhat "meaningless" existence. Housewives became homemakers who became domestic engineers. We became powerful externally as well as internally.
"You mean, our God given mission is to be at home raising children?" I asked somewhat defensive.
"No. Women need to be "out in the world" if that's where they choose to be, but not at the expense of losing sight of our sacred mission to tend to the home and children. Maternal instincts and motherhood are not just for the privileged few. That mission is God given. It belongs to all women. They are the keepers of the balance of humanity, the conscience of nations, the flame and primal homemakers that light the hearth of homes. We are put in charge of raising the future generations. Can man be more powerful than that?" she asked.

At this point, I realized that Deegeen Dzila was not negating the work of my generation and the women of my college years who rose to protect equal rights. She was reminding me that the power of a woman's ability to fiercely protect her young ones just, as every female advanced mammalian species does to survive, is nonpareil. Who better than a woman will fight for the welfare of a child, or any child? And if we used our powers gained "out in the world" collectively, we could insist that the children of the world no longer bear hunger; that the millions be given a basic education; that punishment for child trafficking be seriously enacted; that the brutalization of children be addressed; the list is endless. Yes, we are the homemakers of the world, the mothers of the children of the world, and the greatest power that lies within us is the ability to protect the primacy of our sacred mission and guard it with pride, making the welfare of our children our bottom line.
"Women are the powerful gender." She insisted. "We just have to remember to awaken our womanhood."

Love

(Unedited version of published article in January 25, 2012 issue of The Armenian Observer)

For years, for what seems like forever in my life, I've known Deegeen Dzila. In her younger days, Deegeen Dzila knew pretty much everything. She was a fighter for pacifism and human rights among her own with weapons of the heart and soul...weapons like confidence, audacity, sheer gumption and faith that led to victory. Now, in her older years, she has made peace with humankind, allowing for weaknesses, but her intolerance of that which causes pain to any child can be seen in anguished contortion on her face at the sound of a child's cry. It was not until my later years that I realized how richly indulged I was to have her in my life for all the wisdom and "know how" that she has shown.

I went to visit Deegeen Dzila the other day. She was resting in her favorite chair humming an aria tune from an opera. I could tell she was forgetting again. I recognized the look in her eyes as she kept repeating the tune in search of the words to the song. "It's not important," she said after a while. "The words aren't important...it's the melody that creates the mood that makes the song anyway." She was trying to skit around her forgetfulness. She looked vulnerable. All the hard edges of a tenacious youth had softened, but her voice was still earnest and commanding. She leaned over as though to reveal a secret. "Love is all that remains," she said. "Nothing else really matters."
She lowered her voice, almost apologetic. "I forget faces. I forget people and their roles in my life. I forget words and I forget names. Places I've been and things that I've seen all seem to disappear," she continued. "Sometimes, I don't even belong ...not just to this world, but even to myself, I don't belong."
"That's not true," I blurted. She ignored me.
"I don't know much these days," she continued, "but I do know what's inside," she said as she placed her graceful hand over her heart and thumped a few beats."It's love... etched in my bones. Love. It's...stronger..." She was searching for the right words. "It's stronger than the individual, the self. It is what flows like molten lava from the core of my being into my heart and through my veins. This feeling is larger than any need to be right. It's all encompassing. There is no explanation. It's simply there. It tells me I've been loved, but more than that," she said as she looked me in the eye, "more than that, it tells me that I feel love. That's something I won't forget...I can't forget. " She stopped for a moment as if to catch her breath, then, with the same tenacity she added. "It's really not that complicated, my dear. Truth is, love is and has always been the key element in life."
Deegeen Dzila's words began to sink in. She wasn't just reciting something that had been said and quoted in books from the begining of time. She was describing and clinging on to the only thing that she was sure of never losing... the emotion of love. I sank deeper into thought. Love is ubiquitous in different forms. But how well had I understood these terms of love conceptually? Romantic as I am, I had already passed that stage of often mistaking love as generally being just romantic. I could not ignore the majesty of the feeling experienced through a tender mother's touch, a fatherly concern or a sisterly/brotherly affection, or a passionate lover's kiss. The story of my life...as a child, coming of age, wandering adult, falling "in love," settling, parenting, testing my commitments and recognizing my mortality... unfolded through love. Whether is was security love, friendship love, romantic love or unconditional love, it was these 'loves' that had been the motivating forces in all that I did.
In other words, the experience of love, omnipresent, is a matter of survival. As infants, we need to be held and touched and swaddled in the arms of parents or caretakers in order to survive. This need for love continues throughout our lives. We experience it satiated through puppy love, infatuation, obsessive love, self-love, brotherly love, conditional love, tough love, paternal love, patriotism, eros, romantic love, Divine love. We require regular doses of it, through touch, physical contact, companionship, friendship, care and affection, in order to feel good, to feel like we belong in this world.

Deegeen Dzila coughed as she moved to find a more comfortable position in her chair. She took my hand in hers and I felt the intense warmth of her delicate hands. "Love is everything," she repeated. "It is the ultimate in selflessness of mind, body and soul."
At that moment, time and space disappeared. Deegeen Dzila had drawn me into her realm.
"But what happens to the love when mind and body don't function?" I dared to ask, having caught her in such a lucid moment.
"That's why you take care of your soul," she replied. "Love lives in your soul."

Generous

(Posted, as published  Dec.7,2011 issue of the Armenian Observer)

Yesterday, I did not want to live up to my potential. I did not want to contribute or strive to do better. Yesterday, I did not want to share one thought or substance, or volunteer to do one thing. I wanted to take a day off  from all form of action or reaction  that required external exertion on my part. I wanted to read. The phone rang, and because I had "boycotted" the day, I let the answering machine pick up the message. "Hello Ms. K...." said the voice, young and earnest, "... your generous gift of time last year provided ........much needed assistance and we were wondering if we could count on you for the same generous donation in service again this year?"

This was an unusual request. Around this time of the year my mail box is inundated with solicitations for monetary donations to feed the hungry, to build new shelters and why not, even churches. The phone rings incessantly with requests for assistance and last minute tax deductible donations for local  homeless families and even my alma mater; and at every corner the jingling bells of Salvation Army money kettles are heard kindling the light that sometimes struggles in my heart.  All ask for monetary assistance,  hoping to reach and tap into kindness; one that stems from the basic goodness of mankind;  the vehicle through which, in the larger struggle of good and bad times, we rely on to sustain hope.

 It had never occured to me that giving of my time was a donation or that it was a gift. All these years, my motive to do so had been none other than instinctive spontaneity....something learned or cultivated in me from infancy.  As a child, a variety of habits and convictions were bred as a direct result of examples set  by  family, tradition and society who emphasized the importance of practicing the "do unto others as you'd have done to you" moral rule including but not limited to a life of service toward fellow neighbors.  By fostering these forms of morals year in and year out into adulthood, the habit took over from within until it became second nature, performed  without giving it a second thought. Add to this a grandmother who quoted  from  the Bible and told the story of the woman at the Temple who, despite her poverty, gave her last two copper coins to the treasury.  The woman gave spontaneously as a tangible expression of her faith and committment to the cause she believed in.  Hence, in my mind, generosity was measured by the ease with which one puts one's hand in her/his pocket to give of monetary assistance to a cause that was near and dear to one's heart. The woman at the Temple had done just that. She had put her faith into action without giving it a second thought. Had I, too,done that? Had I put my faith into action by being "generous" with my time? If so,  I certainly wasn't doing it now.  And what of the tens of thousands of volunteers in every fork and bend of our lives who spend countless hours doing their level best without thanks or glory to create, to shelter, to aid, to build, to strengthen a system in a world they believe in?  Their generosity in kindness and courage are unparallel. What of  the countless times when people rise above trying circumstances putting others before themselves? I recalled earthquakes, tsunamis, tornadoes, hurricanes, mudslides and rock slides, fires and floods, famine, medical aid, vaccines, shelter, illness and death...the spontaneous impulse is to lend a hand sending ripples that bring us back to that place of instinctive goodness which is deeply rooted in us from birth...a place from where we sometimes drift away until we are reminded by some misfortune or crisis to return to. Generosity  in its many forms... energy, money,  love, time, food, service, advise, a shoulder, a spirit...,  comes from the heart. Generosity is neither an obligation nor duty. It stems from rooting one's life in kindness, compassion and humility.

Yesterday, I  learned that I have a long way to go before I can truly be classified as generous. I know I will sometimes fail miserably to live up to my potential, but yesterday, I put aside the book.Yesterday, I picked up the phone to return the call. 

Adult Orphan

My husband is no longer any one's son. He feels like an orphan; an adult orphan. While I do not deny that it is the natural order of things, nor do I deny the tragedy of losing parents as a small child, the fact remains that however "adult" we are when both our parents die, we feel like an orphan.Today, my father-in-law was laid to rest, buried next to the bones of my mother-in-law who died 10 years ago.

We all know that we will lose our parents some day. And we all know that in the natural order of life we expect to outlive our parents. Yet that knowledge proves no comfort to the pain we experience and the void that we feel when we finally lose them. Nothing prepares us for how we feel when it happens: abandoned, orphaned, lost, and like a child, crying for our mama and baba. We grieve. But our grief stems from the sorrow of longing for the place and people we called home. A people who were the guardians of our childhood memories; the ones who recorded our every first move. They marked our journey to adulthood. A people who provided us with the first and last layer of protection when we let down our guard.

When the death of parents comes at the end of a life long and well lived we use the example of their longevity as a means to comfort. "He had a good life," we say. "She was fortunate to have seen her grandchild's wedding," we say. "We all should pray to live as he did," "Good health to the young and next of kin!" we say. It's as though we excuse ourselves from grieving because we are adults, and with so much else going on in the world around us we do not allow ourselves much space and time to grieve. Even the ailing or aging parent who lives long, justifies his approaching departure from this world of human warmth with similar reasoning. When last I saw my father-in-law a few month back, he was sitting in his upright chair next to the library in the living room of his home. He sat looking even smaller than his usual frame, his head drooped toward his chest. He was breathing through his mouth with his eyes closed. I looked at him as I listened to the rhythm of his steady breathing. His eyelids seemed almost transparent; his hands resting in each other were crooked and knobbly, thin, like a bird's claw. He raised his head, tried to clear his throat and in a faint whisper he said, "I've lived well, I've lived long."

"Yes, you have," I responded, "but that's not an excuse to die now." His lips started to quiver. It was an age induced quiver brought on by emotional sensitivity which, over the years, I have come to realize, is a distinguishing family quality. "It's not always that I feel this way," he said, his voice clearer, but still in a whisper. "Life has good moments. It is still sweet. Just, sometimes..."

"Well, you still have more to offer," I said in as upbeat a voice as was possible. "You've got grand and great grandchildren to teach." His eyes were wide open now. "Shall I repeat what you've done for me?" I asked, and without waiting for his permission I continued. "I am forever grateful to you and mom that you both taught your children to love as they do. You set the example for them to know what it means to be married to a spouse, what it means to have children, to raise a family, to know the value of work, the joy of sacrifice, to place the needs of others before their own, to create and be the masters of their lives, to act virtuously by eliminating many of the impulses that cause them to respond with anger, resentment, pettiness and ill will, and by acknowledging the potential of themselves by being closer to God."**

I stopped my ramble. His lips had started to quiver again. "You always like to talk a lot," he said with a low chuckle, this time his voice more audible. Then in an almost whisper he said, "Thank you." He shut his eyes once more.

The reality is that the death of both parents becomes a profound, life changing experience. We grieve for the passing of our own childhood and youth. We grieve as though their death somehow wipes away proof or acknowledgment of our own life through them. Truth be told, we find ourselves reassessing our lives, and we become fully responsible for our every day living with a heightened sense of mortality. We subconsciously realize that we are now the elders to whom the children and grandchildren will look toward for all their vices and virtues, distinguishing family qualities and inherited characteristics.

**Dear mother and father,
....What I placed above all was character and a strong family upbringing. Even in times of trouble, I placed above all, the pursuit of becoming richer in spirit, conscience, love, connectedness to family and friends and a strong sense of morals. Never could I have been closer to the truth in finding these qualities than since I entered your family. And for that I thank you. These qualities are gifts of character acquired through a network of years of parental guidance and heredity. I am forever grateful that you brought such a beautiful family to life as a manifestation of your faith in each other's love. I am forever grateful that you shared your son with me so that I too became an extension of a love I am proud to call my family. For that, and much more, I thank you both.
With much love, many hugs and kisses, and ...thanks

Silva **

**Excerpts from a letter I wrote to mom and dad March,5, 1999

She/He, Her/Him

     Ideas of masculinity and femininity have changed and will continue to change across time, culture and place. What once was is no more, and rightfully so. While some argue that accepted gender identity must be reexamined in order to eliminate socially constructed traditional gender roles, others remain untroubled by traditional gender language and see no reason to change gender explicit pronouns. In Sweden, however, a pre-school, "Egalia," has taken the elimination of gender pronouns to unusual extremes by avoiding the use of "him" and "her" and addressing the kids as "friends" rather than girls and boys.
     It is one thing to create programs that make sure children do not fall into gender stereotypes and it is another to become obsessed with obliterating gender. The fundamental issue here should be equality of possibilities between the sexes and not the nullification of gender.

I am a girl. I am a boy. Let me run around and turn whisks and sticks into swords and play rough. Show me how to cook and bake and how to build with blocks. Hand me a hammer and help me use a needle and thread. Allow me to cuddle a puppy and play with dolls, then show me the mechanics of construction vehicles. Teach me science and teach me art. Show me that I can be a model and a truck driver. Tell me I can be a plumber, or a judge, or a waitstaff. Teach me to value being a doctor, nurse, and lawyer. Cultivate in me the joy of being a homemaker, an engineer, physicist, or nutritionist. Make it possible for me to become a farmer, firefighter, senator, president, a pilot, police officer, teacher or a nanny. Allow me to cry when I'm hurt or afraid, and to laugh boisterously among friends. Open my mind to revere beauty and have respect for the preciousness of the earth. Expose me to Cinderella, the Paper Bag Princess and Don Quixote. Teach me universal chivalrous conduct and let me know the difference between that and sexual harassment.
     I may be strong in somethings and weak in others. I may be good in math, acrobatics, writing. I may be weak in art, basketball, home economics. Allow me my weaknesses and encourage in me my strengths. I am entitled to the same laws, the same respect, humanitarianism, social power, and prestige as my friend next to me.
     You and I should be exposed to all things, and you and I should decide what of those things we want. And in all these things, I am equal to you. There is no hierarchy in my forte and choices. Yet, as important as all these professions are, there is one thing that matters more. I am biologically different and my body chemistry is different. You and I, we both produce the hormone testosterone but if you happen to be (allow me to say) she or woman you produce around 70 percent less than (allow me to say) him or man. You and I, we both produce oxytocin, but if you happen to be he or man, your testosterone hormones counteract the effects of oxytocin whereas her or woman's estrogen hormones will enhance the oxytocin that promotes affection within relationships especially during childbirth and breastfeeding. Similarly, I either produce ova or I produce sperm. I am She. I am He.

This S/he humbly speaks...

For Love of a Child

     Two years ago when my first grandchild was born I was told I would love him more than my child. "Just you wait," they, the grandmothers said. "You'll see how that little one will capture your heart and fill you with an indescribable feeling." "A falling in love again feeling," said one. "An immeasurable joy," said the other. "Deliriously intoxicating," said another. "A sweet surrender," said yet another. "It's a different love," they all chimed in.
     Last month, my second grandchild was born, and once again I was reminded by faithful friends that grandchildren are loved more than one's own.
    
     Here, I beg to differ.Yes, each of my friends is right in her measure of the immeasurable feelings, but I cannot love my grandchildren more than my own child/children. To the contrary, the love for my child has reached newer depths and higher grounds with an intensity that echoes into the grandchild. I see my child in tender awe at the moment of entering into the inescapable divine fellowship of creating and nurturing, and it is at that moment that I realize that my love for my child radiates through her, gains energy with her love, and spreads with perfection into her child, my grandchild.  When I see the faith in my child's eye, the love in her touch, the tender hope in her attitude and her weary sleepless gaze as she prays with infant in hand, I am reminded of the child of yesterday, my child, a radiant reality of today looking upon and caring for her own child, my grandchild, I am full circle. I am wholesome. Do not misunderstand. I love my grandchildren.They, like all children embody the innocence of life with their trusting embrace filled with wonderment and unspoiled by the hard skepticism of the world, a naivete which we all desire.

     Yes, I love my grandchildren for they serve as reminders of how precious my children and all children are, and how holy the sacrament of childhood is ... something we are often in danger of losing, especially when interacting with our now adult offspring. Often, as young parents in our youth, we do not have the wisdom we require at the time of need to set our priorities in order. Youth do not want to have wisdom. Youth gather knowledge, pass the experiences, cherish hopes, which, as a rule, can only later be fulfilled. We struggle, we worry and only later, in hindsight, have an understanding of our hurdles and their validity in the course of our lives. Hence the older I grow, the more I begin to love the wisdom revealed to me by life. I recall the words of the bishop ("What is Love?" May 6, 2010 blog) who said, "The more 'love of life' wisdom increases, egoism and expectation of gaining something from our wisdom decreases."

     Most of us gain wisdom, understanding, patience, and the love to be wonderful parents after our parenting years are over. By the time our children produce the grandchildren, we reach the wisdom of God's perfect love engaging mind, body and soul in unity, (at least I hope we do!). We reach a tolerance that forgets differences as we sit and play on hands and knees; we acquire a patience that rebuilds houses of blocks as they purposely topple to the floor for the hundredth time; we genuinely acquire a vision that sees the world as a splendid place with brave knights and dragons and 'buzz light years' and fairies and x-men and Lego's and trucks and tractors that build and destroy only to rebuild over and over again...all reaching toward the sky and beyond.
Wisdom and the years help remind me that a child's laughter is the light of life. That wiping noses and pouring juice into "sippy" cups, though mindless, is profoundly important. That what once appeared as a life sentence to a young parent with milk stains on my shoulder, now seems to be a jail breaking, liberating experience with jelly stains on my knees. The genuineness of being comfortable with ones childish self breaks out, and what seemed important at the time has gained in wisdom and seems unimportant now.  All the struggles and "what ifs" vanish at the sight of my child's love for her child. I am reminded that my child, my adult child, is the "cute, adorable, naughty, lovable, play with me, splish-splash bathing, chocolate eating, just because" child. I am overflowing with the sweet nectar of love that echoes with squeals and laughter from my child and her children.
What were the words my friends used?  Ah, yes. Deliriously intoxicating. A sweet surrender.

This I humbly speak...with a love for all children

New York, Mission Accomplished

It was hot. It was muggy. It was August and I was in New York City on a mission. The morning started early with map in hand and a determined objective to walk from the hotel in lower Manhattan through the easily marked streets and avenues of the city toward the Financial District to the site where the twin towers had once stood.
At first I walked and crossed streets like a good citizen waiting obediently for the pedestrian light to turn green before hurling myself swiftly onto the busy intersections. It wasn’t until after five blocks into my “mission” that I stopped at a street corner and realized that I was the only one waiting for the green light, making it very obvious that I was the outsider. So at the next light, I followed the New Yorkers and crossed the streets pretty much the way people cross streets in busy cities around the globe….without regard for the crosswalk sign, look left, right and left and if all clear, just cross.

“Can we do that?” questioned Soul.
She was so innocent, so guileless and transparent. “Of course we can, we’re in New York,” I said with a smug grin. “And besides, I don’t want people to know I’m a tourist. I want to blend in,” I continued as I followed a crowd of pedestrians.
“Well for starters, you might want to get rid of the map,” chirped Soul, whose childlike consciousness was to become my sole companion on this mission.
“Point well taken!” I heeded her advice. We mapped the route from here to there clearly in our minds, and confidently, I put away the map, feeling very much like I owned the city.

We walked for hours allowing ourselves to ‘color outside the lines,’ as it were. We were unstructured and it felt good. We passed through Times Square, then in front of the Empire State building, through the garment district and antique shops, across a section of Murray Hill to take a picture of the Armenian Consulate on 36th Street, then down to Chelsea, through Gramercy, Greenwich Village, and Soho, all the while ignoring street vendors who were selling umbrellas with catchy signs that amused me.      “$3 while it’s sunny. $5 when it wet and you’re sorry,” said the sign. I laughed. Sure, a few clouds had started to roll in but it didn’t look like rain.
“Don’t you think they know something we don’t?” nudged Soul. “Perhaps you should buy an umbrella.”
“Nah,” I said. “Besides, what’s the harm in a little water on our heads?”
Off we continued to Little Italy, then Chinatown and onto Tribeca before a thunderstorm rumbled in and burst open the skies above. Raindrops the size of pennies river danced their way on the streets as we entered Tribeca. We were soaked to the bone in our light summer dress and open toe sandals. Leaping long under eaves and canopies, if any, of store fronts and cafes, we too danced our way on pavements and into a small Greek restaurant whose name I cannot recall, and had a bite to eat. What I do recall are the bubbles of laughter that Soul and I shared as we waited for the downpour to cede and for us to resume our quest.

“Perhaps we should take the underground,” I suggested. I was tired, and the map I had folded and put away was beginning to feel like a two ton weight in the purse strapped across my chest.
“That’s so unlike you.” Soul was quick to reply. “We did that yesterday at Penn Station, and remember? You said people gathered there looked like pigeons waiting for their feed. And instead of dispersing at the sound of an approaching train, you said they huddled together and fed into open doors of subway trains. You said you didn’t want to be one of the masses. Yet this morning you wanted to fit in and not look like a tourist. Which is it?”
“Do you really listen to every word I say?” I asked somewhat annoyed but at the same time amused by her gait.
“There, see that,” said Soul, ignoring the question and pointing to a church across the street. “That’s where we should go. You can get some rest there.” Her eyes gleamed with new found energy.

Shadowed between tall buildings, the church appeared to be a sanctuary to my tired and aching feet and to a Soul that refused discouragement. We walked in. It was delicately beautiful and somber. It took but a moment for us to realize we had accidentally stumbled upon St. Paul’s, an old Episcopal church, which had served as a refuge for the policemen, firemen, rescue teams and the injured after the collapse of the twin towers.Miraculously, it had remained intact and undisturbed throughout the chaos of 9/11. The interior was full of memorabilia from the catastrophe. Letters and notes, personal belongings and objects, even prayers of love and gratitude graced the walls of the chapel. I was touched, but it was Soul who touched me more. “The irony is that some places become sacred shrines through the evil of mankind.” She looked like an injured child whose belief and trust in the goodness of mankind had been shattered by doubts. “The air is thick with sadness here,” she sighed and shook her head.
“The air is rich with kindness here,” I observed.
She looked at me, stunned. Her eyes, still gleaming, welled with tears. After a weighty pause, she asked, “How can you talk of kindness and goodness when evil is clearly dominant and more powerful?”
I placed my arm around her. “Of course, evil is powerful because it abides by no laws except the ideology to win fast.” I had captured Soul’s complete attention.
“You mean to tell me that good doesn’t share the same ideology to win!?” she challenged me.
"Oh yes it does,” I affirmed even more adamantly. “But good also abides by rules and laws, laws that are wonderfully strong and at the same time terribly fragile. In times of threat and crisis, we think that these laws weaken us through their limitations, but in reality, they are the strongbox that govern us, safeguard our values and ultimately crown a slow victory over evil.”
“That’s the problem, right there,” said Soul. “SLOW victory. By the time ‘good’ works its way through the rule of laws, the ideology of winning is so far into the future that it becomes moot to say ‘mission accomplished.’”
“Let’s hope not,” I smiled.
Our whispered words and soft footsteps echoed from the stone walls as we left the chapel and onward toward our “mission.” We made our way around the corner and in a sudden moment of reality, there it was, an immense block of empty space...a dug out of massive broken concrete that once formed the foundations to two towers that had graced the New York skyline and which now would be found only in history books that document the rise and fall of empires.

Amid the deafening din of a city in motion, we were silenced, my Soul and I.
Our mission was acomplished.
This I humbly speak with faith in the rule of laws.

(A few hours prior, President Obama announced the capture and death of Osama Bin Laden whose organized attack on the twin towers claimed the lives of thousands of innocent civilians.)

Mother

(March 21, the first day of Spring and it was Mothers’ Day in the Middle East. Buds burst with bloom and trees unfolded their bright colors amid leaves of green. Birds nested, nature recycled life, and while the weather played havoc with March madness, the people of Lebanon and the Middle East celebrated new life and hope with Mother’s Day. It seems apropos. All things that remind us of hope, of life, of stability and belonging, of creation and procreation, are symbolized by and encompassed in the word Mother. Mother earth, mother nature, motherland, mother church, mother tongue, mother ship, mother board, mother of all inventions…mother.)


Mothers. Love them, or hate them. Look up to them or look down at them. Their loving hands caress gently or strike fervently. Cherish them or curse them. Emulate them or vow to become what they’re not. Idolize them or move away from them with disdain. Nurtured or neglected by them, no matter how we feel, no matter what our sentiment regarding our emotional and psychological well being, we owe who we are to our mothers.

As I reflect upon who I am today, a cyclorama of varied memories unfurl before me. Memories collected and stored– some precisely rendered and accurate while others grainy and modified by the caprices of time seem to ambush me with complexities of emotions. I thought it was easy to sum up my mother, but now as I face the reality of a life of a woman whose past strength has fed me, I have to remind myself that I cannot expect my mother to fight back with the same strength of her past. I come to realize that the complexities are mine and mine alone.

There were moments in the past where as a child I was unnerved by her sharp interrogative eyes that knew how to speak with a glare and bring out the difference between truth and fabrications. In my teens and youth I was angered by the strength of her fertile mind and charismatic verve. She proved her points and always came out triumphant. Then as a young woman I began to appreciate the debating bright mind that helped me to straighten the jagged edges in my life situations. Today, I am moved to tenderness when I see in her eyes a frightened look that almost immediately shifts into a world of her own. What was once precisely accurate in her reasoning now wafts intermittently between real time and years of memory that fail to connect.

Sitting before me is incarnate the wisdom of a woman, which, as I recall, she happily shared by example and through lessons that at the time seemed harsh, but in retrospect and over the years, appear well invested. She smiles…a beatific, pensive smile. Somewhere in that smile is a no nonsense woman who knew how to pull a family of over 70 relatives together, host dinners for business associates and still find time to volunteer her learned and intuitive skills among friends and benevolent organizations. She asks me, “What are you writing?” “Things I’ve learned from you,” I reply. She nods, and for a split moment, the interrogative eyes reappear. She taught well. She taught hard. She pushed for perfection to make up for her imperfections. She is human. She makes mistakes. She is counselor to many, consoler to even more, a worrier and a warrior, a cheer squad when needed, a philosopher in her own right, and an example of unconditional love in the form of perfect composure. She is mother.

“What are you writing?” she repeats again. Repetition, once used as a habit for instructing and absorbing facts and for demanding compliance is now simply a habit for loss of remembrance. I repeat, “Things I’ve learned from you.” There is a nostalgia in my voice, an almost sadness. “Like what?” she asks. Encouraged by her interest I start to ramble about how she taught me that the ultimate purpose in life is to be a convinced servant of humanity; to be able to give the best of oneself is a true and only gift that one can give to the world; that there is divinity in coincidences; that the valor of a person is measured by what he/she does behind closed doors; that when all is said and done, we are accountable to a higher authority; that to waste money is to disrespect its value; that there is no difference between rich and poor except in our perceptions and judgment; that there is a difference between pity and compassion; that nothing is worth doing if not done with a value of the virtues. “Do not use slander. Maintain the integrity of your soul,” she interjects. She is aglow with serenity and compassion. She is content.

At the end of the day today, as I said good night to my mother, I lost myself in a memory of moments when I had been a little girl. I recall waking up one night to see my mother’s silhouette in the bedroom. Her fingers intertwined gracefully around her clasped hands in a prayer position. In the near gloaming light that emanated from a framed image of the Virgin Mary and Child painted on glass which rested on a shelf in the bedroom, my mother was praying, reciting in an almost whisper. Upon seeing me awake and I having told her that I couldn’t sleep, she left the room and returned with a small apple which she handed to me to eat. She assured me that eating the apple would definitely bring sleep to my eyes. She then resumed her position and continued her prayers while I ate the apple. When both of us were done with our “tasks,” she approached my bed, and with a tender word, she kissed me and tucked me in again for the night. Whether it was the image of my mother praying, the soft whispering lull of the words, or the bites of the apple that immersed me into immediate slumber I shall never know, but I do know this… that till today an apple at night helps me sleep. The memory clings to me as comfortably as does the fit and warmth of a favorite old sweater.

Tonight, as I kissed my mother goodnight and pulled the blanket over her aging body, I said a short prayer and as I turned to walk out the door, I heard the soft whispering lull of her prayers. From my pocket, I pulled out a neatly wrapped apple and in the near gloaming light of the Beirut night skies, I bit into it.

This I humbly speak with memories that unfurl…..

A Walk In The Cemetery

I'd like to preempt this by saying that I am not a macabre person and I do not dwell in morbid thoughts.  I love life and the living, and I often go to noisy, crowded places to sit back and watch the world go by, connecting with the wonder of a present humanity so caught up in the mundane that its purpose and mortal presence is lost to all except to the observer. There is beauty around that speaks and images that disturb. These fuel my creativity. However, to feel alive and most connected when reaching for meaning to increase my self understanding, the most human, powerful and yet humbling experience for me is to go to the cemetery.
The cemetery need not be one where I have a connection to someone whose funeral I have attended, be it family or friend or acquaintance. I feel connected to all. I park my car randomly and walk over a carpet of well maintained green grass reading the names and dates of those buried in the area. Some are short lived lives, others long and longer.  There are mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, sisters, brothers, grandparents, aunts and uncles, the soldier, the doctor, the hero; all loving.  It is easy to observe the newly dead from those long buried. These are the headstones that are rubbed and polished to a gleam.  It is as if every stroke of polish by the living has brought with it a small measure of therapeutic comfort as memories mingle with grief. Many of them are young, too young, infants even. I take time to stop at each one to read their names and say a little prayer for those they've left behind in this world. What intrigues me are the ones whose last day on this earth spans decades into history and who do not have an obvious frequency of visitors, if any at all....Time diminishes the strokes of polish. Here, I linger a little longer.

My first impression of cemeteries was not one of rolling hills carpeted with a soft spread of green, a burst of color here and there and trees with their magnificently outstretched branches. No, I come from places where cemeteries are tight narrow plots confined between buildings, and church yards. Tombstones high and low, statues of all shapes and sizes marking graves of young and old casting long shadows in the twilight hour. These are cemeteries where the earth has moved and graves have shifted causing hazard to those who walk among them and who are not sure footed. To walk across and between the graves, one almost has to dance and skip from one marbled tomb to the other. But regardless of the maintenance of the place I love to walk the graveyards. My affinity for walking among the graves comes from when I was a child, and in my easily impressionable childhood brain, I read the poem "We Are Seven" by William Wordsworth. The narrator asks a little girl of perhaps 8 about her siblings.The girl explains that there are seven of them including two that are dead. The narrator tries in vain to persuade the little girl that her two deceased siblings cannot be counted among them because they are no longer alive.  "But they are dead, those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven," he says. However, the child insists that these two be included in her count. She lives her life among them and they still exist, maybe not in a physical presence, but she feels she can sense them.
"And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there." She eats with them and plays among them. "Their graves are green, they may be seen." She insists. They are seven. The thought of that child possessing a sure instinct of immortality left an impression on me.  Just because the dead are not of this physical world doesn't mean they are not of the world. Their love lingers and mingles and strengthens. They just live in another form or state of reality.

A walk, a stroll through a cemetery, or if time permits, a sit down with those who are no longer of this world is comforting. The finest of people, the innocent, the guilty, the good, the rogue of rogues, all are buried within these walls and boundaries of the cemeteries.  But their worldly professions and adjectives that define them do not matter. Here, I find an absence of all human emotions except an infinite acceptance and a love that roams through and in between the space. An inexplicable peace reigns among the tombstones or headstones. It is peace that overflows through me with love from beyond. There Is something beyond the beyond. Something that connects me to the world behind what we see and feel and taste. I am neither provoked nor tested.  I have no fears, no doubts, no resentments. I am void of all human weakness of emotions. Only peace exists and a silent knowledge of a strengthening of kinship between souls centuries old and days young.  It is an implosive magnetic force of a love powered by those whose hearts beat with sorrow, joy, grief, peace, loss, triumph, ...and by those who have departed and whose loves  linger and float the atmosphere. A love supreme flows through me. It reigns. It Is, It just Is. And I am released of all entitlement to this world.
The experience of unity with All That Is brings me back to the truth...that none and nothing is greater than perfect love.  I am renewed with the experience and awareness of how precious every life on earth is and how much we are pulled by the need to do, more so, much more so than the need to be. My mortal years, like all who are privileged to breathe, are unknown and limited. Time is entrusted to me and the years lent are just that, lent to me.  I am struck by the power of connection by being fully there in the quiet unity of what Is--God's love linking my fingers with the soft caress of a love whispered from those no longer of this world.
A walk in the cemetery always changes me, and  always for the better.
This I humbly speak.