Life at the intersection
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My husband woke up with an unshakable feeling that he needed to climb a mountain in Oaxaca. He asked me if I wanted to go, but it was his feeling, his task. If you wake up one morning feeling like you need to climb a mountain, you definitely should.
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Not everyone you meet in your life is going to like you. There are billions of people on this planet and just one you. The odds of being liked by everyone you meet is literally impossible. But beyond logic, wouldn’t you rather be liked by yourself?
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It was uncanny how my landlady and the lady in the market told me the same thing. “We hold them in our hearts.” On that day, I held my grandma in my heart, and stared into her photo. I was suddenly gripped with the distinct feeling that her eyes were looking directly at me.
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“You have to stir it.” Growing up with an Arab, but also Mediterranean mom was in some ways lost on me. I love being Arab, but no one in my family called me a good cook. I had no appreciation for our food. But now, I see food as embedded in our tradition.
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While you were on Instagram, we prepared for a hurricane and I got dengue. We bought a plot of land. I had a walk and coffee. I spilled something. While you were on Instagram, I was undoubtedly doing something in the real world, and whatever it was, it felt good.
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If you have ever wanted a Pinterest-worthy home, it is not as glorious as it seems. For most of my life, home was a moving target in definition and location. It took me a long time to realize that home is happening all around us, in the seemingly imperfect cracks of our perfect homes.
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The day before the hurricane, we woke up without electricity, cell service, and internet. The weather seemed torrential, like there was a great fury the sky intended to unleash. The day would be filled with occurrences that all felt important as I pondered how far away from home I am.
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A few days ago, my second husband and I approached our anniversary, and I had something new to reflect on—one year of a happy marriage. Remembering my journey, I see the road to love started with loving myself with a light so bright, it emitted from me like a star in the sky.
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It has been three years since the passing of Ustadh Usama Canon. It is strange, this thing we call “time,” that supposedly heals all and yet is nothing but a human construct. Ustadh Usama’s legacy still permeates my everyday life. In his final act, he taught me how to die.
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Looking into the mirror at 39, I recently realized I am aging. I have been alive for almost 40 years and on various occasions have gone unarmed into the dark nights of my own soul. There must be more to aging—and life—than how I look. I must have more to offer the world.