tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75771609488989191782024-03-05T15:26:19.459+00:00LUPUS IN FLIGHTPoetry and Prose by Shaista Tayabali Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.comBlogger588125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-12623599493165241942024-02-29T15:14:00.001+00:002024-02-29T15:14:26.995+00:00A GOOD YEAR FOR SNOWDROPS <p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkEkIl79CePWV38jS8_jj17qlWWrGjH4tOoi1ltWLlH5H-QQXBxaVRFENxK5qMNUGAts3Ee-_gPH4oeDjF3_bAQ2V2lCrfBmoTAB18hRR1VCzGnePsS-SEiuwem0GA4iZeeFkuiltbFI4SoBooXsqeUBmHfl28nyX1yc-hHmQv2wDxi2SN6CaPQQI-TWC5/s4032/IMG_6160.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkEkIl79CePWV38jS8_jj17qlWWrGjH4tOoi1ltWLlH5H-QQXBxaVRFENxK5qMNUGAts3Ee-_gPH4oeDjF3_bAQ2V2lCrfBmoTAB18hRR1VCzGnePsS-SEiuwem0GA4iZeeFkuiltbFI4SoBooXsqeUBmHfl28nyX1yc-hHmQv2wDxi2SN6CaPQQI-TWC5/w300-h400/IMG_6160.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div></div><br />I took myself for a walk today. My body aches, lately. Ha! Lately? For the past thirty years kind of lately... but yes, this sludge like treacle we move through while attached to our phones receiving news of a genocide adds a new layer of ache. When the doctors found a murmur on my ten year old heart, they kept an eye on it even as I moved countries. Lately... oh that word again... my heart is heavier, the beats a little unsteadier. "I think I'd like to send you to Papworth if you don't mind," said my cardiologist a few weeks ago. For an MRI at the big fancy heart hospital. "Anything I should know? Any questions for me?" she asked. She's lovely, and Northern Irish, so I think she would have been fine with me responding with the truth. "The children," I would have said. "The children of Gaza." I don't know what the figures are for bombed, amputated, under the rubble, but as we know, they are not numbers. Each one has a name. Although the ones who knew their names, who could write their names on the tiny white shrouds, are also gone. Motaz Azaiza, our traumatised young heroic journalist, puts it this way: "They passed," he says. I find his way of commenting on unjust death very moving. Sparse and factual, laden with helplessness, and yet, dignified. Even as he witnesses a physical reality beyond the language any one of us possesses. In war time, photographers from foreign western lands, are often given the wealthiest noblest prizes for capturing children on fire or dying. Motaz is Palestinian, and the people he photographs are family, friends, neighbours. The blood of his blood. No award or prize will ever ease his psychological torment.<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq7-deDtT034f162cxX-XMSWI8wpKeg6G-F948MVCm5ZRbRrhngl-zkNHM6YY7d28paEqSWSniaw7W5nxgdiXGYkcD1ZXxP4YbHPpu2YdCJOF-xX1b0fRqYFZRYf8lZOsRalWBKlLFnVoppmXulGXlcJ3bX1KKvoHXZRZPQZfjfGc8sZsD4uGQdoSVqpv5/s1284/IMG_6231.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1274" data-original-width="1284" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq7-deDtT034f162cxX-XMSWI8wpKeg6G-F948MVCm5ZRbRrhngl-zkNHM6YY7d28paEqSWSniaw7W5nxgdiXGYkcD1ZXxP4YbHPpu2YdCJOF-xX1b0fRqYFZRYf8lZOsRalWBKlLFnVoppmXulGXlcJ3bX1KKvoHXZRZPQZfjfGc8sZsD4uGQdoSVqpv5/w400-h398/IMG_6231.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">On Valentine's Day, I took myself for a walk, because my body was aching, and I know there are snowdrops ‘out there’ and aconites and the beginnings of daffodils. There are bridges with river water, and even birdsong. There was unexpectedly more. I walked past the village hall and was invited in for the monthly Wednesday tea and cake. My first thought is often no, instinctive to avoid gatherings. Not just a pandemic protection, but a social defence. Years of "so what are you up to these days?" Now I find I can talk more easily having been accepted as The Daughter Who Lives With Beloved Parents. I have somehow moved into a more accepted phase. Not quite old, not too young. Just... a person. The Elders were glad to have me. I ate a slice of apple pie, and then washed up as many cups and saucers as I could before linking arms with a friend and walking on. "Rage helps keep my tears at bay," she said. It's nice having friends who know.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOQYJN9fLe43x_g95WkHRI6dgywf-qTcHZpcST_8YIwS99ffHHoLEAUTDwPFtiEZGIJjfMUfj1I5dx_03b5NcTnlffSHIPtRD0S-oQTRh6TjLqWVu-wQQRUiGg-WGg47BgmialLOWxX4sC3q_zZm6HWzVeOnN9vEc2axx4BDvCaIStvfg02NpghhmL2AE/s4032/IMG_6271.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMOQYJN9fLe43x_g95WkHRI6dgywf-qTcHZpcST_8YIwS99ffHHoLEAUTDwPFtiEZGIJjfMUfj1I5dx_03b5NcTnlffSHIPtRD0S-oQTRh6TjLqWVu-wQQRUiGg-WGg47BgmialLOWxX4sC3q_zZm6HWzVeOnN9vEc2axx4BDvCaIStvfg02NpghhmL2AE/w300-h400/IMG_6271.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;">What now? The clock ticks on. The calendar advances. "We are living through a very dark time," my mother acknowledges. And that comforts me too. Dad asked me to start reading the autobiography of Sister Chân Không a day or two before we heard the news of the young US soldier, Aaron Bushnell, setting himself on fire in protest against American military aid to Israel and solidarity with the suffering of Gazans. Sister Chân Không witnessed the burning of the monk Thích Quảng Đửc on June 11, 1963. Speaking of photographs that won prizes… I could post it here. But you have already seen it. Maybe even at the time it flew around the world. My heavy heart, my heavy heart. It was never designed for this live witnessing of the worst of who we are to each other. So instead, some blossom and a poem, and later, perhaps a walk. It has been a good year for snowdrops.</span></div><div><span style="text-align: justify;"><br /></span></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLJ6HmtRB_J6GCSDEy7lNJFT4h6cEFoP2kX5VNJbVQzlE7YHP6xyjvVLUGfnctB76cyJLgefpZsHbNxzNTq8481MzMTxFXQl4AyQnwd7qfNjTm7JDm9mJsEvzk16YF0HHdxW9W7YkG0_-5NWS31dXUpJGcX-dC0I0o5px94o22ZCjOkEA5SdjTb0gG23iJ/s4032/IMG_6209.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLJ6HmtRB_J6GCSDEy7lNJFT4h6cEFoP2kX5VNJbVQzlE7YHP6xyjvVLUGfnctB76cyJLgefpZsHbNxzNTq8481MzMTxFXQl4AyQnwd7qfNjTm7JDm9mJsEvzk16YF0HHdxW9W7YkG0_-5NWS31dXUpJGcX-dC0I0o5px94o22ZCjOkEA5SdjTb0gG23iJ/w300-h400/IMG_6209.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KhZs5f15hWi_Tu65UpSUK9r2sDLZFj9cO7HQts1GI-ME6yNhO7KCzp6JlVGSrC_rN75Py_bcodrLYJvSGeQ8IQtEOtZ-fK5pgKySgp-MpYIV50aB1av015NoQ25Ease4tv__Rs7xZCR0PsMhL5rlIx3xlsQR4xLGbkMHPtk-rL6XCqpBCaDt_sGaCu7H/s4032/IMG_6298.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KhZs5f15hWi_Tu65UpSUK9r2sDLZFj9cO7HQts1GI-ME6yNhO7KCzp6JlVGSrC_rN75Py_bcodrLYJvSGeQ8IQtEOtZ-fK5pgKySgp-MpYIV50aB1av015NoQ25Ease4tv__Rs7xZCR0PsMhL5rlIx3xlsQR4xLGbkMHPtk-rL6XCqpBCaDt_sGaCu7H/w400-h300/IMG_6298.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><b>every time I ever said I want to die</b></div><div><i>By Andrea Gibson</i></div><div><br /></div><div>A difficult life is not less</div><div>worth living than a gentle one.</div><div>Joy is simply easier to carry</div><div>than sorrow. And your heart </div><div>could lift a city from how long</div><div>you’ve spent holding what’s been</div><div>nearly impossible to hold.</div><div><br /></div><div>This world needs those</div><div>who know how to do that.</div><div>Those who could find a tunnel</div><div>that has no light at the end of it,</div><div>and hold it up like a telescope</div><div>to know the darkness</div><div>also contains truths that could</div><div>bring the light to its knees.</div><div><br /></div><div>Grief astronomer, adjust the lens,</div><div>look close, tell us what you see.</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5pnuK1CoNrki9Tf9NwVTLuj2_-AsVlRce7wAijg2cMPs4D7xo4QLCANkbjIVYUGywyxNWKhkaQc1Cd3SMkvtmHSXAb6RYRma8oZD9Yk6idaTg9WS5ToeAczA810mhxwseF1rRg5FhBRYPkoGan8Zt4dUcgIrHfnUtvKi96wUlowsy3O_e89ekxs_0J4l5/s4032/IMG_6254.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><br /></a></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-54941520933728538142024-01-21T01:54:00.001+00:002024-02-07T02:24:23.814+00:00EVERYONE SANG<p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhec6lPkwpsTL5MhW9doQjWFFjDSF8y3mlEPdaF-CQqjkHXo9hL3kNYwq71rrTlGjtS2fu5jo04gUuW_GJAcnbiICooKhMv_xTJZSCB-wCJR_F3BFUaQ0rPl3zpBPQfNnQ9ECDvwv-13UVh07Bjmm5-WxrivQ7h93MRirEGE8366cNDADygeH1SAe80W0Zf/s4029/IMG_5740.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2402" data-original-width="4029" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhec6lPkwpsTL5MhW9doQjWFFjDSF8y3mlEPdaF-CQqjkHXo9hL3kNYwq71rrTlGjtS2fu5jo04gUuW_GJAcnbiICooKhMv_xTJZSCB-wCJR_F3BFUaQ0rPl3zpBPQfNnQ9ECDvwv-13UVh07Bjmm5-WxrivQ7h93MRirEGE8366cNDADygeH1SAe80W0Zf/w640-h381/IMG_5740.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Our beloved friend, Annette Rowntree-Clifford née Johanna Abrahamsohn, died in December. She was nearly a hundred, so she knew life in all its shades of horror and glory. Some years ago, Annette's granddaughter wrote a beautiful poem about her Granny being a bird, flitting from room to room, 'her wings are deep blue folded cardigans and tucked inside are her stories'. Emily's poem was read at Annette's eulogy yesterday, and so, I believe, was the poem below, which I had written for Annette many years ago when I visited her. After the long drive to Leicester from Cambridge, I had to be put to bed like a small tired bear. Annette tucked me cosily into one of her grown up children's bedrooms. I felt frustrated as always by my time stealing illness. Precious time with Annette and Hugh lost because of my unruly body. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRf31h3dk96G1uu0VfwsbHjK6p3CfffUC0oX7V1fBFOAvPfYIpXGxi5IwAfKpyQPNS8cmkKZF9bGuhrQvR7pjXNFc4HdIxZ2pfmIUVJpXW5G55PqCYSr1mseKIxcWYTxNcnuwkAh9K9nfZEMiZCG5wPyx28HF0xeI2xHP3_Aw3dM4V5eshoB-diyHB_BV1/s4000/P1000943%20Shai%20Annette%20and%20me.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="4000" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRf31h3dk96G1uu0VfwsbHjK6p3CfffUC0oX7V1fBFOAvPfYIpXGxi5IwAfKpyQPNS8cmkKZF9bGuhrQvR7pjXNFc4HdIxZ2pfmIUVJpXW5G55PqCYSr1mseKIxcWYTxNcnuwkAh9K9nfZEMiZCG5wPyx28HF0xeI2xHP3_Aw3dM4V5eshoB-diyHB_BV1/w640-h480/P1000943%20Shai%20Annette%20and%20me.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJdCzv8FRF3PH3hZa-hEJdMIBUNUyeLyi6HhaJYtIzhwXJXeeINrVAz7Q2RxaN1FOyYVP1IgdwC8tAvLz6rOMM7M-552Df4xsKMsP9zHiM2Vn-hYzrLzzZqJHy0cqV1oRHmmTGz6VFGh8sWNwPnGIb-ouSSC19HHhmLep0lpd5M4szomKJPvPGlVoDpCiv/s3072/Annette%20&%20Chotu.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3072" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJdCzv8FRF3PH3hZa-hEJdMIBUNUyeLyi6HhaJYtIzhwXJXeeINrVAz7Q2RxaN1FOyYVP1IgdwC8tAvLz6rOMM7M-552Df4xsKMsP9zHiM2Vn-hYzrLzzZqJHy0cqV1oRHmmTGz6VFGh8sWNwPnGIb-ouSSC19HHhmLep0lpd5M4szomKJPvPGlVoDpCiv/w640-h480/Annette%20&%20Chotu.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: justify;">Hugh was a lifelong friend, at school and later at Oxford, of my father's brother Sadiq, and Dad spent all his summer vacations staying with the Cliffords while he was a medical student at St. Andrews. As Mum and Dad laughed and shared tea and stories together with their dear friends, I wrote this upstairs in bed: </span></div><p></p><p><b><i>Moving Plates</i></b></p><p><i>The perfect home<br />has something sentimental<br />resting side by side<br />with the practical.</i></p><p><i>Everything a meaning,</i></p><p><i>a memory,<br />a moment - even the broken,<br />the chipped china,</i><br /><i>but especially the hand woven<br />crochet craft work,<br />and the little notes<br />you write yourself -<br /><br />you leave for us<br />a forget-me-not trail<br />winding all the way</i><br /><i>to 1939<br />when the plates<br /> of your atlas<br />moved forever.</i></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJCQAqcYwHYXhZA9veguc1XGjeeT9h3wRmCXx9zKP4zAYE45wsv4rG-5-ZRDX3MS6796WNVg1D05P_fYzsutaH-PoNCM3UcgZBo5gLbbyue9G5E7F0va6Ltr_KB00LTDoJ4GjP0Rwd6lnffU-I8PFH6gWL2bZVpEk0p1V4kNe4UCP1RTB0D-4WBKfbp-U/s4030/IMG_5739.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3022" data-original-width="4030" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmJCQAqcYwHYXhZA9veguc1XGjeeT9h3wRmCXx9zKP4zAYE45wsv4rG-5-ZRDX3MS6796WNVg1D05P_fYzsutaH-PoNCM3UcgZBo5gLbbyue9G5E7F0va6Ltr_KB00LTDoJ4GjP0Rwd6lnffU-I8PFH6gWL2bZVpEk0p1V4kNe4UCP1RTB0D-4WBKfbp-U/w640-h480/IMG_5739.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">I do feel tired and heavy these days. And not because it is winter, and dark after four o'clock. After all, there are many blessings as always - not least that Dad and I walked down to the railway line twice this past week. I saw the sun and hustled Dad out. At the end of the driveway, I expected he would want to turn back as always. Expecting that, I hesitantly stepped out into the road and was met by blithe acceptance on his part. 'Anytime you want to stop and turn back, we can, ok Dad?' 'I'm fine!' he assured me, reassured me. So on we went. On - on - and out of sight.</p><p style="text-align: justify;">Annette brought good cheer always. In person, over the telephone and in gifts. When I was a teenager, Annette sent me a huge postcard with one of A. A. Milne's Christopher Robin and Pooh sketches on the front. It was so special to me then, and has continued to be near me since. Wherever I have lived - home, university, rented annexe, garden shanny - I have blue tacked the postcard to a handy wall. Pooh is not just for children. Annette understood things like that. She 'got you' in the words of her son Tony. To have such people in my life - people who 'get me' - my heart should be a singing bird at all times. But. War, injustice and poverty make that impossible. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7v5QJ5jVbxBP0p9EueE8lVPAq5XTeIey78Hc3m0S3MS1xAHuP5aP1tffEQ-_5DGc3W2cPz-JH-1vxVgb49apFM_YG04tgG5pR7zneHMbWtwOInP68T7KxDq_0HJsUFSV_blRHK4ONOg13Eb3FdZ90JfFS5lRNEK_M3M2fKTwUwGY5yU7YJGRW4hmwXpuy/s1486/IMG_5742.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1486" data-original-width="939" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7v5QJ5jVbxBP0p9EueE8lVPAq5XTeIey78Hc3m0S3MS1xAHuP5aP1tffEQ-_5DGc3W2cPz-JH-1vxVgb49apFM_YG04tgG5pR7zneHMbWtwOInP68T7KxDq_0HJsUFSV_blRHK4ONOg13Eb3FdZ90JfFS5lRNEK_M3M2fKTwUwGY5yU7YJGRW4hmwXpuy/w404-h640/IMG_5742.jpeg" width="404" /></a></div><span style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Tony ended the eulogy for Annette with another poem. This one by a poet made famous by a war. Siegfried Sassoon had a Jewish father, like Annette and her sister Gretel did. In 1914, Siegfried, being an enthusiastic Cambridge and Kent boy, was drawn into the English army. In 1939, Annette and Gretel, being German Jews, were shepherded to England on the kinder transport, waving goodbye at the train station to the parents they would never see again. Never again. Words we hear a lot of, but not fully meant - never again, for everyone. Did you know that Sassoon's father was a Baghdadi Jew, from an Iraqi family who had settled in Bombay? And did you know that Sassoon was sent to Palestine to 'recuperate from shell-shock' - the party line taken by a government angered by the anti-war poetry and speeches made by their tall, handsome, exceptionally brave soldier? Siegfried Sassoon wrote poetry in the spring of 1918, in Gaza and Ramallah, Palestine. He wrote, 'On the rock strewn hills I heard/ The anger of guns that shook/ Echoes along the glen./ In my heart was the song of a bird,/ And the sorrowless tale of the brook,/ And scorn for the deeds of men.' The bird he was listening to was a bulbul, whose song was heard often by my parents when we lived in Bombay. The discovery of these connections has made me happy. Annette is lifting my heart even as I write these words. 'It's complicated,' everyone says. As if a single life isn't complicated enough to fill trilogies. All we can hope is that as we near the end of our own complicated life, everyone lifts their voices to sing our tale. </div></span></div><p></p><p><i><b>Everyone Sang</b></i></p><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Everyone suddenly burst out singing;</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>And I was filled with such delight,</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>As prison birds must find in freedom,</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Winging wildly across the white</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Orchards and dark-green fields; on - on - and out of</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>sight.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted;</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>And beauty came like the setting sun:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>My heart was shaken with tears; and horror,</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Drifted away ... O, but Everyone </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>will never be done.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCbhCs5cLZD6KYhnLf7y26dqqMx5q_MeBoE4pggDhc-QsgCwTbuxQiAQJP7m0d1B0_ZC_5YQuhwK7LbNnJXrDQEQpQa9jecUT5RXBltX1C-6npoi3ouNUm-8mrb3P9N2_zZ7qj9IRR_LNTgEY7VZPFtDngelfR8RBkE8ot3pYB2bCTFIwgu-geNJrhZkm/s866/51DB0F94-23B8-4FBF-8D44-5024F357C255.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="601" data-original-width="866" height="444" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNCbhCs5cLZD6KYhnLf7y26dqqMx5q_MeBoE4pggDhc-QsgCwTbuxQiAQJP7m0d1B0_ZC_5YQuhwK7LbNnJXrDQEQpQa9jecUT5RXBltX1C-6npoi3ouNUm-8mrb3P9N2_zZ7qj9IRR_LNTgEY7VZPFtDngelfR8RBkE8ot3pYB2bCTFIwgu-geNJrhZkm/w640-h444/51DB0F94-23B8-4FBF-8D44-5024F357C255.webp" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i>(photo of bulbul by Sunjoy Monga via Conde Nast Traveller)</i></div></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-43904210596675856352024-01-05T05:33:00.004+00:002024-01-05T15:46:09.176+00:00IN BADGER’S WOOD<div style="text-align: left;"><i>Whose woods these are, I think I know;</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>They belong to my friends, Coco and Joe.</i></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVSWorIUQOf7tIMZ1_z3i7t1ueXoybS1hTrdu5NhLyzRJ5lxh6okFlRn4Ti_srYUoHeM1lbhLVvgIIQInEKgLIZUlRcrB_svMuQOFsRdzZcJZPwOs8vPNYO5CYQuN6rKfSTiGERISuu8bHlDRaYNNgyxpJTRFY0qC1Jy1eCL-lK26DuJQNCdoVMCFp2PHT/s4032/IMG_4454.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVSWorIUQOf7tIMZ1_z3i7t1ueXoybS1hTrdu5NhLyzRJ5lxh6okFlRn4Ti_srYUoHeM1lbhLVvgIIQInEKgLIZUlRcrB_svMuQOFsRdzZcJZPwOs8vPNYO5CYQuN6rKfSTiGERISuu8bHlDRaYNNgyxpJTRFY0qC1Jy1eCL-lK26DuJQNCdoVMCFp2PHT/w300-h400/IMG_4454.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What if there were no fear, or loss,</div><div style="text-align: left;">but hawthorn berry, instead?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What if I could tell</div><div style="text-align: left;">hazel and maple apart,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">not because one had more beauty -</div><div style="text-align: left;">there are rosehips, don’t forget,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">and Vibernum Opulis</div><div style="text-align: left;">and crushed, scented pine.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XTKIkiP4E7M_s_tGMEJza-tsVoXmA9Gc9KR3NtXr1MkDR-FRAtn16DhHIPJqXqRB7HHUobmXUB2vseRIKalopU6NIjlA7U04uN9qOzBv3fq8XeiLdURElAoH9jvL_lr5vwG1qGvNzxchddN8JMo0Ig7afEq7IxHVcUemxzCMPbdEKCYYPodZmFbNexRO/s4032/IMG_4586.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3XTKIkiP4E7M_s_tGMEJza-tsVoXmA9Gc9KR3NtXr1MkDR-FRAtn16DhHIPJqXqRB7HHUobmXUB2vseRIKalopU6NIjlA7U04uN9qOzBv3fq8XeiLdURElAoH9jvL_lr5vwG1qGvNzxchddN8JMo0Ig7afEq7IxHVcUemxzCMPbdEKCYYPodZmFbNexRO/w300-h400/IMG_4586.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8pnu-RAHX6siTJ05HRQcKgr28gHtquAkbN8Z-DVv9T5XpFi3sU_vaz-vanGGSy5ToXzXfxEHMCfmN1LtNddzwzIUhzEAGBH_zJWwmiPLKkhiqrPQKUnEFRkKkkuvb4Dhqoul2Jxvf06qPZjiq3hc_m_07d1yFSklJ2Fg66dnXqgfa1lRYFuV6JpNZ_mdH/s4032/IMG_4597.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8pnu-RAHX6siTJ05HRQcKgr28gHtquAkbN8Z-DVv9T5XpFi3sU_vaz-vanGGSy5ToXzXfxEHMCfmN1LtNddzwzIUhzEAGBH_zJWwmiPLKkhiqrPQKUnEFRkKkkuvb4Dhqoul2Jxvf06qPZjiq3hc_m_07d1yFSklJ2Fg66dnXqgfa1lRYFuV6JpNZ_mdH/w300-h400/IMG_4597.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCQZz6-U5of6VAYXx-uWCevwVwGtlS9Qi9R9Trz8ww6l6Vkhy4MNVpJlfjxo5GVZrOu7MCTNXm_3Cdw-X6ExjiglZVcW7GjCfIdMMHL6xrrxlIEZ-LLTlCsBk0mIXDDKeJek7Qdz6-bV7GLBotwHWBqhGvaGUekzc2Lmy9bA00rXVENu5McTRYJ2qnlB4q/s4032/IMG_4603.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCQZz6-U5of6VAYXx-uWCevwVwGtlS9Qi9R9Trz8ww6l6Vkhy4MNVpJlfjxo5GVZrOu7MCTNXm_3Cdw-X6ExjiglZVcW7GjCfIdMMHL6xrrxlIEZ-LLTlCsBk0mIXDDKeJek7Qdz6-bV7GLBotwHWBqhGvaGUekzc2Lmy9bA00rXVENu5McTRYJ2qnlB4q/w300-h400/IMG_4603.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Some catkins are soft green </div><div style="text-align: left;">caterpillars, plush with rain.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I learn a new story now</div><div style="text-align: left;">and again - like how rosemary </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">got her name - Rose Marinus -</div><div style="text-align: left;">‘dew of the sea’.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Everything ages. The cork</div><div style="text-align: left;">of the field maple marries moss,</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">and somewhere in the low bramble,</div><div style="text-align: left;">wild strawberries; </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">deeper still, the badger sett,</div><div style="text-align: left;">a whole world underneath.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And high above, birds calling.</div><div style="text-align: left;">‘Where do birds go when they die?’</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Joe asks. ‘Why don’t they fall </div><div style="text-align: left;">in great heaps from the sky?’</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Perhaps Merlin knew. Or Arthur, </div><div style="text-align: left;">when he was a boy, not exiled king.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">What if we could go home?</div><div style="text-align: left;">What if we were found, instead?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLJgd-MXokIqlFWBaFctXKLp9FYxJOt5DMDVE7KAW-fJjHwc_2eD5rP-Mqb3uitMDStZlC7Ip602Id0nOPn2ssTSV7-Y7guGQy4OzLJhyphenhyphenJHbQ5UKk3W5oB71a3bIiYiVV2a2oHC7bA578iT357-xFWR7CWEAW5krf8xIgR-oWdKWTuyR_Ddldj3t5e66ey/s1800/7786667D-DC48-4862-B31D-5C9AAFD7F336.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLJgd-MXokIqlFWBaFctXKLp9FYxJOt5DMDVE7KAW-fJjHwc_2eD5rP-Mqb3uitMDStZlC7Ip602Id0nOPn2ssTSV7-Y7guGQy4OzLJhyphenhyphenJHbQ5UKk3W5oB71a3bIiYiVV2a2oHC7bA578iT357-xFWR7CWEAW5krf8xIgR-oWdKWTuyR_Ddldj3t5e66ey/w320-h400/7786667D-DC48-4862-B31D-5C9AAFD7F336.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-axKc7Y1Envvic0zms0rTTdXGac44dh064MA7-jFfd1LXAPAEg-aWKXoCC34vhFQWfyV_lAINX1LYq7JjFcERjKvIaCM0Ue3dHlR9bpPR3ZaZeAxgzr8mih5xIHh8wE8oVFtqH_3r8TI_ETvWXLrGeGR6qAdYK2jXGTknlGR6NX7VPDT_ZHy71k2mBls/s4032/IMG_4715.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW-axKc7Y1Envvic0zms0rTTdXGac44dh064MA7-jFfd1LXAPAEg-aWKXoCC34vhFQWfyV_lAINX1LYq7JjFcERjKvIaCM0Ue3dHlR9bpPR3ZaZeAxgzr8mih5xIHh8wE8oVFtqH_3r8TI_ETvWXLrGeGR6qAdYK2jXGTknlGR6NX7VPDT_ZHy71k2mBls/w400-h300/IMG_4715.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Poets Open Link Night at <a href="https://dversepoets.com/" target="_blank">dversepoets</a>…</div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-56242214099987282412023-12-31T18:35:00.001+00:002023-12-31T18:35:22.160+00:00GOD IS A REFUGEE<div style="text-align: left;">Write. What shall I write of? </div><div style="text-align: left;">Sleep? When shall I sleep?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCb3AZTbdZ1Koc4NjMI3TOe0Jk5yTuBiQduu1iYqzttaLHz6ZCXz89YUgDQ6ycqMoBvuBXJyKbkbK4g_knpY9JbQe9UPyl9ua5E6aRdhWWP-DnOZbb-mWblVUdXzUOBJQyYDN5Wppqr3bnZZEATANsQsjtuH8irL7ph5y3ikF_QYDyK37rEnzJjUOkPTfX/s1800/3F718A1A-D8D6-481C-8042-9E1DF5E866AA.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCb3AZTbdZ1Koc4NjMI3TOe0Jk5yTuBiQduu1iYqzttaLHz6ZCXz89YUgDQ6ycqMoBvuBXJyKbkbK4g_knpY9JbQe9UPyl9ua5E6aRdhWWP-DnOZbb-mWblVUdXzUOBJQyYDN5Wppqr3bnZZEATANsQsjtuH8irL7ph5y3ikF_QYDyK37rEnzJjUOkPTfX/w320-h400/3F718A1A-D8D6-481C-8042-9E1DF5E866AA.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">These last few months have seen Dad fall, enter and leave hospital. And then Mum had a cyst burst at the back of her knee. She entered and left hospital. At home, I happily wear the crown of Angel daughter, exhausted but knowing I can escape to a warm bed in between cooking and cleaning and helping with this and that …</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But write? What shall I write of?</div><div style="text-align: left;">And sleep? When my dreams are part of my waking hours of images of children in Gaza, victims of a genocidal video game player. Remote button massacre with changes in ingredients … sometimes white phosphorus which burns straight to the bone… or changes in style and type of amputation. Not shattered messily, but sliced so neatly, Professor Ghassan Abu Sittah has never seen the like in all his years of being a surgeon. The Israeli government apologised: sorry for your recent loss, we dropped the wrong sort of bomb on your refugee camp. We meant to drop the other one. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9D5Q345ypssSNTWUpBw4hhZXHhrek0aoJVeZFXUFyRK1gJA-XvJmYC3RZDpyfywwp7HCMEaIZUKTzx4QySVgJyWDG2wxL1j0kPco_0rwxYAEaC-VQnVFZ7arJULMTsV0X0Ae0vPesB03UsP4UIAO4DWyZF50YC0X8lJUw12cKC-8PxzmuHNBVt__dTHw/s1791/B9F8DEA2-7F4D-449A-9E8D-F6EE6C751469.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1791" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR9D5Q345ypssSNTWUpBw4hhZXHhrek0aoJVeZFXUFyRK1gJA-XvJmYC3RZDpyfywwp7HCMEaIZUKTzx4QySVgJyWDG2wxL1j0kPco_0rwxYAEaC-VQnVFZ7arJULMTsV0X0Ae0vPesB03UsP4UIAO4DWyZF50YC0X8lJUw12cKC-8PxzmuHNBVt__dTHw/w321-h400/B9F8DEA2-7F4D-449A-9E8D-F6EE6C751469.jpeg" width="321" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We managed to get the lights up … mum on the Christmas tree and across the windows in the rooms downstairs, me on my bedroom window and along the corridor outside. Any light will do to see me through.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I wished my brothers in their far away different time zone lands a happy new year. We give thanks for each other. All ok? All ok. Or to use the Arabic word - ‘tayyib?’ In so many of the clips I have seen on social media, I have heard Palestinians ask each other, ‘Tayyib?’ It’s used across the Middle East. From the word ‘Tayyab’ meaning Good. So in honour of my grandfather’s name, bestowed upon so many of us dotted around the globe, I try to uphold the virtue of goodness. Such a small word, ‘good’. Like ‘kind’. The small word, the small act, of truth and goodness, are the only way forward. But wait, what is truth? We live in a world in which each person, each community, holds fast to a different truth. And sometimes, will kill to prove their word is the truer word. With the better bomb. The right bomb.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFgDjaImANnQ8Xj2BxpaQ_2XR1OnawB3xXV1PWKXQ_X3NwZ_1OJAia8ziCxNXgwMGT1iOkKoUYzD5gD28v_ouKbtk9ye0wVRo8QvC2MeREeM4pboSd69ZkfS8nshAU6ywwsPmdEH7_ggY6lQsLbs1bT8fJOxQaKCRkPi2JYbO-4t21tDUo2xV9QsUqce0Y/s1590/IMG_5098.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1590" data-original-width="1283" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFgDjaImANnQ8Xj2BxpaQ_2XR1OnawB3xXV1PWKXQ_X3NwZ_1OJAia8ziCxNXgwMGT1iOkKoUYzD5gD28v_ouKbtk9ye0wVRo8QvC2MeREeM4pboSd69ZkfS8nshAU6ywwsPmdEH7_ggY6lQsLbs1bT8fJOxQaKCRkPi2JYbO-4t21tDUo2xV9QsUqce0Y/w323-h400/IMG_5098.jpeg" width="323" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So goodbye to another year. Much will be forgotten. Do we have the energy for 2024? The numbers look so strange to me. They make no sense at all. Haven’t we all been here far far longer than a mere two thousand and twenty three years? There goes one truth. Never mind. Shall we meet at the end of the road as it curves into 2025? What will be our losses then? What will we have learned? Ask me what I wrote. I hope to have an answer for my own question by then.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Ps: the title ‘God Is A Refugee’ is from a poem by Rashid Hussein. He also wrote a few words </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>On Poetry</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Sing what you like, but…</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Let everybody understand.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>You have become ink and words.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>So why do you talk?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Poet, produce!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>But let the worker and the peasant understand.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Let the murdered understand.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>And let the fighter understand.</i></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-39905372568192016122023-11-16T21:38:00.001+00:002023-11-16T21:39:12.736+00:00BISAN <p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj83MTJpzL7fEpUql0k9TkQ_5EKPPGFCXVWxL33tZVWHKGyXbpq6eN32Mk4H__C2ddAac1sRylzeDsAW6oAMDmeOGW0zL4Vd3Z5sqRTBD2egXGIYneSlmxzE-MMwRIikytE0o2LZLj3_cRiZunnadIh1oa0uIp2W7d27TUBlrcdeGq0cvDSavGmaV5qFGfD/s1556/F-cLQSxWYAALwMg.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1556" data-original-width="1124" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj83MTJpzL7fEpUql0k9TkQ_5EKPPGFCXVWxL33tZVWHKGyXbpq6eN32Mk4H__C2ddAac1sRylzeDsAW6oAMDmeOGW0zL4Vd3Z5sqRTBD2egXGIYneSlmxzE-MMwRIikytE0o2LZLj3_cRiZunnadIh1oa0uIp2W7d27TUBlrcdeGq0cvDSavGmaV5qFGfD/w289-h400/F-cLQSxWYAALwMg.jpeg" width="289" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">Bisan,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">your cat came to me in my dream.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br />White, yet not entirely - she was real -<br />not as a cloud, she was eating lime.<br />Yes, I was holding a round green lime <br />in my hand and she stole it to play.<br />Cats love to play, don’t they?<br />I say this as one who has never owned a cat <br />or even, I confess, known or loved a cat.<br />But this cat, your cat, I presume -</span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">although she was perhaps any </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">of the lost cats doomed this Nakba - <br />this cat, I say, knew me well enough </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">to drape herself, Queen like, across </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">my throat, as I was lying down in my bed - <br />not the bed of my English home, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">in the country that questions me on home,<br />but the home of my dreams, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">the bed in my dreams, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">where I grew from baby to girl, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">to on the verge of something between </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">girl and woman to be.<br />Protecting my throat, but also </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">preventing me from moving, rising, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">perhaps even speaking - </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">she was everything, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">commanding the wholeness of me. <br />I feel her now - a heavy white scarf, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">a sacred promise, bound to me, </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">as I to her - a symbol </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">beyond my understanding. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br />Ya Rahman. Ya Raheem. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;">Ameen. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><i>© Shaista Tayabali, 2023</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Is anyone able to write much, if anything, at this time? This poem came, as my poems come, fast, as if in dictation, from a place of necessity, to tell someone something in the only way available to me. Part of me feels as if there has never been a genocide experienced this way - in the palms of our hands, in real time. And yet, the power of reading the testimonies of Primo Levi and Victor E. Frankl, not to ever forget Anne Frank, many years after the facts, did not render my heart any less broken. I say broken, but it is not yet so. Just chipped, cracked, rust filled, despairing of being human. This poem is dedicated to one of several young Gaza journalists I follow, like millions do, on Instagram, hoping, willing her to survive. She is Bisan Owda @wizard_bisan1, and the others are Motaz Azaiza @motaz_azaiza, Plestia Alaqad @byplestia, Yara Eid @eid_yara. Others have been killed already. I inch forward in this mural, baring my teeth through tears. </i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidqZFEfpZfqy8319IO35NAZ6SSUcDP8PFqsaXzCHWoiC0YmtB0X7QOxQBYMXH_Qgub-U82f9Zitthf-W06_X9hGlDqShkIedQ6Xg_Jd5tg8Xpz_UaQepgTi6bc0y-sXXLx-mMPJMtKdNCuKyyPhS7oCaTYID7S9fE-RVWg2B2DBqzZR2jcUDHqg4Uqc7UD/s3688/IMG_4553.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3688" height="328" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidqZFEfpZfqy8319IO35NAZ6SSUcDP8PFqsaXzCHWoiC0YmtB0X7QOxQBYMXH_Qgub-U82f9Zitthf-W06_X9hGlDqShkIedQ6Xg_Jd5tg8Xpz_UaQepgTi6bc0y-sXXLx-mMPJMtKdNCuKyyPhS7oCaTYID7S9fE-RVWg2B2DBqzZR2jcUDHqg4Uqc7UD/w400-h328/IMG_4553.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><i>(First image via Bisan's instagram page @wizard_bisan1</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Second is a mural I am working on at home</i></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Poem participating in <a href="https://dversepoets.com/" target="_blank">DVerse Poems Open Link </a>night)</i></span></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-34436817073773078552023-10-12T21:28:00.003+01:002023-10-12T21:31:36.382+01:00SUNFLOWERS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLDwAllD3aBCuscZM0tuqFsPVbDdrFKNOWpP9QsoPMVXeStSqEE8j9t_G_VgihzHMd9YqenPTZrnD4fezzvjQc-QF_eUTazG3bAVcY9RZ0mZoxoDMevVQjP0IJAlUEpfKSZ5EBwItZ3XSblIR5CxXUzepZDd09UAvqSb7Hd7nLHsI4pTcGms9j39wexs_V/s800/sunflowers.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLDwAllD3aBCuscZM0tuqFsPVbDdrFKNOWpP9QsoPMVXeStSqEE8j9t_G_VgihzHMd9YqenPTZrnD4fezzvjQc-QF_eUTazG3bAVcY9RZ0mZoxoDMevVQjP0IJAlUEpfKSZ5EBwItZ3XSblIR5CxXUzepZDd09UAvqSb7Hd7nLHsI4pTcGms9j39wexs_V/w400-h400/sunflowers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The sunflowers my mother bought<br />wept over the kitchen floor </div><div style="text-align: left;">this morning, their scent overpowering - </div><div style="text-align: left;">wet carpets, mothballs.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Or something older, an odour</div><div style="text-align: left;">too close to human, for comfort.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A flower seems such a harmless thing,</div><div style="text-align: left;">stuck in a painted vase,</div><div style="text-align: left;">petals shaking off at the lightest touch,</div><div style="text-align: left;">or no touch at all.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And yet, I am driven far away, </div><div style="text-align: left;">wanting nothing more of their glorious black,</div><div style="text-align: left;">the gold I sought - only days ago,</div><div style="text-align: left;">when my mother brought them home. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>(c) Shaista Tayabali, 2023</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPxUPNSF7nL8i-aHfMOYK2KbnPGG3EQQIQnPd4E7oma7K6uWvHnZpA8hH6BBoavnFkow6AU0XBHPwt8UrLhszQLyW4ji7ou-dSueWLwks_NYS2waKyW5AWTvT0Pybb5nAAmjScL1xvzCN_EaEPBIMzgoEbuHk2CpuzNz3XeUBCJkmarQzg-QyXnkqIIB86/s1200/Van%20Gogh%201.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="850" data-original-width="1200" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPxUPNSF7nL8i-aHfMOYK2KbnPGG3EQQIQnPd4E7oma7K6uWvHnZpA8hH6BBoavnFkow6AU0XBHPwt8UrLhszQLyW4ji7ou-dSueWLwks_NYS2waKyW5AWTvT0Pybb5nAAmjScL1xvzCN_EaEPBIMzgoEbuHk2CpuzNz3XeUBCJkmarQzg-QyXnkqIIB86/w400-h284/Van%20Gogh%201.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: right;"><i>Paintings: Vincent Van Gogh (1853-1890)</i></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i>OLN night at <a href="https://dversepoets.com/" target="_blank">DVerse Poets</a></i></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-30161143827341418012023-08-21T23:30:00.023+01:002023-09-11T20:40:29.998+01:00INTENTIONAL BIRTHDAY JOY <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">In the weeks leading up to my birthday, I try to be intentional about my gratitude. Here I still am, loved. </span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzEExP6W2IJvGMgJcImf0VLFplwWnBzY1PDdwTW0gPYb_42mv7UoFsOxyMgKVAVyUDyBSH_sbg_LQgjkePJC3pXmN-o-LW-788No6K9SMvH4tuSrDacYUVPiaeaT_zwLhoQ2c498TM5wAbDmfy9TXb_zgpjlplujf3tnkkb5Rdo2JQaECFWEjSzB54u5G-/s3088/IMG_2516.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzEExP6W2IJvGMgJcImf0VLFplwWnBzY1PDdwTW0gPYb_42mv7UoFsOxyMgKVAVyUDyBSH_sbg_LQgjkePJC3pXmN-o-LW-788No6K9SMvH4tuSrDacYUVPiaeaT_zwLhoQ2c498TM5wAbDmfy9TXb_zgpjlplujf3tnkkb5Rdo2JQaECFWEjSzB54u5G-/w300-h400/IMG_2516.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoue6TuoWogtUiy-vUHn9Evl29DQkzpttinVWujtgyME-wY4UwrXCKdAqiX1InOLFbNXWELElI-VDQC0fRXbI9XHtOsuBNAkGEMB0zFhCLRMs3cLEDkRdaXGEr-RUNjMXmGLhAMpUpHOSoxLIJ72zj1I3ULsuCjG5lAsHLQ2SpkyjM4ymLLvXf3hN76Ex/s4032/IMG_2517.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYoue6TuoWogtUiy-vUHn9Evl29DQkzpttinVWujtgyME-wY4UwrXCKdAqiX1InOLFbNXWELElI-VDQC0fRXbI9XHtOsuBNAkGEMB0zFhCLRMs3cLEDkRdaXGEr-RUNjMXmGLhAMpUpHOSoxLIJ72zj1I3ULsuCjG5lAsHLQ2SpkyjM4ymLLvXf3hN76Ex/w300-h400/IMG_2517.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I tend to myself in the ways that will fill me up for the unknown times ahead. I took the bus into town, crossed Parker's Piece and stepped into a cosy salon for a massage with baobab oil - seed oil from the tree of life (they say). I tried to infuse colour with my nieces' tenth birthday balloons in the conservatory (slightly deflated, but with original illustrations), birthday nails the colour of birthday balloons… flowers everywhere… </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYf2Kz3-atbpfYDLoRGJLhIp_kg_kfH6giW-AcJm8F7NR4kStz6M_BL3w0b7qh6D8PKKcpUDw-MPE1yKF2O-BK_NtOkJ2WgWqz8ogINFQVgYwE94tQQt5ryQDUYJCvGR4PT83PXHBJopgdR9jAoUq3N9bkdn7-HLyYEgVwjPHWFAr-bUFg5ZlsR8IKkcRs/s4032/IMG_2506.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYf2Kz3-atbpfYDLoRGJLhIp_kg_kfH6giW-AcJm8F7NR4kStz6M_BL3w0b7qh6D8PKKcpUDw-MPE1yKF2O-BK_NtOkJ2WgWqz8ogINFQVgYwE94tQQt5ryQDUYJCvGR4PT83PXHBJopgdR9jAoUq3N9bkdn7-HLyYEgVwjPHWFAr-bUFg5ZlsR8IKkcRs/w300-h400/IMG_2506.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkapPCEYHU9xy8xW1nKnckxhMEnBGRm45Ku0LDQnfNHoOnDLXZ0HCarWkhVZn1wblM7ddUhmI-pfZtFDsNGJuE0BXyme_OibqDpRj6-Hd1GoY34AZLR8OKLD-Tl24GejwVESFvsZmDHqkO8bZ7OCW460Ucm0UtTvDs_OtjK1msv-em6Y3SBbypF7eBFqR/s3088/IMG_2524.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGkapPCEYHU9xy8xW1nKnckxhMEnBGRm45Ku0LDQnfNHoOnDLXZ0HCarWkhVZn1wblM7ddUhmI-pfZtFDsNGJuE0BXyme_OibqDpRj6-Hd1GoY34AZLR8OKLD-Tl24GejwVESFvsZmDHqkO8bZ7OCW460Ucm0UtTvDs_OtjK1msv-em6Y3SBbypF7eBFqR/w300-h400/IMG_2524.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1X4PmFW6Zl0izVg8PQqg5VRH3qOMKt_F4QphT1PFiYGntW5F9OAVTXMJ85QDpLmyknnPBr3uvXnJP5lMecROanZ7ZVyereWA_jsruY3iJTLDqNwUL4Rl8ih1nwc0kX3njzJr-zQdUyTM2ClVe5ziqSZJf-1yrrDZxAAGr-nYlcQQBKwlPLIj-LYi_-ho/s4032/IMG_2580.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1X4PmFW6Zl0izVg8PQqg5VRH3qOMKt_F4QphT1PFiYGntW5F9OAVTXMJ85QDpLmyknnPBr3uvXnJP5lMecROanZ7ZVyereWA_jsruY3iJTLDqNwUL4Rl8ih1nwc0kX3njzJr-zQdUyTM2ClVe5ziqSZJf-1yrrDZxAAGr-nYlcQQBKwlPLIj-LYi_-ho/w300-h400/IMG_2580.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Mum made a roast chicken with sweetcorn, mushrooms and potatoes on the side… And our beloved friend Joan Church whisked up the legendary chocolate cake she knows I have loved since my first bite in hospital in 2009 while I was still being weaned off a feeding tube… she learnt it was my birthday at 5pm and by 7:30 she was at the door, a cake with still warm icing, fresh from the oven, in the boot of her car!</p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgICXoSKVTNgh_qY9u8-MiQNXPg2tTcWhlefvWIRnmEB6EBmm4QjaT7wrmDHY7HjhUhznwoWz1MoryF-oEDydqjYbR5Y8Q-iNgqQHHpzHossc8rPyU4jryC1V_KKdooOax_gIeaCuwx-8_V0KkeoJjjMOufoB8aX81uicM0k8dF43wZP3B_KVOZEP5SAsDZ/s4032/IMG_2591.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgICXoSKVTNgh_qY9u8-MiQNXPg2tTcWhlefvWIRnmEB6EBmm4QjaT7wrmDHY7HjhUhznwoWz1MoryF-oEDydqjYbR5Y8Q-iNgqQHHpzHossc8rPyU4jryC1V_KKdooOax_gIeaCuwx-8_V0KkeoJjjMOufoB8aX81uicM0k8dF43wZP3B_KVOZEP5SAsDZ/w300-h400/IMG_2591.jpeg" width="300" /></a></p><p style="text-align: left;">Over the next few days, other friends stopped by. Dr Kumar with plums and then tomatoes, Dr Ly with walnuts from Vietnam, Sammy stayed the weekend while there was a wedding in the family... and a week after my birthday, I fulfilled a literary challenge set down by my friend Firdaus - to pick up the threads of my novel again! </p><p style="text-align: left;">I sit in the conservatory and place a few sentences, a few words... like a few daubs of paint onto a canvas. A slow slow writer I am when it comes to fiction. Memoir and poetry come fast like trains and wind. A novel is slow pressure cooking for me. But if I don't keep at the cooking, a piece of my heart's desire continues to remain unfulfilled. So en avant! The poet warrior has work to do. A work of love, she hopes...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZGO6zExDVEf2EIeZ49u5Z3xaZNks5KZJsYu22ddAkjvEaJ4pLFLEpSWg3icW6AH8QMuOOBoVovZIIL04l39WBF4JrTU-I9znvAh2MRhF_qd754EKuEGGiqegjruVCdS5aqxuFoPi7E2KcHx7PLDXaaRUmOl0OqEf6-44Bx82L4Ez64rygLxnu7N8BDPc4/s3088/IMG_2707.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZGO6zExDVEf2EIeZ49u5Z3xaZNks5KZJsYu22ddAkjvEaJ4pLFLEpSWg3icW6AH8QMuOOBoVovZIIL04l39WBF4JrTU-I9znvAh2MRhF_qd754EKuEGGiqegjruVCdS5aqxuFoPi7E2KcHx7PLDXaaRUmOl0OqEf6-44Bx82L4Ez64rygLxnu7N8BDPc4/s320/IMG_2707.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzotDf91MDTN9ntDLvdZnemCXcyIa79cB1KypAi2kQnq2X2trYpfcBEwr5oCpA6dOSQQGuormRb6b-0vBdL8w' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-76988129975344096822023-08-09T12:23:00.001+01:002023-08-09T12:23:12.486+01:00A TIKTOK BARBIE SUMMER <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8DsLgD2PByRP8R-XgU_PsCLslGwQGDGQhrZxsbQI65G1AN1S7ntOqsG4AlRb0ji_ei48KRmudKwttgAJ0uVZvjEesmw9WaJ9hN6egNzvDrlstT7GrKHPdwrneV-3xD83O3M8DE1Mk0p7TuZ4efJ0_1CDeKD5Wi9O5SvZb-W6U0NJEjkmD-xWBw0EKlXS/s4032/IMG_2040.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEie8DsLgD2PByRP8R-XgU_PsCLslGwQGDGQhrZxsbQI65G1AN1S7ntOqsG4AlRb0ji_ei48KRmudKwttgAJ0uVZvjEesmw9WaJ9hN6egNzvDrlstT7GrKHPdwrneV-3xD83O3M8DE1Mk0p7TuZ4efJ0_1CDeKD5Wi9O5SvZb-W6U0NJEjkmD-xWBw0EKlXS/w300-h400/IMG_2040.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">I thought I hadn’t posted a thing since Christmas, but I have a couple of posts this year to redeem me. It gets harder and harder to persist as long form creator when the young ‘uns are buzzing about us with TikTok reels, and YouTube shorts and everything is clipped and fleeting. My niece Bella made a first TikTok for me, and it’s fun, lively, catchy. My nephew Raf has an anime channel, and he checks the views and subscribers like a hawk. My nieces Eva and Ellie whip up comic series as an afterthought at breakfast, and the walls of Shaista land continue to be drawn and painted on, some done, some undone.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4oVXr_5zV1VGtDv91FTgvyzzLuyBDYjbd6KOViqflVpSCXj_y7SLpINWQJXaE1IVhLU9ZXozUB6-GsqqIOc-zp9UOs6jrOhjUfV3guhD6GwGmJa4okVlZzverev25kY6MzhP3J53fLcVauN4boySwp0vV9ATu3zs4rYd5FWgbpATL2FJThyLh5qc6E-xF/s4032/IMG_2042.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4oVXr_5zV1VGtDv91FTgvyzzLuyBDYjbd6KOViqflVpSCXj_y7SLpINWQJXaE1IVhLU9ZXozUB6-GsqqIOc-zp9UOs6jrOhjUfV3guhD6GwGmJa4okVlZzverev25kY6MzhP3J53fLcVauN4boySwp0vV9ATu3zs4rYd5FWgbpATL2FJThyLh5qc6E-xF/w400-h300/IMG_2042.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Yesterday at the infusion centre, I wore my ‘Je Suis Très Fatigué’ sweatshirt, and June (of the gold heels and immaculate fashion) advised me to never give up hope, keep the negative thoughts away, and surround myself with colour. Mostly I want to badger into the earth, and stay duvet-ed until… until when? It’s summer, and Barbie is in town.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfOHAwQtrlC_qrgdp09jN0jpfCH_W6VorRaIGNfzW9FTV1JzWFDskMiV4agYPZVbRSu2z567wZucbDDVn7HO0o4JTZ3tgMrQyTg2Vi1WAJks6g2zbJ4f97oj9GLLzeCVZFqwN82MBLp3kdlQGj8oIP36ttHp4o0E_gtVS6iGohoJT16Onw_WQnrHIj3oCf/s4032/24A60493-492D-42E7-8DEF-DECF962C676C.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfOHAwQtrlC_qrgdp09jN0jpfCH_W6VorRaIGNfzW9FTV1JzWFDskMiV4agYPZVbRSu2z567wZucbDDVn7HO0o4JTZ3tgMrQyTg2Vi1WAJks6g2zbJ4f97oj9GLLzeCVZFqwN82MBLp3kdlQGj8oIP36ttHp4o0E_gtVS6iGohoJT16Onw_WQnrHIj3oCf/w300-h400/24A60493-492D-42E7-8DEF-DECF962C676C.heic" width="300" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">What did I think of the movie? It was indeed berry pink, had a great soundtrack, Ryan Gosling and Kate McKinnon have fabulous comedic roles… but I stayed detached. Barbie and I were never particularly close - I preferred the softer touch of my grey worn teddy bear, my little cotton pillow, my dreams of authorship. There was something very hard and plastic about Barbie. A synthetic opacity. I did love America Ferrera’s speech about the expectations on women resulting in us never being or feeling enough. I love Greta Gerwig as writer and director… I liked being in the cinema with not only my niece, but also my brother and nephew (with him I discussed the film in great detail later that night on a doggy walk around the village). It’s ‘Both, And’ for me, to quote the extraordinary therapist, Esther Perel.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfg90JSNSMYPUClhxGeLRdip6CiuFKZ8nTZ4UvaKUn1hE0XU6AUtRbEW3eKLWMJjk6KXVv8_MH8ZPBGAbZcqed-KJquYzA8ArenccSg_nGVKPsCPKyhGhYaN8tuiNB7RCZdMuqmlCp3o-sO4kelctL4j9cruMp8CINWkxxOb5DTi-8BfWiPmkU8gehoB-z/s4032/A6F41E82-9A2D-443F-A5ED-3A6B08D695E9.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfg90JSNSMYPUClhxGeLRdip6CiuFKZ8nTZ4UvaKUn1hE0XU6AUtRbEW3eKLWMJjk6KXVv8_MH8ZPBGAbZcqed-KJquYzA8ArenccSg_nGVKPsCPKyhGhYaN8tuiNB7RCZdMuqmlCp3o-sO4kelctL4j9cruMp8CINWkxxOb5DTi-8BfWiPmkU8gehoB-z/w400-h300/A6F41E82-9A2D-443F-A5ED-3A6B08D695E9.heic" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I am phenomenally tired after our family summertime together. Mentally and physically. And the beat goes on… What next? What lies undone? The desire to create, while knowing there are operations to come, an underlying infection that has not released its hold on me… and a birthday. I try to do something special, something memorable on my birthdays when there are few family and friends around… while knowing that staving off a hospital admission is really the focus of the next two weeks. Meanwhile, here's to watching the rain fall with best friends, through a looking glass... </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicf-0STooM0nKrJGtfJwleNjztsU9mQf2DsJctBp1qwFKOFymtwSkVK6V-R6JM8n7VgwOAEWgfI7TE7KrVtjL_zk59MG7Uw95zY8gsYcsUAcNrXsGMX7OJ-xb2gaX-BxOmYzG0IWW66Vt7ktIQrOh6onn3ot54sUmCXE7PYvp4GIUOVhoFeJiAF3oAxti0/s4032/4EBE0A3C-36BC-4CB0-8BB0-722F2DE48537_1_201_a.heic" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicf-0STooM0nKrJGtfJwleNjztsU9mQf2DsJctBp1qwFKOFymtwSkVK6V-R6JM8n7VgwOAEWgfI7TE7KrVtjL_zk59MG7Uw95zY8gsYcsUAcNrXsGMX7OJ-xb2gaX-BxOmYzG0IWW66Vt7ktIQrOh6onn3ot54sUmCXE7PYvp4GIUOVhoFeJiAF3oAxti0/w300-h400/4EBE0A3C-36BC-4CB0-8BB0-722F2DE48537_1_201_a.heic" width="300" /></a></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-37440108122087980602023-05-11T22:18:00.002+01:002023-05-12T01:26:06.818+01:00THE WIRE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbmO-vWLo5h7y2_Xsj-FgpWR0HUSXWSyvBxKIKLechCPqVMAQSRaSdhoF9ikAe_39ML_qe0i9Z3VffVrT2-bkVH-YJvnrah79TdUKvt7mURs2wDHpO6rKUSSr-LYUd1a1g1qczyt-3OlDgj9leX3uOzu7C71fhZhKdPIUjS43bNS8tGnC8068Du4G2A/s880/22F198F0-CF11-4BFB-A2BD-992CE0977B89.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="880" height="483" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFbmO-vWLo5h7y2_Xsj-FgpWR0HUSXWSyvBxKIKLechCPqVMAQSRaSdhoF9ikAe_39ML_qe0i9Z3VffVrT2-bkVH-YJvnrah79TdUKvt7mURs2wDHpO6rKUSSr-LYUd1a1g1qczyt-3OlDgj9leX3uOzu7C71fhZhKdPIUjS43bNS8tGnC8068Du4G2A/w640-h483/22F198F0-CF11-4BFB-A2BD-992CE0977B89.jpeg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Plugged in</div><div style="text-align: left;">or plugged out,</div><div style="text-align: left;">no escape.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Even the monastery,</div><div style="text-align: left;">even the future </div><div style="text-align: left;">of bees -</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">a stranger </div><div style="text-align: left;">even cut down </div><div style="text-align: left;">our trees.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We march to its beat,</div><div style="text-align: left;">www.unfree</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>© Shaista Tayabali, 2023 (shared at<a href="https://dversepoets.com" target="_blank"> DVerse Open Nights</a>)</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKX0M1BaJTj2_M8XLASBbjHx05xwNvUqbxiHkE7JxyQBdmzCDUwxw7QQykFVnrIYJXbCpH1DdX_1w6BEBwUIKSqf5DA5IeLj8gsVridnMI7lOX7kcBvO6agzM5bOXqoGVCFUxcE4Y6bUkJyO0MaCs4aXkfA088G4bkpw-pgtE-Y_ZN1S_7T-Y-l0BIOg/s882/4D513D70-FDD2-41D9-BB23-91AD6657DBF9.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="882" data-original-width="880" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKX0M1BaJTj2_M8XLASBbjHx05xwNvUqbxiHkE7JxyQBdmzCDUwxw7QQykFVnrIYJXbCpH1DdX_1w6BEBwUIKSqf5DA5IeLj8gsVridnMI7lOX7kcBvO6agzM5bOXqoGVCFUxcE4Y6bUkJyO0MaCs4aXkfA088G4bkpw-pgtE-Y_ZN1S_7T-Y-l0BIOg/w398-h400/4D513D70-FDD2-41D9-BB23-91AD6657DBF9.jpeg" width="398" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">What are your thoughts on FOMO? Fear Of Missing Out. It doesn’t feel like a young person’s social media phenomenon. It feels a very real contemplation when we are no longer (just) aware of our own mortality, but also the extinction of our planet and all species. This wire that connects us all, it’s a good thing, I think. But freedom from it… is that even possible anymore? Strangers did really cut down trees at the bottom of our garden one night in the middle of a storm. The next day, the wreckage of living beings, and shredded fences. There was no reason for it, surely, other than improving someone's internet connection? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSrH17jfJd356EwsHCCjO4mDNkZUC4Ej3yf_HgS5rCOb58EbhStZxlq_y1fjjyz3VAJumFmj236m6If1BlrZ8OIGq8ouTTmPj_WOJFhA2DfmRdtylrtQXpzp4-Ocz1DJc5OZ4c_jnp0uckrU1by5yFMxsXSOG-3Hq10R67c03FDdFRD7nUu4WYkSDVFQ/s1100/A85D6B94-58FB-409C-AC9B-827513181F96.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="880" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSrH17jfJd356EwsHCCjO4mDNkZUC4Ej3yf_HgS5rCOb58EbhStZxlq_y1fjjyz3VAJumFmj236m6If1BlrZ8OIGq8ouTTmPj_WOJFhA2DfmRdtylrtQXpzp4-Ocz1DJc5OZ4c_jnp0uckrU1by5yFMxsXSOG-3Hq10R67c03FDdFRD7nUu4WYkSDVFQ/w320-h400/A85D6B94-58FB-409C-AC9B-827513181F96.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">But then you type in 'female artist painting the internet' and you find the art of 16 year old Dimitra Milan, and suddenly you are inside a world shared only because of the wire. And I wouldn't miss this for anything. Anything, but those fallen trees.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWu9pINOtWXqH7Bkl9n9WV8Kle-8Ej4fz3gn8Q6pNDs6kPHbGfy_R7NqTMcRcW1k0CyI5jK7PCk-JlCIZWZmx9NYj4lM68vvRFot3d99BmUtBbId2n2HzdpKKvDwWRu3TSL_EoRSXUXMjkLa-kgzoqKfywGia7V9V9KVOEBQqLTzHy0hXZXCV3LCMkJg/s880/16-year-old-artist-dimitra-milan-1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="653" data-original-width="880" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWu9pINOtWXqH7Bkl9n9WV8Kle-8Ej4fz3gn8Q6pNDs6kPHbGfy_R7NqTMcRcW1k0CyI5jK7PCk-JlCIZWZmx9NYj4lM68vvRFot3d99BmUtBbId2n2HzdpKKvDwWRu3TSL_EoRSXUXMjkLa-kgzoqKfywGia7V9V9KVOEBQqLTzHy0hXZXCV3LCMkJg/w640-h474/16-year-old-artist-dimitra-milan-1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">(For more of Milan's work, here is the original link at <a href="https://www.boredpanda.com/16-year-old-young-artist-surreal-painting-dimitra-milan/?utm_source=google&utm_medium=organic&utm_campaign=organic" target="_blank">Bored Panda</a> and her <a href="https://www.dimitramilan.com/pages/her-story" target="_blank">current work</a>.)</div></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-21332672064924385122023-05-01T01:26:00.001+01:002023-05-01T01:26:00.153+01:00SPRING WEDNESDAYS WITH SAMMY, THE WISE GAMJEE<p>Daisies are out for as long as the mowers keep away. The vast arms of the blossom trees cast shadow nets into which we rest, before throwing and catching the ball. I’m usually curled up in bed before we leave and then, with any luck, immediately after… Sammy curls in beside me, when nothing more fun begins to look likely. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEyKvzXzxUTpqRU7v_KopG5sG2r7oZQYRUMhaiRY7P6JFHZl2VWXvIB2SOI1gDrX0MamPbgWHGnDW77oD1G22nmvKuJsnDDNdGuyhPrhHOyJIgEoF0qEK7UuaQowyUasdPeVzFf36LTGfamSF5Tii9eII4OToGm_XZ4ZMphwJi1o0KwxZMCWdXNuUrRg/s4032/B44DB774-9179-46EE-8150-D77305CBC3F8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEyKvzXzxUTpqRU7v_KopG5sG2r7oZQYRUMhaiRY7P6JFHZl2VWXvIB2SOI1gDrX0MamPbgWHGnDW77oD1G22nmvKuJsnDDNdGuyhPrhHOyJIgEoF0qEK7UuaQowyUasdPeVzFf36LTGfamSF5Tii9eII4OToGm_XZ4ZMphwJi1o0KwxZMCWdXNuUrRg/s320/B44DB774-9179-46EE-8150-D77305CBC3F8.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzamMXNX9PhntD2xmHDQwC968kLdW7TE804YLKru4GUcaFRDZef1um730zFbw6XUpYXv9mUTCZDFCe4WfECvN43SEHohIj6Vxc7VFO7LMnsR7K92YDS1YIqDLKwDDQvD5pYXtuU1dp-8kzwNgzzl8cSFDTGsHVAqK3iwzlHDztqgexShYuFi2mKrOXqg/s4032/DECF6168-E1CA-4257-81F3-DC32D590D574.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzamMXNX9PhntD2xmHDQwC968kLdW7TE804YLKru4GUcaFRDZef1um730zFbw6XUpYXv9mUTCZDFCe4WfECvN43SEHohIj6Vxc7VFO7LMnsR7K92YDS1YIqDLKwDDQvD5pYXtuU1dp-8kzwNgzzl8cSFDTGsHVAqK3iwzlHDztqgexShYuFi2mKrOXqg/s320/DECF6168-E1CA-4257-81F3-DC32D590D574.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8yCT0yjZwLRZyPepi5e3-UChGZvLl5xJaw4o6lLVQdjW1ZfnfRXuMz5sepi26o5BThtqhjjSm-V8kEgOyxUPsoT1_y7PS_oCjAJYUckxNPgHCa9DgoqDKKID8VLgihMTpOnsTqKWPs-XkZM7Ce36aeVeodDnu5XxX6l-GTDXiRqjb-A4sgHTXddviJA/s4032/F7FE2014-3ABC-4064-96B8-954EA8713A7A.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8yCT0yjZwLRZyPepi5e3-UChGZvLl5xJaw4o6lLVQdjW1ZfnfRXuMz5sepi26o5BThtqhjjSm-V8kEgOyxUPsoT1_y7PS_oCjAJYUckxNPgHCa9DgoqDKKID8VLgihMTpOnsTqKWPs-XkZM7Ce36aeVeodDnu5XxX6l-GTDXiRqjb-A4sgHTXddviJA/s320/F7FE2014-3ABC-4064-96B8-954EA8713A7A.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiG1WpHwWuzT1mYuofJsw_kCTdI2nIU-0jv7N_LVeOAql7tbKDUisYAJEyxS9UOsjZ9oYWd1zAoryCIuiYetLSkNJa7zeOuemB_1UflqJB2zPmYWwo1xgzOuZmmMWQsGuZWEZUqhMuwEi3z-rnt-6MDno9jTXuqx2R9t_YGDYLxwrWRjyT5cCsUoDEHw/s4032/CEA95371-C097-4800-A354-D09CB88BA477.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiG1WpHwWuzT1mYuofJsw_kCTdI2nIU-0jv7N_LVeOAql7tbKDUisYAJEyxS9UOsjZ9oYWd1zAoryCIuiYetLSkNJa7zeOuemB_1UflqJB2zPmYWwo1xgzOuZmmMWQsGuZWEZUqhMuwEi3z-rnt-6MDno9jTXuqx2R9t_YGDYLxwrWRjyT5cCsUoDEHw/s320/CEA95371-C097-4800-A354-D09CB88BA477.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU50ly-0qv_nj4Zh4jLzxHMjOJbbzRramacS8K4CVQtdBiYniAJPnBH_z2sA5xU3Ye-PM7wDF_3jJvzoZBkZL766wbpj98x3nBmW7zgKlFKroFJYXzTOMQ06_-9k6_J1tWQj_I_YwhGdsOhVNeJzHbkKo-aOsGP5fCD5hFVOao8BoYeNO92BaVE0GL4g/s320/64CE4942-6158-4D4A-A6F4-3F1203A9BEFF.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVDltvYADSrUytjWgm5Vk5diBmVLZXM8HpqWTeIeFSDVzH6mAji_ekMa6hVWSRQ9qFJzFA7wgIWMCLN1lFCxcDCUJHSCF2AkTlGSUZrpsvCp_y8bLJnph7ctjPguAUgbXuw3OeV7-DtfImaJZ0IVgqD5WyksDV6UnPDXIfEFSmf4TTNsb2eqVfCME2g/s4032/D20EC6E7-C19B-47CE-BBA7-0F5B134AB264.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVDltvYADSrUytjWgm5Vk5diBmVLZXM8HpqWTeIeFSDVzH6mAji_ekMa6hVWSRQ9qFJzFA7wgIWMCLN1lFCxcDCUJHSCF2AkTlGSUZrpsvCp_y8bLJnph7ctjPguAUgbXuw3OeV7-DtfImaJZ0IVgqD5WyksDV6UnPDXIfEFSmf4TTNsb2eqVfCME2g/s320/D20EC6E7-C19B-47CE-BBA7-0F5B134AB264.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizXAkcbkdbvQhqtV3EOFby_7soKJSTGSJT0yUpnsvNVAeuulkuQSBKKReaq9fK1dvzYya_21jKnekC1BSiIHF9BfN9DT9p3aJBKqxXHT4vd6KzD4VsbanNj6ReCOolH4OXCoJT-3ajobxDajX6S5sTneLa0515Q2NNLpMBD72GQcDYWifrQhsbm9zcWQ/s1600/CCB9EBDF-52E8-4D11-A480-8C7417F26C4F.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizXAkcbkdbvQhqtV3EOFby_7soKJSTGSJT0yUpnsvNVAeuulkuQSBKKReaq9fK1dvzYya_21jKnekC1BSiIHF9BfN9DT9p3aJBKqxXHT4vd6KzD4VsbanNj6ReCOolH4OXCoJT-3ajobxDajX6S5sTneLa0515Q2NNLpMBD72GQcDYWifrQhsbm9zcWQ/s320/CCB9EBDF-52E8-4D11-A480-8C7417F26C4F.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>In the middle of tulips and crocuses and flowers that look like fried eggs, a tiny snail like a tasty snack makes of the world their oyster. So far, uncrushed, still living.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLWJq6ohPdQNHQeaxB6vAKH54je9Hdlkj6mY0MlQMd4HtsfGO_Sd8royyVoB-kqL1Uw5imQHfACQZh4Q0jHVJFxezu60p9XL5QDScY7A7EDKstWFSblTjwV6olkdIyr7O4jE_42bDoet4qb3ln9MRwMMJFXYD0hjrS-ouFRyDxVcoMQ9omfnprQBYUfQ/s4032/B213D3EC-18E4-41FD-ACA0-C7BA19B92353.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLWJq6ohPdQNHQeaxB6vAKH54je9Hdlkj6mY0MlQMd4HtsfGO_Sd8royyVoB-kqL1Uw5imQHfACQZh4Q0jHVJFxezu60p9XL5QDScY7A7EDKstWFSblTjwV6olkdIyr7O4jE_42bDoet4qb3ln9MRwMMJFXYD0hjrS-ouFRyDxVcoMQ9omfnprQBYUfQ/s320/B213D3EC-18E4-41FD-ACA0-C7BA19B92353.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjF33DGkaiSDdwloQ1X-iOhH-Iz8oIWWVPDM2YxL3MPyXlT5vn_9hRAqqIEHN-seWZraskzG7e43J5rP3nBFDwjaEjc2LkCtwhX79A7JKOw-h2ZQaV4qdgb5mnrMU969JILnCZCCyrpnWMJ1P2z9vlP5tiCaIAOCXnflcQUwlvMqGIy1v2nKlXXngSFQ/s4032/649E0D3A-0AE1-4582-A6B9-DC30A7333B47.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjF33DGkaiSDdwloQ1X-iOhH-Iz8oIWWVPDM2YxL3MPyXlT5vn_9hRAqqIEHN-seWZraskzG7e43J5rP3nBFDwjaEjc2LkCtwhX79A7JKOw-h2ZQaV4qdgb5mnrMU969JILnCZCCyrpnWMJ1P2z9vlP5tiCaIAOCXnflcQUwlvMqGIy1v2nKlXXngSFQ/s320/649E0D3A-0AE1-4582-A6B9-DC30A7333B47.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJJTkpRYnFOUy_rQ0KOOcrdWqAkD7X621NbC6IoaloDYkUswklG2pbHSt7e5NpJdL2LiMrJ4WNpwLwcwk0ZmJxycau_xDemldGMMtNGDqX8gQ61HateHmaVqMrKGM0WPriFYpTMb-xlXEqm3ki8o4N8-vJGm_P3n3SfqColXfkvzUHYyfOx78Y7FZ9Hg/s4032/440AD6F5-E188-4802-871A-D5C2AE5A0E5D.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJJTkpRYnFOUy_rQ0KOOcrdWqAkD7X621NbC6IoaloDYkUswklG2pbHSt7e5NpJdL2LiMrJ4WNpwLwcwk0ZmJxycau_xDemldGMMtNGDqX8gQ61HateHmaVqMrKGM0WPriFYpTMb-xlXEqm3ki8o4N8-vJGm_P3n3SfqColXfkvzUHYyfOx78Y7FZ9Hg/s320/440AD6F5-E188-4802-871A-D5C2AE5A0E5D.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76wCX8RKZUl13v3iDTGkXlp2NBRnrfTTIIEXJGQMdbslqaC8F_Ilaomp6_kSwRZbnrMWw6pWc2RjYJqLzNVncTV0h_Qm9ttsjR29YoWOjg8NEyZ8dEd6f_SdjE2gsREwTjynmeDuS29uig1CzZVPGkAPZxC3DwCc8d0hBf2JRMNScO12AcPGJqYaBEA/s4032/4E0E0DB1-CCA0-4CC1-AD5E-1804EA2B7683.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76wCX8RKZUl13v3iDTGkXlp2NBRnrfTTIIEXJGQMdbslqaC8F_Ilaomp6_kSwRZbnrMWw6pWc2RjYJqLzNVncTV0h_Qm9ttsjR29YoWOjg8NEyZ8dEd6f_SdjE2gsREwTjynmeDuS29uig1CzZVPGkAPZxC3DwCc8d0hBf2JRMNScO12AcPGJqYaBEA/s320/4E0E0DB1-CCA0-4CC1-AD5E-1804EA2B7683.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>And sometimes, a gate… leading to the unknown, where wild hearts of horses run free and the mysterious scent you are following with great interest and intrigue, may never reveal itself. <p></p>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-34954881450354111992023-04-28T00:24:00.002+01:002023-04-28T00:24:56.527+01:00FIRST, FREE<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKNYm_2ONjMUS0_4BnIQSegk4Tp0PmmWhr5bx9lmUCrc7g9Y6ja6ErOYSYUaPc7bfXw4PITkVKExdgNCtreHvl7XlmaRTBRxt67C7EBF987e3Qv8iVDw_QllOtqASeFblJr4FJ2GZsTjhQN_rCnOCleBRYVV79E0dOOo-0pOvZ1ra-byPMNk7AWhh_Q/s3088/F74957FD-FED7-46E9-9C19-05B4D1B2BF7D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOKNYm_2ONjMUS0_4BnIQSegk4Tp0PmmWhr5bx9lmUCrc7g9Y6ja6ErOYSYUaPc7bfXw4PITkVKExdgNCtreHvl7XlmaRTBRxt67C7EBF987e3Qv8iVDw_QllOtqASeFblJr4FJ2GZsTjhQN_rCnOCleBRYVV79E0dOOo-0pOvZ1ra-byPMNk7AWhh_Q/w300-h400/F74957FD-FED7-46E9-9C19-05B4D1B2BF7D.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">My heart takes a lifetime to plunge.</span></p><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">Cold waters await. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">Is it worth it?</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">Freedom is easy to desire.</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">All around me,</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">the sounds of progress -</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">thunderous, clanging, male. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">Alone, half-naked, seeing blurred,</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">I read the verse of the first </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">free women </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">and inch my way in, </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">to freeze and learn, </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">that for me,</div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;">it is enough to be here. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;"><i>© Shaista Tayabali, 2023</i></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;"><i>Linked to <a href="https://dversepoets.com/" target="_blank">dverse poets </a>Open Link Night</i></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;"><br /></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px; text-align: justify;">It’s hard to believe I’ve been back in Cambridge for almost three months. I think I have accepted my return?! The water was so cold the day I wrote this poem… it took me an eternity to plunge my body into the pool… but knowing England was awash with snow, and I would have to face a different, darker, greyer cold, I talked my body into the blue. </div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ8SoUnmhY4kkwIB3JQ-BImckHZHhVOlALUdzKK0qLspCKv54_kgkqm51giDuNRM0cbXneKs8oqFhVgX-6sZs092aiykpstsr_q-j8GAv_eBgEfn8bsrNPjczROr9PPVzh7pqAUrmdClLJQV-HS4pQaKhhwdyXRqCrA1PTn5e_M-u1a5RCO_yxNuFbHg/s1200/97AA478E-A7A3-43EA-BB07-2A39B3A07D21.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ8SoUnmhY4kkwIB3JQ-BImckHZHhVOlALUdzKK0qLspCKv54_kgkqm51giDuNRM0cbXneKs8oqFhVgX-6sZs092aiykpstsr_q-j8GAv_eBgEfn8bsrNPjczROr9PPVzh7pqAUrmdClLJQV-HS4pQaKhhwdyXRqCrA1PTn5e_M-u1a5RCO_yxNuFbHg/w400-h300/97AA478E-A7A3-43EA-BB07-2A39B3A07D21.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="caret-color: rgb(69, 69, 69); color: #454545; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 23px;"><br /></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-91574873550221983282022-12-30T19:47:00.000+00:002022-12-30T19:47:27.542+00:00FROM TIGER TO RABBIT<p style="text-align: justify;">Is the year roaring to an end for you? Will it begin with a whimper?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi73HnMMfNkTk4HtlZyubeoo2GAIzAUfEkd8BPBF6OX19XHt3KRzQKfFI3cXtF3M50Fxe7FdhSMt3U7y8TcIKPORmlTxN4flqHiBFHBcXFKotrl5HLD77sG7DHlSwCmJdGSJtNH866cs7JExwIOfdr30ZcworlwC9MiLn4cnURggkhKXm7dBE_9R8i7dg/s4032/DA1A683E-7BCB-45C8-95B1-EF30D95C5553.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi73HnMMfNkTk4HtlZyubeoo2GAIzAUfEkd8BPBF6OX19XHt3KRzQKfFI3cXtF3M50Fxe7FdhSMt3U7y8TcIKPORmlTxN4flqHiBFHBcXFKotrl5HLD77sG7DHlSwCmJdGSJtNH866cs7JExwIOfdr30ZcworlwC9MiLn4cnURggkhKXm7dBE_9R8i7dg/w300-h400/DA1A683E-7BCB-45C8-95B1-EF30D95C5553.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Or are these anthropomorphic ideas of the tiger and the rabbit? Water tiger turns to water rabbit in a day. Or, more accurately, on January 22nd. I will be travelling on that day. I think that bodes well? A return home from faraway adventures. Air borne. Lupus in flight. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfzBdlK7RaPTscqDEhb67VQc95y3u_nGs2WcyB-_4u6McXnb3E9Vw7cmIins0IhSof2Q-nTPqZtTSSQ_HVEfxPucuEc8aeN1kK_qlMuPW0bLTAWD66mpA6q3ItCHHD04qXLaHQY_98czRLpp_EaIJ77n-T6BwS9s24IiuGr12k2jG1hSSml6rKY9vqvQ/s3088/651DE3F5-935A-4334-9860-6BF6BA55BEA8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfzBdlK7RaPTscqDEhb67VQc95y3u_nGs2WcyB-_4u6McXnb3E9Vw7cmIins0IhSof2Q-nTPqZtTSSQ_HVEfxPucuEc8aeN1kK_qlMuPW0bLTAWD66mpA6q3ItCHHD04qXLaHQY_98czRLpp_EaIJ77n-T6BwS9s24IiuGr12k2jG1hSSml6rKY9vqvQ/s320/651DE3F5-935A-4334-9860-6BF6BA55BEA8.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_76mrau-oOgaZ9bLLXRRpOVzUKh9HjEyeEhei0NrBYNXjpe5mkBZPUl2l1l1GnpCeaAIsZeI_MGo3Gt95oivfNusZhuz7FPAkbF9KwphqCzsGJXanFL0gnUcbuV0MCB7T20HynwQ91i1B5CbnPO_9jjceBwU5WkJVZ_C6uMTq1J8Zgcsb8rsgebYxA/s1800/922A545E-8BEE-47ED-8A61-8795A1B70FD5.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG_76mrau-oOgaZ9bLLXRRpOVzUKh9HjEyeEhei0NrBYNXjpe5mkBZPUl2l1l1GnpCeaAIsZeI_MGo3Gt95oivfNusZhuz7FPAkbF9KwphqCzsGJXanFL0gnUcbuV0MCB7T20HynwQ91i1B5CbnPO_9jjceBwU5WkJVZ_C6uMTq1J8Zgcsb8rsgebYxA/s320/922A545E-8BEE-47ED-8A61-8795A1B70FD5.jpeg" width="256" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">It is two thirty am. I am eating a slice of chocolate cake - fudgy, the kind I love. The house is silent. Luckily, Milo, the Tayabali Tamaruke, is asleep behind a closed bedroom door. Would he have barked if he'd seen me? Or padded comfortably down with his nocturnal mate? He has slept in my bed, on my bed, for many nights this holiday. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_9nYhF0jud1Aq4O4pYTQezpRzKEBSAtpBFz3nzYVB_PTrQ4uHxnFhGJgTJCKodAxPWjncySjtf-j4LaOuAoBEBAU-ML7w8GF7zIyo-7UojgbQrN03-Fuz6XRhXfbjICGxGKflFQAIehKCU7qwgJ0VaCegC-yKTrUew4HsFNIBPnV2Bop5Ufp_W18xA/s3088/BE283A26-25D1-4A91-A15B-5DA7574E5F1B.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR_9nYhF0jud1Aq4O4pYTQezpRzKEBSAtpBFz3nzYVB_PTrQ4uHxnFhGJgTJCKodAxPWjncySjtf-j4LaOuAoBEBAU-ML7w8GF7zIyo-7UojgbQrN03-Fuz6XRhXfbjICGxGKflFQAIehKCU7qwgJ0VaCegC-yKTrUew4HsFNIBPnV2Bop5Ufp_W18xA/s320/BE283A26-25D1-4A91-A15B-5DA7574E5F1B.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiozPSX-CZ1lmwkdobDl8WNV46RKpac3qiaUrBeyE-MvRu41ORwz7riZqU5SsOUd_l_-bb_mtZHqZFesGLmfe-zLtDt2QPZYN2cEb59BEtTwTNyg19HqTkZbIbnFrqBhiWPi_L1SCqKr2HkCh7wyLoSt9_pWi3jTmR6-PhxtLC_OHeq9r1lJCq6gFW_bA/s4032/CC9B1CC1-78EB-4852-9AF1-6AA5BC0969A8.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiozPSX-CZ1lmwkdobDl8WNV46RKpac3qiaUrBeyE-MvRu41ORwz7riZqU5SsOUd_l_-bb_mtZHqZFesGLmfe-zLtDt2QPZYN2cEb59BEtTwTNyg19HqTkZbIbnFrqBhiWPi_L1SCqKr2HkCh7wyLoSt9_pWi3jTmR6-PhxtLC_OHeq9r1lJCq6gFW_bA/s320/CC9B1CC1-78EB-4852-9AF1-6AA5BC0969A8.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Oh, did I mention I am in Singapore as I type? I remember my first blog post about the big travels I (and Mum and Dad) made in 2010, for my younger brother's wedding. And then again, to visit my year old nephew. Time hasn't flown. It has grown. We have become more of ourselves. Some parts of our lives are weightier. Some parts baffling. I cried tears of loneliness tonight, even though I am surrounded by those I love. The human heart is a mysterious thing. Hence art. Hence poetry. Of which I have written so little, I'm unsure if I still qualify as Poet.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKCuB4Tvcu703ScHceMcepz0EuNZ-wa_9jehC8Mj1jwJ7UJGStX3sWSN_zlXpRQPq5hBDtnZkHi2CwqRmcvIpXwiWljG3gi4vjEBa9DRqJu8J4-hUOjvh9QitTS959-erVxK0BAfcrRJWRTy8FfYZpVudiJiy6AKUlh4trQW2VIKAVv8CT7FVsp-CkgQ/s3088/0D34B1BD-F80A-4BCF-BF49-E445E8957612.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKCuB4Tvcu703ScHceMcepz0EuNZ-wa_9jehC8Mj1jwJ7UJGStX3sWSN_zlXpRQPq5hBDtnZkHi2CwqRmcvIpXwiWljG3gi4vjEBa9DRqJu8J4-hUOjvh9QitTS959-erVxK0BAfcrRJWRTy8FfYZpVudiJiy6AKUlh4trQW2VIKAVv8CT7FVsp-CkgQ/w300-h400/0D34B1BD-F80A-4BCF-BF49-E445E8957612.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">Qualify. That word is my nemesis. What am I qualified for? I recall at my university interview, the Head of the English department asking me why I wanted to do English at university. What's the point? he asked. And he wasn't even challenging me. He seemed to be in need of answers himself. Which annoyed me. I flashed altruistic reasons at him. The purpose of literature, the transformational nature of accurate, good journalism. The need for truth in a world of propaganda and prejudice. The power of persuasion in devious, megalomaniacal hands. I remember the professor's name was John. My youthful nature must have amused him. But now, looking back, I see how one can become tired and worn down by repetition and indifference. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkUAv3aaVRDjgIQMpDIArpWQyyONvnzqwELFAeoerOvZ9-YDDf9KCMMaYzpyZ2omcyJu6-nEwrSNyLUqY2qJqOrQ2Est6IN_BTS-oYMsdRAZTgU_e_2fseUVcty-ec3Kui0oHD97-6umoN0QZpbiBUY11S4rGNjYLTmqo2M95gqW_uXW9DjbPMg8fLvg/s4032/05E35828-32A7-433D-856D-1CC67E96A429.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkUAv3aaVRDjgIQMpDIArpWQyyONvnzqwELFAeoerOvZ9-YDDf9KCMMaYzpyZ2omcyJu6-nEwrSNyLUqY2qJqOrQ2Est6IN_BTS-oYMsdRAZTgU_e_2fseUVcty-ec3Kui0oHD97-6umoN0QZpbiBUY11S4rGNjYLTmqo2M95gqW_uXW9DjbPMg8fLvg/s320/05E35828-32A7-433D-856D-1CC67E96A429.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCphi81DHFZwFRT2TMmeC9MKuD6WeYYwJ-zKHpd1949xxs-Xt726LZAUekS0lIYbZekaCc4FdHV6NjfsRyUrEoZoJnObzxKfHAnf5pbel6_TwIr0iiNVDs4xr7BBnJbxpXVaS05L7wl8iQ-Qj1kRv2t24gCDnlavEUnOgPqxtoIuFubxK3Vcv2ii7Fsw/s4032/D4F5DAED-D60A-41F3-82F8-DE0798D2FF26.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCphi81DHFZwFRT2TMmeC9MKuD6WeYYwJ-zKHpd1949xxs-Xt726LZAUekS0lIYbZekaCc4FdHV6NjfsRyUrEoZoJnObzxKfHAnf5pbel6_TwIr0iiNVDs4xr7BBnJbxpXVaS05L7wl8iQ-Qj1kRv2t24gCDnlavEUnOgPqxtoIuFubxK3Vcv2ii7Fsw/s320/D4F5DAED-D60A-41F3-82F8-DE0798D2FF26.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">What am I trying to say? Oh yes. Qualifications. Success. And the stunning necessity of art, beauty and goodness to live alongside and within, and without. I have been blessed all my life to be surrounded by art, in every home. My parents' art in homes around the world. My siblings creating artful homes, which I want to enjoy forever. My eyes have troubled me this trip. New surroundings take a while to adjust to. Once the sun sets, I falter. But a helping hand has almost always been near. Can you qualify as a successful human being if you always need help? Thich Nhat Hanh would say yes. That is interdependence. I will be travelling home on the day Thây passed into continuation. There is significance in that. Perhaps.</p><p style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVn_d_uK_A_fyCUEL4_IjOpIbLmZxIqlyCb5KfB0zu6y-xE8o3Xgut1GS1f8b44SJ9aVKlAsHD1G5nvwKUl4jjhnBQAwKhUWVAMxEwWW1d5fHbJFtf94IuirDpG5-Cm5_Sy9wS9EY22HRwVpfRdYmGmlY_-TBtbDzz05wtPs_2ZdaUH7f5u9I73rHzQ/s4032/5DA4DE3D-2814-41B5-A496-A8426BBAB03B.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizVn_d_uK_A_fyCUEL4_IjOpIbLmZxIqlyCb5KfB0zu6y-xE8o3Xgut1GS1f8b44SJ9aVKlAsHD1G5nvwKUl4jjhnBQAwKhUWVAMxEwWW1d5fHbJFtf94IuirDpG5-Cm5_Sy9wS9EY22HRwVpfRdYmGmlY_-TBtbDzz05wtPs_2ZdaUH7f5u9I73rHzQ/w400-h300/5DA4DE3D-2814-41B5-A496-A8426BBAB03B.heic" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>I hope your last day of the calendar year 2022 has some joy and peace interwoven. And that our collective unknown 2023 ... well, what can we wish for? More green on earth. More ease after darkness. For our better natures to prevail. And for those who suffer, to have the possibility of play. To play again, someday.<p></p><br />Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-54485288154659952022-11-07T22:32:00.001+00:002022-11-07T22:32:51.172+00:00THE AUTUMN REDS, YELLOWS AND BLUES<p style="text-align: justify;">September, October and now into November. This week marks the anniversary of the first week we walked into our Cambridge home, twenty nine years ago. People move houses like chequers on a board nowadays. And here we Tayabali mice are, scuttling up and down our corridors of old. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Autumn is here, in the crunchiest of golden leaf. Dad can hear it as he strides the lengths. "Posture!" I remind him, half bossy, half loving. And then instantly correct my own. It's easy to turn into a wee gargoyle these days when you are still partially isolating from a virus you have managed to avoid. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFK9RNHxoS5-RfdYSDayKgp_OMwlQ_pZ0gWKVI3s86DUkx9X0crRIpcpt4efdyGq3LShhZrzHju_C2utwWWpBmGRvbuEPVj_A-XDVKTyKj0IwTF9EsmhgYEHy2zPe9cjp0IMFmeMN_iswLINuXUpQvl-WM7QGl8A84pVEtNoJosW4X9ZUGzq1tkWo7A/s1000/img-hilma-af-klint13570448284.jpg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="753" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmFK9RNHxoS5-RfdYSDayKgp_OMwlQ_pZ0gWKVI3s86DUkx9X0crRIpcpt4efdyGq3LShhZrzHju_C2utwWWpBmGRvbuEPVj_A-XDVKTyKj0IwTF9EsmhgYEHy2zPe9cjp0IMFmeMN_iswLINuXUpQvl-WM7QGl8A84pVEtNoJosW4X9ZUGzq1tkWo7A/w482-h640/img-hilma-af-klint13570448284.jpg.webp" width="482" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">This may change in the near future... I have done the wild and bold thing and booked tickets to Asia for Christmas. I am flying into the future with the least amount of confidence I have ever felt - because since the pandemic began, I have had two vitreous detachments. The second one only occurred last month so my brain has not yet caught up to normalising these maddening floaters and black wasps whizzing across my visual landscape. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMLNBKI7pLViEhiHBN4CC_q2-dr4U10f-RKOIVg-gYdF4eTLtEsdEdbhNOJ7JXhUgiJz4wsGkXgnFvlb7zmB8g7ZkdP2CAVn6uNAVSa1_gnOZjriJztikXSLrkghQlwKe_CdaDuTCz0U-jWnaixiozeCfQoZehhWvbvcrJgZ4xmCnPKJrkbwwJ-cb8Q/s640/origin-40.jpg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMLNBKI7pLViEhiHBN4CC_q2-dr4U10f-RKOIVg-gYdF4eTLtEsdEdbhNOJ7JXhUgiJz4wsGkXgnFvlb7zmB8g7ZkdP2CAVn6uNAVSa1_gnOZjriJztikXSLrkghQlwKe_CdaDuTCz0U-jWnaixiozeCfQoZehhWvbvcrJgZ4xmCnPKJrkbwwJ-cb8Q/w640-h360/origin-40.jpg.webp" width="640" /></a></div><p>Did you know that anger and depression/ despair are two faces of the same coin? If you could pick, which would you choose? Let me rephrase that... given a choice, you'd pick neither! If you had to pick... which one? One morning I woke up with a clear intent to embark on a PhD in Anger. Women and Anger. I'd have material galore!</p><p>Then I heard a quote by Ocean Vuong, "Care is anger evolved." So I'm thinking about it...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuqiJB-STpLLyWYlMPS44defo3AB8YyZwue210ktxopogdOHlgH3KUkRQUYIW9nlociXckvXaXGZ-xpNYRy7qTQRnKCbSrPU0QFNuX4Q151ll1z7OhTEa8rWbeAUclrd19y3lydqQ8vJWb7Qji8CPThB2405Fme1nTcNcTXanuI-HoWdnmBS1TJookiQ/s672/f3d2c25e7f00b3952c4994d8c9648a6a1eb8312b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="672" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuqiJB-STpLLyWYlMPS44defo3AB8YyZwue210ktxopogdOHlgH3KUkRQUYIW9nlociXckvXaXGZ-xpNYRy7qTQRnKCbSrPU0QFNuX4Q151ll1z7OhTEa8rWbeAUclrd19y3lydqQ8vJWb7Qji8CPThB2405Fme1nTcNcTXanuI-HoWdnmBS1TJookiQ/w640-h428/f3d2c25e7f00b3952c4994d8c9648a6a1eb8312b.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p>Summertime was Dog Central in the Tayabali household. We had Nikei the Italian corgi, Buddy senior the giant Akita, Sandy the miniature cockapoo and most recently I had Tess, an impeccably trained Labrador who had me throwing a ball 8,542 times. "Who's training whom?" said Mum, with perspicacity.</p><p>Sammy the cockapoo is still the clear favourite, and treats our home as his - he always has the air of a returning grandson. He continues to give us joy with his therapeutic hypoallergenic cuddly coat, and ability to curl onto my lap even though he doesn't really fit. </p><p>What am I trying to say? Not very much. Just a wave hello from my falling leaf days to yours.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSwtxwO-S_ZXltiHjMOjSh3NpsZmInwUcvTNT1xLy8Ann7nm4dY4zxAxqkWQ3MRMswxc-C6YGqSosvdeQ4kTHJUozrGPM7LGeY2Rs8pUsJQYScAYITdE1XQl0KuSEe9F9dV9TAdbHAKW1D8bydn_YZJwWQAABiwfKiVZYj6K84W3yO1oltEWa98GZp8A/s2000/kusama_numero005.jpg.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1331" data-original-width="2000" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSwtxwO-S_ZXltiHjMOjSh3NpsZmInwUcvTNT1xLy8Ann7nm4dY4zxAxqkWQ3MRMswxc-C6YGqSosvdeQ4kTHJUozrGPM7LGeY2Rs8pUsJQYScAYITdE1XQl0KuSEe9F9dV9TAdbHAKW1D8bydn_YZJwWQAABiwfKiVZYj6K84W3yO1oltEWa98GZp8A/w640-h426/kusama_numero005.jpg.webp" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: right;"><i>Artists in order: Hilma af Klint, Mary Cassatt, Helen Frankenthaler, Yayoi Kusama</i></p>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-711957948749719502022-08-22T00:53:00.001+01:002022-09-01T00:55:08.024+01:00BIRTHDAY ANEW<p>At first, when the month approaches, I think of hiding. As though I can out run or camouflage myself against my own birthday. <i>Why would you want to do that? </i>you may ask. I’m not sure. A cumulative sense of feeling unanchored, lost, a questioning of the new self - are you the one I was supposed to be? Or have I let you down? </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB1BJgwjuAR-NiirBE42b00hjEYy9zNcvbmCXrYUKi54la8vScMo9KZwOzSP6F-ZtB1Z58kxh8GmH5F948bRaGE72g8Nrm5jbs6zPH4IBjqXP8hDK1lxDhOk1Uo9CoMVK5L3yHv433-nvAWfMgYv5VTmZcdZ_PDBi5rp0K9QomDV7B0iNVruHwPN2G0Q/s3088/D13607C4-D26B-403C-86F2-090067938DD1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB1BJgwjuAR-NiirBE42b00hjEYy9zNcvbmCXrYUKi54la8vScMo9KZwOzSP6F-ZtB1Z58kxh8GmH5F948bRaGE72g8Nrm5jbs6zPH4IBjqXP8hDK1lxDhOk1Uo9CoMVK5L3yHv433-nvAWfMgYv5VTmZcdZ_PDBi5rp0K9QomDV7B0iNVruHwPN2G0Q/s320/D13607C4-D26B-403C-86F2-090067938DD1.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvjaAFutdtoq-FjnksoTTf5xvMCUemtbJVlHENBoerMLn5XGmeSMU3vsqY3qAqyL0bpkMo9Y7LKouFhi65i036MrdQMLEqwbEqXPCXU7tozo3Wb-Xc9l6qNN2Dn2-zaqmnjVjBFfXe4Sq0CQ0aD0HPfKDy8gbNAMqL7XUJ1_NDrkFGLzLz9zD8msFWRg/s4032/C2E27003-9631-4FD4-83D2-B24E92A9EFF9.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvjaAFutdtoq-FjnksoTTf5xvMCUemtbJVlHENBoerMLn5XGmeSMU3vsqY3qAqyL0bpkMo9Y7LKouFhi65i036MrdQMLEqwbEqXPCXU7tozo3Wb-Xc9l6qNN2Dn2-zaqmnjVjBFfXe4Sq0CQ0aD0HPfKDy8gbNAMqL7XUJ1_NDrkFGLzLz9zD8msFWRg/s320/C2E27003-9631-4FD4-83D2-B24E92A9EFF9.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>But there were garlands woven by my mother, and my hands clasped, and kissed in the old Arabic style by my father, and his extravagant praise for the worth of his daughter in his life. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYjgGxPTLuulFVy8dYR-aDnWiXa-qNZVdbRLaaF0GccJuurD9dihevgLznIi-B-Qpa7TXjc4K18hrNSn-d6u0wdDOJvMyRV7rRQ2E9hGmlFg5ihEmODy0RjsMU1XgC8MMDa_iH6vv3duGR913zgb_16lT3EweWdxY8KSFdd0l5OAxo8yq_9NjkfHTU4w/s4032/ADDB0D8E-3DCF-4586-BFAB-86C1104FC4FF.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYjgGxPTLuulFVy8dYR-aDnWiXa-qNZVdbRLaaF0GccJuurD9dihevgLznIi-B-Qpa7TXjc4K18hrNSn-d6u0wdDOJvMyRV7rRQ2E9hGmlFg5ihEmODy0RjsMU1XgC8MMDa_iH6vv3duGR913zgb_16lT3EweWdxY8KSFdd0l5OAxo8yq_9NjkfHTU4w/s320/ADDB0D8E-3DCF-4586-BFAB-86C1104FC4FF.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6qLo_GUd8snKbfKk-gVO69K1JaeBF0nAZ3mpA4caKXzYdUhV_qlRDOT6gcnGRTNHikHo4vcstn1BEIRiXB3tEEQMbKzP6ZH1HqKtIrL4lnVJwK2u-BWeVtmEbpu_tArL-azsE8rbAelgdS78vgGOBeglQziFR0lDBNa8vXNN3HzgRTIx5oyWsEaMnew/s4032/10697696-EC82-4F1D-95B3-55B781752FB4.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6qLo_GUd8snKbfKk-gVO69K1JaeBF0nAZ3mpA4caKXzYdUhV_qlRDOT6gcnGRTNHikHo4vcstn1BEIRiXB3tEEQMbKzP6ZH1HqKtIrL4lnVJwK2u-BWeVtmEbpu_tArL-azsE8rbAelgdS78vgGOBeglQziFR0lDBNa8vXNN3HzgRTIx5oyWsEaMnew/s320/10697696-EC82-4F1D-95B3-55B781752FB4.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_l5yZjAtRrBSz49ri4x7tsSeb-SqJcRFTf4hRz4q0RrMt_1PzpVFRo6smqB8UmIHHfzRG90g1_FjhfZqWfzXJX0wm5nUOX7N1AKAGTGa-yDu-l0yPpqrl_ppR7JgvwolPpa1EZqLMFk1qc1pki-w2Nih4CrA5YdMXpZcox-LE1fTH_m1XAtDCH3-Pw/s4032/3509493A-ABE9-40F3-8CE9-AC3B6160E62A.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf_l5yZjAtRrBSz49ri4x7tsSeb-SqJcRFTf4hRz4q0RrMt_1PzpVFRo6smqB8UmIHHfzRG90g1_FjhfZqWfzXJX0wm5nUOX7N1AKAGTGa-yDu-l0yPpqrl_ppR7JgvwolPpa1EZqLMFk1qc1pki-w2Nih4CrA5YdMXpZcox-LE1fTH_m1XAtDCH3-Pw/s320/3509493A-ABE9-40F3-8CE9-AC3B6160E62A.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>A day earlier had seen us at Badger’s Wood, despite the heat and drought… the redwood stood tall and resplendent and the unbonsaid bonsai looked spectacular. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguFvef9HUvgP-1zpwxJbfC6b72jTvDHKdi5c1-cnLWz_Xy0HGi2TO0DHYmu5WEienQ5yuF-zkj--AlkCkt8NiMO9oZFPUXCbVFMN85Zc2kWg2rgYn5OmkjlY0Ip4B5Z-y3IITven81uMVoanQAR47W2TwIOr9emPm-qv6gqAyZ3dSlcgG4LTP7t16TmA/s4032/32A3EB66-05FE-4E27-8F82-C4F76C8F88FE.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguFvef9HUvgP-1zpwxJbfC6b72jTvDHKdi5c1-cnLWz_Xy0HGi2TO0DHYmu5WEienQ5yuF-zkj--AlkCkt8NiMO9oZFPUXCbVFMN85Zc2kWg2rgYn5OmkjlY0Ip4B5Z-y3IITven81uMVoanQAR47W2TwIOr9emPm-qv6gqAyZ3dSlcgG4LTP7t16TmA/s320/32A3EB66-05FE-4E27-8F82-C4F76C8F88FE.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhL-Ma9nosaUDf2dK9CYE0fAYfw-AfLpU6FlZoPh0xig9ppTMPhXO5jaYb78OwLyNo69luCUS9f2rDRww3_E6yTgxcSt_qSSmTq0AXsUEyqNfLsNFcm29QjKVytNnO5FVRt7vUJeBnDF5EYsk45mrFJpMZVNLz-7I3TatqZXLPY2Yu3Wr83lwj_P7Pg/s3088/19FC2FAA-EF43-415B-9FA4-41EE940350E1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRhL-Ma9nosaUDf2dK9CYE0fAYfw-AfLpU6FlZoPh0xig9ppTMPhXO5jaYb78OwLyNo69luCUS9f2rDRww3_E6yTgxcSt_qSSmTq0AXsUEyqNfLsNFcm29QjKVytNnO5FVRt7vUJeBnDF5EYsk45mrFJpMZVNLz-7I3TatqZXLPY2Yu3Wr83lwj_P7Pg/s320/19FC2FAA-EF43-415B-9FA4-41EE940350E1.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCeF954Wkp7yQO6h4tPfVshMl6_BUM4enwDa3W1_iVJ5NUY9_Zzbrv-EVbTyZgx88gSKSvtc7bktRfxrxl3LcPmDcC7N9HlhZyqrbrOgna3AuChHKpUCRiZuXPn8PwSi5zElTE-qXnFpUBhI3zJUhUdkUStIkV0Q1lGfWo2OVAG2U4dHpF_4pd_hM5IA/s4032/CC1C3721-0369-45BA-AEE8-B49F19604EA2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCeF954Wkp7yQO6h4tPfVshMl6_BUM4enwDa3W1_iVJ5NUY9_Zzbrv-EVbTyZgx88gSKSvtc7bktRfxrxl3LcPmDcC7N9HlhZyqrbrOgna3AuChHKpUCRiZuXPn8PwSi5zElTE-qXnFpUBhI3zJUhUdkUStIkV0Q1lGfWo2OVAG2U4dHpF_4pd_hM5IA/s320/CC1C3721-0369-45BA-AEE8-B49F19604EA2.jpeg" width="240" /></a><p></p><p>Colette and Joseph made my birthday a day of delights and tales and cake, Mary Oliver poetry recited by me, a giant bear cuddled by Dad and even a tiny muntjac flew across the bottom of the lawn by the pond, just a little birthday wave. <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxxepa1hOftO3-Ar76bcQzeYyaOc0J4oJbeflZpGTfMT0sml0rFYmEaHwTtrJt7CngVBgrnoOMETc973xl6-2pLbT4hS8_oY7iqAvQQFUUVf08Ewie4GsqMts0NrabSQAxq0jvGOh_R6Q_JYv3kJoKrOoJIFBzyK4IRC01QD3NziSEjhGENefhpLZyQ/s4032/16C9ACF5-73F5-43BE-91B2-EAE8D9A6F324.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqxxepa1hOftO3-Ar76bcQzeYyaOc0J4oJbeflZpGTfMT0sml0rFYmEaHwTtrJt7CngVBgrnoOMETc973xl6-2pLbT4hS8_oY7iqAvQQFUUVf08Ewie4GsqMts0NrabSQAxq0jvGOh_R6Q_JYv3kJoKrOoJIFBzyK4IRC01QD3NziSEjhGENefhpLZyQ/s320/16C9ACF5-73F5-43BE-91B2-EAE8D9A6F324.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjmLv5NqEm2Oe4MBbh-FbnHWKB69neDo5xv2en8gE1zIjM0Q1BhTIibGkY0oYNnpSqy8MbmCk9Ipb3uD3gq3SmW7NxF6Rc_oPxP-OJw1AmHTzpv-shHkEucdxAJy-cgTD8amBsqDLxKw3asace0t4MsFwoKNjmAgP_sIWLiMkq62Cp8sQBAxYA5UuAg/s4032/15AC4D40-842E-48D4-A499-ACAFE3C60ED1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjmLv5NqEm2Oe4MBbh-FbnHWKB69neDo5xv2en8gE1zIjM0Q1BhTIibGkY0oYNnpSqy8MbmCk9Ipb3uD3gq3SmW7NxF6Rc_oPxP-OJw1AmHTzpv-shHkEucdxAJy-cgTD8amBsqDLxKw3asace0t4MsFwoKNjmAgP_sIWLiMkq62Cp8sQBAxYA5UuAg/s320/15AC4D40-842E-48D4-A499-ACAFE3C60ED1.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>On the day of, I had afternoon tea with Victoria and Freya, and later dinner again with Mum… in between a gentle massage at the Grenville hotel spa and even my first delicious Margarita by myself on the hotel lawn, not a soul in sight, just Deborah Levy and I…<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUI2PRx4pz199ZyRwzOJtJPnB2t2XeLPHUFdRQkPX2or1lAEeXyyqEtTsNvi8ugkD9icVEpPAXoCwJLy8Te0QZg7FLUEkvwtmo_1i53SXOgiP1usp0-ADpTYtb523s_KlESA_rN229JLFfWIgntrhdZvAgd7oa_GRkaxBNSRP6rBALDfNKMpf-iaEawg/s4032/0E181687-D007-4213-951F-B060DD9FB4A7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQiu3x7HwdA1FdCbcK9GDxtq78SxjCktAo_5xgaTxnujQS3aUzX266lo__jknjHATBDnXsmrYBzjKp0dJHxURfHvWb_ojq0YPZEcVFc8cFF7TurOzM9V4y4GJwD_KBfLTCPXZC1BsDkSFRW3MqNIKAXgXjG0QoDHecsZdr4rQdDuzkSXNFTZNKeLTHaQ/s320/EEF8F182-D99B-4D19-807C-FC0B9621F7C9.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Dad’s blessings came earlier in the day. Later I found myself walking into the incense of St Paul’s Cathedral Church as evening Latin mass drew to a close. I wished the best for my loved ones. I thought of suffering. And I prayed for guidance in my own life, moving forward. Where to now, dear self of 44, where to now? </p>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-56893618804666381582022-07-31T16:44:00.001+01:002022-08-08T19:18:59.216+01:00EN FAMILLE<p style="text-align: justify;">Spring turned to summer with the house full of the sounds of children - some of those children being forty years old, calling out ‘Mum! Dad! Dinner!’ Yes, we cook for our parents now... and photograph them by the T-Rex in the World of Animals park… </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85KHAXG0J2nMRVz7KPkWhxkZZK_GknptnQ2EWOYnl0YNlPTnaR4G3NXRjWP8U5h057Cj6FtCU049oz_OndWebiU8oV6VdYLOXdUZ5S5sLtFw5_sWf65NbMUQ8KUg8yszHjpNOXya1Ig44dbrfZbKGcewUCJYzREWRTSdWAPzvcG7fuxwgGJKVjqm4Eg/s2048/0A444F77-9AF3-4F42-BEA6-3E4F46C00F9B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85KHAXG0J2nMRVz7KPkWhxkZZK_GknptnQ2EWOYnl0YNlPTnaR4G3NXRjWP8U5h057Cj6FtCU049oz_OndWebiU8oV6VdYLOXdUZ5S5sLtFw5_sWf65NbMUQ8KUg8yszHjpNOXya1Ig44dbrfZbKGcewUCJYzREWRTSdWAPzvcG7fuxwgGJKVjqm4Eg/w300-h400/0A444F77-9AF3-4F42-BEA6-3E4F46C00F9B.jpeg" width="300" /></a></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUsifY6fgBODH_6hu_BxhP2UQ7iYdJEcx-W8D1hgBjbrPZiiD_r2SghMttpBelLNQ9EszJUGNiF-QANeTYBKUpxd8UrLgF4VDP86jH5ELkfc0-D2y_Ib6t9h39QkfMTcSwWbuD3_pOFjbfy_DsmrvOzncR8429cQjhew5J3ZMOVsbrChOECHtvA-lHZQ/s2048/D119A4B8-CC01-44C5-B542-B5D24CF6410C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUsifY6fgBODH_6hu_BxhP2UQ7iYdJEcx-W8D1hgBjbrPZiiD_r2SghMttpBelLNQ9EszJUGNiF-QANeTYBKUpxd8UrLgF4VDP86jH5ELkfc0-D2y_Ib6t9h39QkfMTcSwWbuD3_pOFjbfy_DsmrvOzncR8429cQjhew5J3ZMOVsbrChOECHtvA-lHZQ/w400-h300/D119A4B8-CC01-44C5-B542-B5D24CF6410C.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwolG-b2C4GcdZmAlbAsbPOKfH_-W3qq-eYJw8GBzwPQPg8aDmu8SR8kYecjyxyxC20--Qj65SpOtMnf6SMiMqcaeXUaziTAR3J5aVTT8amq2HTeFwKPFKEgcmi4hznXUC38CZIFYHM3nfFTEQRtYd0mfkEjkDj3dXJNaz56G0ByRv25e7Wjeg65WlJg/s2048/52BD8F16-5C28-4CEA-83C6-914431B003F2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwolG-b2C4GcdZmAlbAsbPOKfH_-W3qq-eYJw8GBzwPQPg8aDmu8SR8kYecjyxyxC20--Qj65SpOtMnf6SMiMqcaeXUaziTAR3J5aVTT8amq2HTeFwKPFKEgcmi4hznXUC38CZIFYHM3nfFTEQRtYd0mfkEjkDj3dXJNaz56G0ByRv25e7Wjeg65WlJg/w400-h300/52BD8F16-5C28-4CEA-83C6-914431B003F2.jpeg" width="400" /></a></p><div style="text-align: justify;">There were dog days aplenty … Nikei, the Italian street diva (corgi mix), Sandy the cockapoo with instant love to give, Buddy the Akita who shed too much for Perveen’s liking, Pepper the well trained one, and of course, Samwise ‘the original’ Gamjee…</div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqO1jwoa2GqMjXJ4pWmSm-RqqDu9XV3AjfVhv-EK6nBAAFxC7mdrXx3_ECP4kD12e0K4n32lyj4np_SM04opyy71Cs5WI6cRKcNWkL4stHdP9ariWUQRJMzhtLhk631EMgvLqTUEI-matap-TzaXItWPeZnOFCFKZJTA6jJLofAFQs-ulfrRHpQygKCg/s1440/C475013C-E2A1-4A05-81C0-1D21AEEBA31B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="812" data-original-width="1440" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqO1jwoa2GqMjXJ4pWmSm-RqqDu9XV3AjfVhv-EK6nBAAFxC7mdrXx3_ECP4kD12e0K4n32lyj4np_SM04opyy71Cs5WI6cRKcNWkL4stHdP9ariWUQRJMzhtLhk631EMgvLqTUEI-matap-TzaXItWPeZnOFCFKZJTA6jJLofAFQs-ulfrRHpQygKCg/w400-h225/C475013C-E2A1-4A05-81C0-1D21AEEBA31B.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgE7IyvwUyYMj6xMHo5Bp4_7u6ZqAePjfucoCdEzFRcYpz7kSt_kGGUmTSGRTSfSDuJ5LHkSh2yNiymLmeCEo-bHxzsYqYgZPTsePmTDd9bxBDPtNnPRkQRv3cD2adJrSXAYsADR5v88tkbmAPhR03e9hWzWH_5hVhMu5jnIFgVNXEN9z4AbKyTQCjJw/s1440/C8A40697-048C-48EB-A5F9-582656EAEB6C.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="812" data-original-width="1440" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgE7IyvwUyYMj6xMHo5Bp4_7u6ZqAePjfucoCdEzFRcYpz7kSt_kGGUmTSGRTSfSDuJ5LHkSh2yNiymLmeCEo-bHxzsYqYgZPTsePmTDd9bxBDPtNnPRkQRv3cD2adJrSXAYsADR5v88tkbmAPhR03e9hWzWH_5hVhMu5jnIFgVNXEN9z4AbKyTQCjJw/w400-h225/C8A40697-048C-48EB-A5F9-582656EAEB6C.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga03wior4Z06COuyJQ9-NQImDpeD0fXsEzygzuGVKeKOamniXNY0s7X8HlJdgeYEWNn4ugi78fAFv9hAxt9xEH0ooHAIla06DZkyk-1nAxAZXE63heVgCxzPS6nGzZ8GQy0c27wmDvLdXpvjzfQIGNy2IGUlnfwkGXNZZ_sTPyAKnKsKxCB4Ltc8Hy-Q/s1440/B130D678-190B-4344-9B31-BD023F4783CE.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1081" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga03wior4Z06COuyJQ9-NQImDpeD0fXsEzygzuGVKeKOamniXNY0s7X8HlJdgeYEWNn4ugi78fAFv9hAxt9xEH0ooHAIla06DZkyk-1nAxAZXE63heVgCxzPS6nGzZ8GQy0c27wmDvLdXpvjzfQIGNy2IGUlnfwkGXNZZ_sTPyAKnKsKxCB4Ltc8Hy-Q/w400-h300/B130D678-190B-4344-9B31-BD023F4783CE.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>What does Cambridge have to offer, I often wonder, when my four children enjoy so many wonders in Singapore and Malaysia … the answer comes in the green shires - cows, tents in the garden, riverside walks, jam and chocolate wafer sandwiches, but most of all, the being together part. En famille, unbroken. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitKe1WIQxVjLus9lAYXspch4eqptQKJPV0ns-5sLTloUx0OOsBkNfQ-gR4zwJbQShIknaRQGD-IhmxACXoCiwOWcJyp8p1mFbcISiBK3GnZ2GiPynEbkVrtCTByKKIwhOSLKPsFVkBCgwRadXDr6u2EZImUu3atCX7gRwQQshPJcAJbA722VBu90K-Qg/s1600/AC5D1946-63C6-40A7-8184-596C7447C2C8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitKe1WIQxVjLus9lAYXspch4eqptQKJPV0ns-5sLTloUx0OOsBkNfQ-gR4zwJbQShIknaRQGD-IhmxACXoCiwOWcJyp8p1mFbcISiBK3GnZ2GiPynEbkVrtCTByKKIwhOSLKPsFVkBCgwRadXDr6u2EZImUu3atCX7gRwQQshPJcAJbA722VBu90K-Qg/w400-h225/AC5D1946-63C6-40A7-8184-596C7447C2C8.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga0iCPKcswt7TDADNnWx37ljfgRRnmHSsmXslFhVe8XtQwj5kmdQMqfcbEfU3_kPgliNlhxr9jSsHmndzzN2xR3pWjICNalJx9GFlqSbtXLKySUi-ZKAWIyz-Q4mzdfGlOhBBfrB45wjkKcf1vJ5qecVAZGOvnpvUmfeaOGsOZQRQQtSGyqcHwdCkVrQ/s1600/3306F53D-BAD6-4E21-9952-F1A0B97D9612.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga0iCPKcswt7TDADNnWx37ljfgRRnmHSsmXslFhVe8XtQwj5kmdQMqfcbEfU3_kPgliNlhxr9jSsHmndzzN2xR3pWjICNalJx9GFlqSbtXLKySUi-ZKAWIyz-Q4mzdfGlOhBBfrB45wjkKcf1vJ5qecVAZGOvnpvUmfeaOGsOZQRQQtSGyqcHwdCkVrQ/w225-h400/3306F53D-BAD6-4E21-9952-F1A0B97D9612.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIpCJmqu3rdcAcEmECoEfh4fbqBfQA2QonJs1Zse4DogBYSod40lcPf0Hm0oYufzAwOfH5Kr6Mpu9P9E4DCPvOD8aZ-9oY-W7vit87iBxNDXmW2buCc8wdE2szyni_rHD6tjv3aZAj7i3kaqbF_YknxxbdZN9jwgCK143UoimUuH4lucMXzTwRKN7iqA/s4032/550EFCB2-1EB7-4691-8B20-E29F93E6A031.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIpCJmqu3rdcAcEmECoEfh4fbqBfQA2QonJs1Zse4DogBYSod40lcPf0Hm0oYufzAwOfH5Kr6Mpu9P9E4DCPvOD8aZ-9oY-W7vit87iBxNDXmW2buCc8wdE2szyni_rHD6tjv3aZAj7i3kaqbF_YknxxbdZN9jwgCK143UoimUuH4lucMXzTwRKN7iqA/w400-h300/550EFCB2-1EB7-4691-8B20-E29F93E6A031.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzed3lWwkAuSI7ulILr6l61GVYSUiDCskQzcUobzxrwIW6z1Yd3_pdFB1QBnrhCKP32mADFp9Rz7mTHqJl1QGBQxJLKwvAU548gaCm2osmcfiNZe7Eb9abYKD5y_3JO6Qo4b_0W_rhJUMhdx6iXJ6uQCUOG4arE-4-egIUlCsQwlt_GnnCLg0n6tTEXQ/s1600/76ACB3E2-4EB7-4FE9-B37B-F57BA6538B49.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzed3lWwkAuSI7ulILr6l61GVYSUiDCskQzcUobzxrwIW6z1Yd3_pdFB1QBnrhCKP32mADFp9Rz7mTHqJl1QGBQxJLKwvAU548gaCm2osmcfiNZe7Eb9abYKD5y_3JO6Qo4b_0W_rhJUMhdx6iXJ6uQCUOG4arE-4-egIUlCsQwlt_GnnCLg0n6tTEXQ/w400-h225/76ACB3E2-4EB7-4FE9-B37B-F57BA6538B49.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>It was heaven for Dad, who has always known this is what he wanted. Children and more children, and togetherness. Until it’s time to let go, and begin again, half living perfectly in the now, and half waiting for the next time we are together again...<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBJ52GEZWUhI1LsLEQ83rUoQA67WLMOQDDt7dGFHOG598v88inCPgd2WIyGwu-eLQWm-X7_ayUrr3bBvMK_LFZI19ZaTldKgMyVMl747l_3RT9BbY2EbqX3M2CkqI6UtUTcMzeo3MT5hL6shil_YnI-_2i8tWKNbUbmWyU-RKMTeOsTomvmjwPLXw3lw/s2016/5A3272F4-DE23-4191-82A3-390E91361606.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2016" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBJ52GEZWUhI1LsLEQ83rUoQA67WLMOQDDt7dGFHOG598v88inCPgd2WIyGwu-eLQWm-X7_ayUrr3bBvMK_LFZI19ZaTldKgMyVMl747l_3RT9BbY2EbqX3M2CkqI6UtUTcMzeo3MT5hL6shil_YnI-_2i8tWKNbUbmWyU-RKMTeOsTomvmjwPLXw3lw/w400-h225/5A3272F4-DE23-4191-82A3-390E91361606.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu34V3HBwcsDo85Xio9MLjHrihCx3pII_rDpSFYIv6iPbCu-_XGbhKV9JBbuOMVlgFOEzFI2tD_uFPORAj0kXMhcPVbuEVrG1Vp5tJ5XDUTt7_aGK-acKPoW-iuhz30rMGtHd0Pw0VezYrxadmDa9p0aURKbyBzRivD8QwKAAfRhUVsu9-ZJOkeEAulg/s1600/3C2615AA-8017-4812-B836-8F99CD0D8E3D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu34V3HBwcsDo85Xio9MLjHrihCx3pII_rDpSFYIv6iPbCu-_XGbhKV9JBbuOMVlgFOEzFI2tD_uFPORAj0kXMhcPVbuEVrG1Vp5tJ5XDUTt7_aGK-acKPoW-iuhz30rMGtHd0Pw0VezYrxadmDa9p0aURKbyBzRivD8QwKAAfRhUVsu9-ZJOkeEAulg/w225-h400/3C2615AA-8017-4812-B836-8F99CD0D8E3D.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JqZiUQPJKSksxRLAtaioblA4A45IF7VsoBexBMhhvy_cLsgjgrjidvkFw5ikXix3ualYvoB9bSn_D4f3QF-ceMboNpc3T1m6W9CTTE6DpL0SDQGUPEQI09Q4kXHikUQdEK3esLftTFKbYjhmulIWzlZBxOKtqvHiWzhg__rzH0TDB4t6xgFcLEZdfA/s1600/7DB900CD-BDD9-4951-A18B-C57F7B7F217F.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6JqZiUQPJKSksxRLAtaioblA4A45IF7VsoBexBMhhvy_cLsgjgrjidvkFw5ikXix3ualYvoB9bSn_D4f3QF-ceMboNpc3T1m6W9CTTE6DpL0SDQGUPEQI09Q4kXHikUQdEK3esLftTFKbYjhmulIWzlZBxOKtqvHiWzhg__rzH0TDB4t6xgFcLEZdfA/w225-h400/7DB900CD-BDD9-4951-A18B-C57F7B7F217F.jpeg" width="225" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV9eC5KJM_LWiATa-PVsY552h-p2jx3Rkuw5ZOZnA1z1FHXFAn2MHfC7m3s63smquELZotLSiQJYTRF2SAeZ2Tytz8XsLyWQXRqh8MjbDqLG6nVGpoQPpwIgMJxT1iKX98SXxu-QEsuy0yoN6joGHTp6PQFNdmVH9ALRpzxk2kkt4eu95zuvxTvsI6bw/s1440/354F86A6-9D4B-44AD-B83F-D08D16876C9A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV9eC5KJM_LWiATa-PVsY552h-p2jx3Rkuw5ZOZnA1z1FHXFAn2MHfC7m3s63smquELZotLSiQJYTRF2SAeZ2Tytz8XsLyWQXRqh8MjbDqLG6nVGpoQPpwIgMJxT1iKX98SXxu-QEsuy0yoN6joGHTp6PQFNdmVH9ALRpzxk2kkt4eu95zuvxTvsI6bw/w400-h300/354F86A6-9D4B-44AD-B83F-D08D16876C9A.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-60054893338032562632022-06-14T11:20:00.006+01:002022-06-14T11:34:37.508+01:00PLUM VILLAGE, 40 YEARS<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUgFjRc-AM8y0IBRhS1sfm6wukjT26zMQL16nAweVn60NA96wN99fh23WRLw7Go6PiSlhfjCjHDMKxMqwSOjksdsfyc08uQNhsbXq7bXLvolaqF-wEfvqxrHcJVkxLlsebojegEyl5iQjobmjFSKjEZDpB3rDeKmmNF8vqLkyrE5su9X2ai6Wg3Nd3WQ/s4032/E10F9020-01CE-41FA-A387-4215EEC98E53.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUgFjRc-AM8y0IBRhS1sfm6wukjT26zMQL16nAweVn60NA96wN99fh23WRLw7Go6PiSlhfjCjHDMKxMqwSOjksdsfyc08uQNhsbXq7bXLvolaqF-wEfvqxrHcJVkxLlsebojegEyl5iQjobmjFSKjEZDpB3rDeKmmNF8vqLkyrE5su9X2ai6Wg3Nd3WQ/w400-h300/E10F9020-01CE-41FA-A387-4215EEC98E53.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglF3IKoLjwPmx6aZ07abxFe_fgSvym_nseVKeCrTwzvd1Pr5Bh3QXoSQ6toBzJU6AA1woQGAB7QH4FhtiDoBQMTBmzcTp__17iDlW6zhvgkhWf8GWCRMXQJtk172K1CwnZu8mkxhgGfXae0Wwyf7GHleGvnLRgbWCE8qraOBAAk0f_9FrlcjRi5MlKMw/s4032/DFE90244-64F9-4C7A-A48F-60B7062F8C92.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglF3IKoLjwPmx6aZ07abxFe_fgSvym_nseVKeCrTwzvd1Pr5Bh3QXoSQ6toBzJU6AA1woQGAB7QH4FhtiDoBQMTBmzcTp__17iDlW6zhvgkhWf8GWCRMXQJtk172K1CwnZu8mkxhgGfXae0Wwyf7GHleGvnLRgbWCE8qraOBAAk0f_9FrlcjRi5MlKMw/w400-h300/DFE90244-64F9-4C7A-A48F-60B7062F8C92.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanCuf4fth4waQ7rby2yfHQxF3pdFUkJ_41Iy2pVV84nuFE3agudKjpoNaMi1644oXF2Mnl8i3Ik73mvf9UMqs59jX-NRcL9YZcqLaZklshHsy45QA8u9Jz_9UpM58zusj8ex5859UBE3YhNQSMAfcinNJINseIURo0ZAO2PudALHD9CT5fjerZM8sAQ/s4032/8467D9BB-993E-41F9-9B36-459BE5A7E8D8.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjanCuf4fth4waQ7rby2yfHQxF3pdFUkJ_41Iy2pVV84nuFE3agudKjpoNaMi1644oXF2Mnl8i3Ik73mvf9UMqs59jX-NRcL9YZcqLaZklshHsy45QA8u9Jz_9UpM58zusj8ex5859UBE3YhNQSMAfcinNJINseIURo0ZAO2PudALHD9CT5fjerZM8sAQ/w400-h300/8467D9BB-993E-41F9-9B36-459BE5A7E8D8.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p style="text-align: justify;">From the first seed planted by Sister Loc Uyen to each and every aligned step, it felt as though Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh himself was pulling one of his sparrows home, after ten years. The last time I was in Plum Village, Bordeaux, was for the 30th anniversary. Incredibly I ended up in the same bed, in the same gite in New Hamlet, Dieulivol, looking out on hay bales, far from the croaking of the lotus pond frogs, close to the moon and sunflower fields.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-imOCfgjUV8G3-2S8_lOAx_CGaTchpGBs8ZYGfdoVc5dlDHkG2lMnVepONejFGpJpLY6ACzRhbBMudEuTGnSTS3ZOqaytBTEeppB0Z6yY4Nj3QHq9DSEnt2iTKXyD5b2SFymV8tLfsyyxXAn6VOqzjq14iDdA0EzwQh--JNyVPjuH9VrSFNX4q97Xw/s3088/79C7C69D-29D2-42D1-86C7-9D2B71F564D0.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-imOCfgjUV8G3-2S8_lOAx_CGaTchpGBs8ZYGfdoVc5dlDHkG2lMnVepONejFGpJpLY6ACzRhbBMudEuTGnSTS3ZOqaytBTEeppB0Z6yY4Nj3QHq9DSEnt2iTKXyD5b2SFymV8tLfsyyxXAn6VOqzjq14iDdA0EzwQh--JNyVPjuH9VrSFNX4q97Xw/w300-h400/79C7C69D-29D2-42D1-86C7-9D2B71F564D0.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj98W7AemutfGAw9E6XqZKaoYp5v59yZrUG17rE1cH4eWgiTIiaqiZFtXjYfIg53B4kaNewntHMkFzyphO2hL6hAeLgwX84aeg16d5lrdZX8OEbN47MnbKUipFvD1Kwm42n4uCPQaDPLD483U_mwf6gq0QJJcdem70lwGa7m2AVtHLVSgJVrzFW3ova5g/s2048/A6F46F21-B247-4BFD-9A1B-2BD052AA2047.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj98W7AemutfGAw9E6XqZKaoYp5v59yZrUG17rE1cH4eWgiTIiaqiZFtXjYfIg53B4kaNewntHMkFzyphO2hL6hAeLgwX84aeg16d5lrdZX8OEbN47MnbKUipFvD1Kwm42n4uCPQaDPLD483U_mwf6gq0QJJcdem70lwGa7m2AVtHLVSgJVrzFW3ova5g/w400-h300/A6F46F21-B247-4BFD-9A1B-2BD052AA2047.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD1WgCNUmIIXJENTkA1IUSLQtVMoZdAap4v-CgpyNG3iv7vkA0DW4xa1pb1tvsOW-cxrDnHw0b_j6Tygl44sNIT1q__jG1IwYEJU6E7yNXenex_PKXggliFDkc23nZXNv_kPD3VsTChz14rFVnmAsNFIc0FuS6K1cmJx9PXau1Scjq_-Ed_RMup2jaCg/s4032/EA3D7285-CD3E-4672-9872-363CD6870571.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD1WgCNUmIIXJENTkA1IUSLQtVMoZdAap4v-CgpyNG3iv7vkA0DW4xa1pb1tvsOW-cxrDnHw0b_j6Tygl44sNIT1q__jG1IwYEJU6E7yNXenex_PKXggliFDkc23nZXNv_kPD3VsTChz14rFVnmAsNFIc0FuS6K1cmJx9PXau1Scjq_-Ed_RMup2jaCg/w400-h300/EA3D7285-CD3E-4672-9872-363CD6870571.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">I traveled with friends, met up with the two young nuns I teach English to and made new friends. I wrote a single poem and kept two diaries for my twin nieces, who cried the night I left. ‘We’ll never see you again!’ I’ll cry too, I told them. At some point. And I did. My friend Anh said I had cried a cup full of tears by my last day. Why the tears? Because of the hot French sun, fatigue, the desire to keep up with a monastic schedule far beyond my body’s limits, gratitude to be taken care of by loving friends when I was sick, and gratitude to have a monastic sister guide me to leave early because covid cases were spreading. People had arrived from all over the world for this first in person opening up of Thây’s practise centre, so of course the virus came along for the ride.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVKvxeEdOCT2xORUswaUKZAYV4bhYVDcp-Jd7okmaRMj7hzg6rVgKB-oX4cLTDkRujmJ4aIbbAxlSaMhQSUqrGLoCeYMYZoNZdXX_bJ3My3hl_VFAM-k3pZZiKKKWOmZpxZMoPVovmdyVYeS1pdDc0OlpsGcYspwMh6WL2uAEiohaeHqOzOyMchBHprQ/s2000/2CCCF1E1-EB0D-4637-96A0-3EEEBAC0BD66.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1125" data-original-width="2000" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVKvxeEdOCT2xORUswaUKZAYV4bhYVDcp-Jd7okmaRMj7hzg6rVgKB-oX4cLTDkRujmJ4aIbbAxlSaMhQSUqrGLoCeYMYZoNZdXX_bJ3My3hl_VFAM-k3pZZiKKKWOmZpxZMoPVovmdyVYeS1pdDc0OlpsGcYspwMh6WL2uAEiohaeHqOzOyMchBHprQ/w400-h225/2CCCF1E1-EB0D-4637-96A0-3EEEBAC0BD66.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjRgcyEorcn-eN8LwhCngW76kru7BrsP6RNS52Lm8xGrJpceBncchbRaGD0LRLDZT60Oc2wDJ_SsgH9oHeQ8MIKPwngnlYXozwnBAHcRhgv7FgSk9xVAaDQybprJR6PY3rjUUZl-SXIAiNCPprEa_koscuY2Xn9WSkDv4k2PWB0rzp2k4RRLnQ3n_P7g/s4032/65B138C8-A00E-42C7-9CC6-30B434433550.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjRgcyEorcn-eN8LwhCngW76kru7BrsP6RNS52Lm8xGrJpceBncchbRaGD0LRLDZT60Oc2wDJ_SsgH9oHeQ8MIKPwngnlYXozwnBAHcRhgv7FgSk9xVAaDQybprJR6PY3rjUUZl-SXIAiNCPprEa_koscuY2Xn9WSkDv4k2PWB0rzp2k4RRLnQ3n_P7g/w300-h400/65B138C8-A00E-42C7-9CC6-30B434433550.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggYJZt3KXgJwOPuCdzxeZuwYNdIZrlO97nsgiEDARuMCvLzlDpujLG9Rboo0WlnApzWOHqM0n5p5O3yu8YUUv5unlusxVZfZCA9hQagTXeJTDHNFfxvWxYoxqDrWqFp16rmQJyn2IbDrTyW_H3SK3BLiT2U7oT_pHo9ndUGX20FVmySQ00jVVdJRQ06w/s4032/84083F84-E75C-4CAA-8F1B-9BF27A909B40.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggYJZt3KXgJwOPuCdzxeZuwYNdIZrlO97nsgiEDARuMCvLzlDpujLG9Rboo0WlnApzWOHqM0n5p5O3yu8YUUv5unlusxVZfZCA9hQagTXeJTDHNFfxvWxYoxqDrWqFp16rmQJyn2IbDrTyW_H3SK3BLiT2U7oT_pHo9ndUGX20FVmySQ00jVVdJRQ06w/w300-h400/84083F84-E75C-4CAA-8F1B-9BF27A909B40.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisDVWVd3wdspf1ZsrnG9ZtT338yhaLyTbUK80tFamgntxZqn3XoxG9MMQwwysZqXDVu2jOp34oG3jLUuncfcUoBaxdiJU-5CHjN1LTg5nkn_um4g7WI94p3k3GLNk6AU5How2T7HOoweMMqZA1SGiHwrAmlOyTfdJ859SAPZtI-O40fVUo5hEWFrkHKQ/s4032/1567746F-28CB-4255-BA12-54C95658C199.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisDVWVd3wdspf1ZsrnG9ZtT338yhaLyTbUK80tFamgntxZqn3XoxG9MMQwwysZqXDVu2jOp34oG3jLUuncfcUoBaxdiJU-5CHjN1LTg5nkn_um4g7WI94p3k3GLNk6AU5How2T7HOoweMMqZA1SGiHwrAmlOyTfdJ859SAPZtI-O40fVUo5hEWFrkHKQ/w300-h400/1567746F-28CB-4255-BA12-54C95658C199.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBeTuNbFSNC3VUfHEqhTvMkW8r6btn1Hl4wVX7LDqyxSXh6th8WnhLRJrXCAvPB6tzVVa8qKxbuNQrLLsUGiVh-drWkG-6xRLPhfdCMgYdrZx16rrsq2lH9zL4E_N5Q5d3J3ryoOthUlgwXhWLJctJ-ezJPlw8L_J0rTE16qpRsVnK29kb6OQRV3RfKg/s4032/B13BA82F-2A66-4459-9E8B-CC1AEC24B2E1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBeTuNbFSNC3VUfHEqhTvMkW8r6btn1Hl4wVX7LDqyxSXh6th8WnhLRJrXCAvPB6tzVVa8qKxbuNQrLLsUGiVh-drWkG-6xRLPhfdCMgYdrZx16rrsq2lH9zL4E_N5Q5d3J3ryoOthUlgwXhWLJctJ-ezJPlw8L_J0rTE16qpRsVnK29kb6OQRV3RfKg/w300-h400/B13BA82F-2A66-4459-9E8B-CC1AEC24B2E1.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eynmClsAZiPBXbzOwi4bZdmAJW1GYAFBLSf_fn8actDInmkNTjmK_x4JKbuod-rdHin7sDHFI0bnIBXJPu3XLHwCshqeFmLqki1dxEnYBfpmEL49HqVEBYGyUM8wbH7a7zMvU-wmW6905F_49rZXDPweFfegS0sRtvIVJivl6siW0GOTaCFN2yEuJg/s4032/B72FB5D8-83E1-4749-9195-3BA284A7C998.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eynmClsAZiPBXbzOwi4bZdmAJW1GYAFBLSf_fn8actDInmkNTjmK_x4JKbuod-rdHin7sDHFI0bnIBXJPu3XLHwCshqeFmLqki1dxEnYBfpmEL49HqVEBYGyUM8wbH7a7zMvU-wmW6905F_49rZXDPweFfegS0sRtvIVJivl6siW0GOTaCFN2yEuJg/w300-h400/B72FB5D8-83E1-4749-9195-3BA284A7C998.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8QDXeMrlbW3T3VALjmclnFNB-pRQDdKXIC0i3rE46E0OTdmNkHCPrqAEk_9_HUfUeZ1uoDDWAKWIyrkd3tfi2RLdTkNMfn5VU3vAm3VvFbFh_RxABsIfEh5hT45jqJR7x5PhX6QSTyjSy0heaS61l7mnPJaTtIKLKmZyBJB8HXDnlhLlkMPhmahy0sQ/s4032/B717D7BB-55C0-4F0F-9666-2659F67EE671.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8QDXeMrlbW3T3VALjmclnFNB-pRQDdKXIC0i3rE46E0OTdmNkHCPrqAEk_9_HUfUeZ1uoDDWAKWIyrkd3tfi2RLdTkNMfn5VU3vAm3VvFbFh_RxABsIfEh5hT45jqJR7x5PhX6QSTyjSy0heaS61l7mnPJaTtIKLKmZyBJB8HXDnlhLlkMPhmahy0sQ/w300-h400/B717D7BB-55C0-4F0F-9666-2659F67EE671.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><p style="text-align: justify;">On my last day, June 9th, I managed to attend the 40 years celebration in Upper Hamlet, got a calligraphic signature from Brother Phap Huu, the abbot who was Thây’s attendant for seventeen years, met my friend Shantum Seth after ten years, fan girled over the sculptor Paz Perlman, ate cake and generally arrived, at home, fully present. The next morning, I was driven to tiny Bergerac airport by Zoe, a friend who offered her car and company, and the next thing I was outside our front door, with the twins not quite believing I was really real… ‘but you didn’t even tell us you were coming home!!’ </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv7AQLwV8a2IROvRmlFKkW5aDQcaZtTG_t6JPvyPHMGUn8J2yqbpRlLTzP6fse5GUh_W2OHbNmURWb9VZQaGaajAVAMwQOaV68uk7yFKMl8jW63xaRe1nP5110tbFLRLOisj4wSLx9gGqfn8J6b3evZojMFQWmmjHa0ZlfCHRaMJnun78QEdpejIUpQg/s4032/FCB3F066-13E5-4F2D-A342-86208209AD7B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv7AQLwV8a2IROvRmlFKkW5aDQcaZtTG_t6JPvyPHMGUn8J2yqbpRlLTzP6fse5GUh_W2OHbNmURWb9VZQaGaajAVAMwQOaV68uk7yFKMl8jW63xaRe1nP5110tbFLRLOisj4wSLx9gGqfn8J6b3evZojMFQWmmjHa0ZlfCHRaMJnun78QEdpejIUpQg/w300-h400/FCB3F066-13E5-4F2D-A342-86208209AD7B.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">I am writing this at 11:30am. In France it is 12:30pm. The sangha of 800 lay and monastics, are going as a river in Lower Hamlet, led by Sister Chan Khong, spreading the last of Thây's ashes into the home he created for thousands. Refuge continued. In England, I visited Mary's grave, with flowers, for what would have been her 106th birthday. Death is just a game of hide and seek. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRTAQNH9TcXzHH3rFfsKcsn1BtUazD8WLLmTwBPQ8bDtXZsOeD_qD9nc2M9jeAZT-bpi63Y76uAJj79xsAWuYa8mwke9t-MaODAqeA4kMtP0HvAynezglvs3e-J9rBX94wSgWgxh3yqPa06W7twlR1p02IEnvDmA454EJv_WNVNaMnhNU1pkvwWkZg7Q/s3088/8BA441A2-9A92-4114-A863-42EA873C0EAD.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2316" data-original-width="3088" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRTAQNH9TcXzHH3rFfsKcsn1BtUazD8WLLmTwBPQ8bDtXZsOeD_qD9nc2M9jeAZT-bpi63Y76uAJj79xsAWuYa8mwke9t-MaODAqeA4kMtP0HvAynezglvs3e-J9rBX94wSgWgxh3yqPa06W7twlR1p02IEnvDmA454EJv_WNVNaMnhNU1pkvwWkZg7Q/s320/8BA441A2-9A92-4114-A863-42EA873C0EAD.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWEz7TWbFnbssLKFgqygyRTN7mYxWSYqzYvua1Hl3VIiinoDqw5huODqYRBvZKAq58uxhwm049kilHG1OmdqX0wTDV2ag5DjeQMI3e0iuoyla62UHPTyq1idG5GVNBj_FFd1c7x4AROQJLMU84SxwPLXymnYrnQ4ms8oZfcKJg1xq8v8K9TfJq3ofPDw/s4032/52029509-35FF-4C9F-B10A-B115355A6CC7.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWEz7TWbFnbssLKFgqygyRTN7mYxWSYqzYvua1Hl3VIiinoDqw5huODqYRBvZKAq58uxhwm049kilHG1OmdqX0wTDV2ag5DjeQMI3e0iuoyla62UHPTyq1idG5GVNBj_FFd1c7x4AROQJLMU84SxwPLXymnYrnQ4ms8oZfcKJg1xq8v8K9TfJq3ofPDw/s320/52029509-35FF-4C9F-B10A-B115355A6CC7.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhbk3-AoqILCY8dDbH7JIZBzIgmS56taTR9-GKfU0G6BjWHS_Bdr9PmdDpIPO4pR7OHwQc10fsCoQ5Y2hXmum1XA-xwTLH-MPOTSDAO_h_wSx-yDVTaO8KAuOAm2cO2vnxUh4pO1XAlSKVl2ybg29-1Anu-k0eURkpQ7XOC4UcU6fOG1-tCZi_Dx3aw/s1440/3C069787-4D3E-421F-A821-BC46C52E3C48.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="808" data-original-width="1440" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhbk3-AoqILCY8dDbH7JIZBzIgmS56taTR9-GKfU0G6BjWHS_Bdr9PmdDpIPO4pR7OHwQc10fsCoQ5Y2hXmum1XA-xwTLH-MPOTSDAO_h_wSx-yDVTaO8KAuOAm2cO2vnxUh4pO1XAlSKVl2ybg29-1Anu-k0eURkpQ7XOC4UcU6fOG1-tCZi_Dx3aw/w400-h225/3C069787-4D3E-421F-A821-BC46C52E3C48.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-68591171771303526792022-05-30T00:54:00.000+01:002022-06-01T00:54:50.289+01:00DOG DAYS OF SUMMER<p style="text-align: justify;">A photo diary of sorts for you … because Aunty Shai is rather fatigued and even the arrangement of words seems beyond me…it’s rain and sun and Sammy the cockapoo and Buddy the Akita, and six weeks (out of three months) with the little mousicles from KL. Two years of catching up with Grandma and Papa and Shai and a house in Cambridge with stairs and attics and books aplenty to get lost in. Imagination is running wild down the corridors and time is now, circular and fleeting all at once. The Jubilee weekend is almost upon us, and an Italian corgi by the name of Queen Nikie may be on the borrowing cards... I may also be travelling very soon, somewhere special. More about that anon... but first, the diary...</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3FZs-MGJak5xXH2WzfocYdTKrlYv1RYSANvyMIhO8va6ENOjwibAd61kSfig5dyIPC-A2fJevP53528mJVjJzdTP8zvVifpEZ1wg6_FUxzk7lq3VkDXP-LL9n8lk0X8CW4ChAt97ifXNGmO36cG1FNWbJNNaQPWxXjze2adSZrjjWo5cG7Dtf6ad3Q/s4032/1B2AD8CC-C956-4781-A60F-71F6AEEA990B.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY3FZs-MGJak5xXH2WzfocYdTKrlYv1RYSANvyMIhO8va6ENOjwibAd61kSfig5dyIPC-A2fJevP53528mJVjJzdTP8zvVifpEZ1wg6_FUxzk7lq3VkDXP-LL9n8lk0X8CW4ChAt97ifXNGmO36cG1FNWbJNNaQPWxXjze2adSZrjjWo5cG7Dtf6ad3Q/w300-h400/1B2AD8CC-C956-4781-A60F-71F6AEEA990B.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicv2ClhTfskTYpjVdO199tOVWTu0KL9j5t0pB0rIi_gg8OJd6Dsh9OR4dyz5XkcsXvFYOlQ2a89oe0LLMYHmcSw8tYzB2YSosg55iiJS-KrVqW82phM7ntCetN7j3pze212Svcq5ypK9-D8hGECzmktsdvlmf8dAL0AIEha3sNMJOdAkbqNo_kFEhx4A/s1800/4E373082-6B06-4A23-A976-1F51D72CB67E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicv2ClhTfskTYpjVdO199tOVWTu0KL9j5t0pB0rIi_gg8OJd6Dsh9OR4dyz5XkcsXvFYOlQ2a89oe0LLMYHmcSw8tYzB2YSosg55iiJS-KrVqW82phM7ntCetN7j3pze212Svcq5ypK9-D8hGECzmktsdvlmf8dAL0AIEha3sNMJOdAkbqNo_kFEhx4A/w320-h400/4E373082-6B06-4A23-A976-1F51D72CB67E.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5glBBtjVN2yNMhW2cxEYkyKHHsNaaTUy2QH4bx8jXI01-CXtMtObrCIKsjd4Vo1a8NOR-BThDqV3AZE8A-ylgFI19XwbWonQLW1GchF4rzgmcllyJtt0zx6iEHvxEab3ec1yhNLn0Lzoy4KLyV4215GpG3w_g5XnYgrviDnzzHeEzq2uJnfMwdoYMg/s1800/08E24D41-C92A-416F-B904-89FDF238CEB5.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz5glBBtjVN2yNMhW2cxEYkyKHHsNaaTUy2QH4bx8jXI01-CXtMtObrCIKsjd4Vo1a8NOR-BThDqV3AZE8A-ylgFI19XwbWonQLW1GchF4rzgmcllyJtt0zx6iEHvxEab3ec1yhNLn0Lzoy4KLyV4215GpG3w_g5XnYgrviDnzzHeEzq2uJnfMwdoYMg/w320-h400/08E24D41-C92A-416F-B904-89FDF238CEB5.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmukOUR2LqU5zebDmE_cs59AWGXaBkR1McGU_xQQrcT0iBiUYvnElxJh2rLQQxi1zFfz1EJQ-02osXB-qJZ2l9tiJwVbFx_EjLA-w3jSIUXYJMV7yvXO-vjFQxas63fBtR_07oyx2JAOOIdNJTdyC9olzMqAH36NOZzcs7BPCOH_xCe8OINH2tYTn3eQ/w320-h400/44CFCED3-A661-4A5E-A2BE-BCC9992DAA84.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCzzmoorFTNMZXOhOfZjw5Z3l130PWY5GgsuiUDR4fHvOoocDfkbQ-T9Tr7M5rjNUyZzjvOoGJddjhNOaRV5rwhx5w6Zinz0X_S4Z9AxIXsiFCqHC4kDyF-ZfsOQgiYUreqGC9VVKKaH-7iHOdyvtHMFuWBR8KrpHEnJBtQqD39cRyOon4-mA8Mv28g/s2016/5312FFB3-6454-4F99-9F2F-AA0F7E0B277D.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1134" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikCzzmoorFTNMZXOhOfZjw5Z3l130PWY5GgsuiUDR4fHvOoocDfkbQ-T9Tr7M5rjNUyZzjvOoGJddjhNOaRV5rwhx5w6Zinz0X_S4Z9AxIXsiFCqHC4kDyF-ZfsOQgiYUreqGC9VVKKaH-7iHOdyvtHMFuWBR8KrpHEnJBtQqD39cRyOon4-mA8Mv28g/w225-h400/5312FFB3-6454-4F99-9F2F-AA0F7E0B277D.jpeg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWsVLN0RZ9LDhbsu1yZgBv9bemXAbhOGOFmdQflwfOQspeF7X0t89QpNoYfzqzPmv-D8FuJOtFzScOga6LFVTqGlNnYL18drrY8FK2o0-i6fY7rxXKEObgTj7f5EOWFe_4nllQZbkowpxSwnBor9Pcg345sK2XV1V2ZDJYbHtiGMIExoNyZa_QR5FURg/w400-h300/AD516E13-B6D2-47E0-BABC-6880D9302644.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRweQSZ9AsjET_XkP-WOG8RQyCWD9zAzYYK-7Jloyqk-_PxkWaPsKXg6JgUgydmn1rHFHeR0O8HbxzDKRg_okq-6UKCTAjbz-3bGC2276Lg-RBWX66LCE2HVcKJKVeoyiureMHatJYKoMdjvAfXBM3G0TwRc0CxoxaDaSMufFmkWa56x7DBmQKdhpaw/s3088/D37F10E4-1A21-473F-80E7-6C87DFF6775F.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipRweQSZ9AsjET_XkP-WOG8RQyCWD9zAzYYK-7Jloyqk-_PxkWaPsKXg6JgUgydmn1rHFHeR0O8HbxzDKRg_okq-6UKCTAjbz-3bGC2276Lg-RBWX66LCE2HVcKJKVeoyiureMHatJYKoMdjvAfXBM3G0TwRc0CxoxaDaSMufFmkWa56x7DBmQKdhpaw/w300-h400/D37F10E4-1A21-473F-80E7-6C87DFF6775F.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimmyQOZTEatPPYv2T7mkBpipqBDeV69Yj61OM5ngCylYdWZESFL8wpirN3k2nS8rZK7ZfJrFWukNkZ_Vz9OM4xT0AiztHeq8WT6C6J0wnKfLBXyvGY3bX2zxhLddowhWmAYlJF4GsfIiTTMfUUBfUJqPvNEprSJb4pFZEEYT-Uel78Yf8TJgF_1Bjv0A/w400-h300/FB7B8D2D-4049-4862-8871-4B0C0A322FE6.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Au revoir May, en avant June. May the sun be merciful and the roses aplenty... and may we be well. Be well. </p>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-16697928012302986702022-05-08T02:20:00.000+01:002022-05-08T02:20:40.724+01:00BED, an essay, published by New York SLICE magazine <p>I can’t recall when I sent this essay to SLICE magazine in New York but it was accepted a year ago. Part of the contract forbade me from first publishing it in a book, but publication of the issue kept being postponed. In December they gave me the go ahead to publish my book, because as the pandemic raged on, this magazine among many others has been forced to shut down. I made it into the final issue (their 27th, themed ‘Levity’) by a mouse squeak. It’s a very cool, eclectic and racially diverse literary mag, so I’m in the rather splendid company of Honorée Fannone Jeffers and Zakiya Dalila Harris with one of my favourite chapters from my book. ‘The one with me in it?’ asks Eva. ‘The one with you and Ellie and Bella and Scruffs…’ Many of you have been wonderful to me and already bought and read my book ‘Lupus, You Odd Unnatural Thing’ but in case you haven’t, here is a taster 📖🛏💁🏻♀️</p><p>https://slicemagazine.org/bed-by-shaista-tayabali/</p><h1 class="entry-title single-title" itemprop="headline" rel="bookmark" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: linlib; font-size: 1.6em; font-weight: 500; line-height: 1.333em; margin: 0px; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility; text-transform: uppercase;">BED, BY SHAISTA TAYABALI</h1><p class="post-date" style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">March 18, 2022</p><img alt="" class="aligncenter wp-image-20216" height="530" sizes="(max-width: 400px) 100vw, 400px" src="https://slicemagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/Carolina-Rodriguez-Fuenmayor2.png" srcset="https://slicemagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/Carolina-Rodriguez-Fuenmayor2.png 1500w, https://slicemagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/Carolina-Rodriguez-Fuenmayor2-113x150.png 113w, https://slicemagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/Carolina-Rodriguez-Fuenmayor2-227x300.png 227w, https://slicemagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/Carolina-Rodriguez-Fuenmayor2-768x1016.png 768w, https://slicemagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/Carolina-Rodriguez-Fuenmayor2-774x1024.png 774w, https://slicemagazine.org/wp-content/uploads/2022/03/Carolina-Rodriguez-Fuenmayor2-600x794.png 600w" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Times; font-size: 16px; height: auto; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em; max-width: 100%;" width="400" /><div><h5 style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Times; font-size: 0.846em; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: center; text-rendering: optimizeLegibility;">Artwork by <a href="https://www.instagram.com/alterlier/?hl=en" style="-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0.3); box-sizing: border-box; color: #50beb4; text-decoration: none;">Carolina Rodríguez Fuenmayor</a></h5><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Let me try telling it this way.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Draw a horizontal line. On one side write, “life,” and on the other, “death.” If you perceive life moving toward death in a chronological fashion, then you’ll probably write “life” on the left and “death” on the right. Or you’ll put “death” on the left and “life” on the right. Death as a beginning. Darkness as a beginning. Moving toward light, toward life.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Now collapse the center point of your line into a sunken bowl.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">This is chronic illness. Chronic illness is the in-between place of <span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic;">stuck</span>. Life shouts out to you, “Grab hold of me! Come on, I’ll pull you across with my words and these movies and this travel brochure.” Death says nothing. But life looks at you knowingly: “Is that what you want? To just give up and die? Fight! This is the good side!” Life is the place where everything happens, from the expected to the unexpected. The learning to walk, run, drive, feel, study, make money, lose property and possessions, create more of yourself, grow. Death, they tell us, is the place where it ends. All the money, the property, the human bodies you loved but cannot pull across to the other side with you.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">In between, in the place of stuck, we share the human terror of a life with no possible change. So deeply uncomfortable are we with the place where nothing seems to happen that we plague each other by asking the question “What do you <span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic;">do</span>?” What do you do with your life? Not, who are you in your life? Not, how do you feel in your skin? Your mind? Your heart? But, where in the cogs do you fit?</p><div class="perfect-pullquote vcard pullquote-align-full pullquote-border-placement-left" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; color: #363636; float: none; font-family: Times; font-size: 21px; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.5em 0px 1em 0.5em !important; padding: 0.5em 0px 0.5em 1em; width: 324.890625px;"><blockquote style="border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-left-color: rgb(41, 128, 185); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 3px; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-top-width: 0px !important; box-sizing: border-box; color: #9fa6b4; font-style: italic; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em 0.75em; outline: 0px !important; padding: 0px 0px 0px 0.75em; quotes: none !important; vertical-align: baseline !important;"><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; border: 0px !important; box-sizing: border-box; color: #50beb4; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro; font-size: 1.4em; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 1rem; margin-left: 0px !important; margin-right: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important; quotes: none !important; vertical-align: baseline !important; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">An odd character with the wolf disease is bound to feel defensive about what she does, mostly because she doesn’t.</p></blockquote></div><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">An odd character with the wolf disease is bound to feel defensive about what she does, mostly because she doesn’t. You would think that when I am in hospital, I would be let off this hook for a bit.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; text-align: center; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">« »</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">In 2017, I was hospitalized four times with persistent infections. It was a complex year to navigate. On two separate occasions, I had to have a PICC line: a slender catheter surgically inserted into my vein for me to self-administer liquid antibiotics, one end hanging outside my skin, the other end resting atop my heart. Self-administration makes me respect my nurses even more than usual; there are so many little details to concentrate on, air bubbles and contaminations to be careful of. On each occasion, I administered thirty-two infusions. Some were injected at home, some at the hospital as an inpatient. Rheumatology suspected that my long-term monoclonal antibody therapy had resulted in my body becoming more immunocompromised than ever. Immunology disagreed and pointed to my underlying hypergammaglobulinemia. Either way, the reality of such immunological machinations was a bone-deep fatigue. I needed to rest.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">And yet I lost count of the number of times the medical staff teased me about sleeping. Do other patients rise and shine, stretch, and leap out of their narrow white beds to . . . do what?</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">“So,” asked my consultant when she visited, “what have you been up to in here? Working on anything?”</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">“Working on getting this fever down,” I replied. During my fourth admission of the year, I was moved from a ward on the ground floor (Gastro) up to the tenth floor (Infectious Diseases), to an enclosed room, with negative-pressure vents circulating eddies of freezing-cold mechanical air. I was on heavy antibiotics. The first night, my older brother, Rizwan, brought me blankets, a beanie hat, and gloves because I could not stop shivering.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">“Every time I’ve seen you,” said a nurse the next day, “you’ve been sleeping!”</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">“What should I be doing?” I asked. “Inventing a new gadget?”</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">His comment stuck, and from then on, I fought sleep to occupy myself—painting in watercolor and pastel, writing blog posts, trying to look busy—to account for the bizarre preoccupation of society even on the most isolated infectious-diseases ward to <span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic;">do something do anything just do something.</span></p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">So, I did do something. Only it was accidental. I pushed open the heavy door to my room, stepped out, ostensibly to discover when my next antibiotic dose was due, and had a quiet mooch down the long, unfamiliar corridor ahead of me. There were eleven beds on the ward, each locked away from the other. Toward the end of the corridor, I saw a portrait of Mary Seacole on the wall. <span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic;">Hello Mary! </span>I greeted it. I had reached the fire door now, and while contemplating Mary, I leaned companionably against the door. Suddenly, a wild alarm set off, ringing around the ward. I put my hands up in crime drama fashion as two burly nurses hefted their way toward me. “Sorry!”<span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic;"> </span>I bleated, recognizing one of them, and slunk away from the crime scene.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">“You won’t be doing that again!” he called after me.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Honestly. Can’t win. Back to bed I went.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; text-align: center; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">« »</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">You are tired. “How is your mood?” the doctor will ask you.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">“You mean my mental health?” you wonder.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">I am tired. Fatigue is an actual symptom, but mention it to a doctor and they will tell you, “Try doing a little more every day. Try exercise. Try tai chi.”</p><div class="perfect-pullquote vcard pullquote-align-full pullquote-border-placement-left" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; color: #363636; float: none; font-family: Times; font-size: 21px; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.5em 0px 1em 0.5em !important; padding: 0.5em 0px 0.5em 1em; width: 324.890625px;"><blockquote style="border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-left-color: rgb(41, 128, 185); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 3px; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-top-width: 0px !important; box-sizing: border-box; color: #9fa6b4; font-style: italic; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em 0.75em; outline: 0px !important; padding: 0px 0px 0px 0.75em; quotes: none !important; vertical-align: baseline !important;"><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; border: 0px !important; box-sizing: border-box; color: #50beb4; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro; font-size: 1.4em; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 1rem; margin-left: 0px !important; margin-right: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important; quotes: none !important; vertical-align: baseline !important; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Doing nothing in the face of a busy, restless world will never be met with anything other than baffled curiosity at best—thinly veiled contempt at worst.</p></blockquote></div><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">The inner persona of the professional bed-resting human may confidently follow the motto of “Just Do Nothing” as opposed to “Just Do It,” but our outer persona will always be subject to scrutiny. Doing nothing in the face of a busy, restless world will never be met with anything other than baffled curiosity at best—thinly veiled contempt at worst. “Have you ever tried waking up early?” they will ask. “Exercising last thing at night, to tire you out? Baths, to make you sleepy? Yoga? Going vegan?” Battleground language begins here. Get up. Escape. Be a (wo)man.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; text-align: center; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">« »</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">During my 2005 admission to the Eye Unit, while undergoing various surgical procedures like needling and the laser-burning of ciliary bodies in the hope of bringing my intraocular pressures down, a friend visited. “Have you been down to the concourse for a little shopping?” she asked. How could I blame her? I had done precisely that on the first day of my admission, whizzing about the hospital Body Shop, buying presents for the Kawanos, my younger brother Irfan’s Japanese landlord and landlady, who were visiting England for the first time.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">“Try the shepherd’s pie!” my friend advised, looking at my lunch menu. I did. When my eye pressures shot up later that evening, and my ophthalmologist, Dr. Meyer, found me violently retching up that same concoction, how could I blame my friend for her cheerful suggestion?</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; text-align: center; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">« »</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">In my second year at university, I met a poet called Les Murray. Not the way I would later meet his contemporary, Clive James, across our portable motor pumps on the Patient Short Stay Unit, but on the page, in poetry. There were poems that could only have been created by an Australian bard writing within the Jindyworobak tradition, but there was one that spoke directly to me as though it had been written for me. One that I have carried with me all the years since. It is titled “Homage to the Launching Place,” and each line pays homage to “bed, kindest of quadrupeds.”</p><div class="perfect-pullquote vcard pullquote-align-full pullquote-border-placement-left" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; color: #363636; float: none; font-family: Times; font-size: 21px; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.5em 0px 1em 0.5em !important; padding: 0.5em 0px 0.5em 1em; width: 324.890625px;"><blockquote style="border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-left-color: rgb(41, 128, 185); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 3px; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-top-width: 0px !important; box-sizing: border-box; color: #9fa6b4; font-style: italic; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em 0.75em; outline: 0px !important; padding: 0px 0px 0px 0.75em; quotes: none !important; vertical-align: baseline !important;"><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; border: 0px !important; box-sizing: border-box; color: #50beb4; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro; font-size: 1.4em; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 1rem; margin-left: 0px !important; margin-right: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important; quotes: none !important; vertical-align: baseline !important; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Every time I climb back into my bed—and it is always “back,” a return home—I feel as though I am being welcomed, the way a beloved house greeted you, greets you still.</p></blockquote></div><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">“I loved you from the first, bed, / doorway out of this world,” writes Murray, giving me the line upon which I can hang my own love. Every time I climb back into my bed—and it is always “back,” a return home—I feel as though I am being welcomed, the way a beloved house greeted you, greets you still.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; text-align: center; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">« »</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">When we were children, my mother agreed to temporarily take care of a neighbor’s golden retriever. He was a beautiful animal, fur like silk. Clear-eyed and friendly enough for a house full of children. A year later, when the vet asked Mum if she would adopt Bruno permanently, a very different dog awaited her. In the year between, Bruno had been abandoned and tormented, by children, we presumed, because he feared the young and was indifferent to the rest. Once a stunning example of his breed, he was now a very sick dog. His fur had been eaten away by mange, his eyes were weeping with conjunctivitis, his tail was almost hairless. It took every ounce of my mother’s healing prowess—turmeric-and-coconut-oil paste applied daily to cure the mange, cotton wool soaked in tea bags for his eyes, her constant presence by his side—to coax him into a semblance of the show dog he had been. He did come to enjoy all of us, particularly my father, but my mother was his true love. Certain habits continued to proclaim the fragile state of his psyche. He would habitually walk in circles around our dining table while we ate, round and round in an ever-dizzying circumference until, miles clocked up, he would settle somewhere beneath the black glass top.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">There was one other place he would circle: the mattress my mother had custom-ordered for his bed. At any time of the day or night, he would <span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic;">click-clack</span> toward the front door. Slightly to the left of the double doors, he would stop, step onto his fur-grubby mattress, turn and turn and turn around, massaging the fabric with his paws, readying his bed for the moment when he would collapse his body, legs first, shoulders second, heavy head upon forepaws last, and then the sigh. Always the sigh. Eyes not entirely closed. His bed faced front and center. No activity of import could take place without his notice. Even though nothing was required of him, he gave the impression of sleepy vigilance.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">My bed, fortunately, does not face the comings and goings of our home life. There is nothing normal about a human taking to bed at any hour of the day. Sleeping in late into the morning is the reason I was sent to a psychiatrist. Dr. Meyer was worried that I was missing my morning dose of eye drops due to a combination of insomnia and seeming somnolence; in his concern, he ascribed my lethargy to mental illness. I had no personal stigma against a mental equivalent of the physical disease manifesting in me. After all, I had self-diagnosed depression. I just didn’t want my mental activity to be placed on weighing scales by figures of authority.</p><div class="perfect-pullquote vcard pullquote-align-full pullquote-border-placement-left" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; color: #363636; float: none; font-family: Times; font-size: 21px; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.5em 0px 1em 0.5em !important; padding: 0.5em 0px 0.5em 1em; width: 324.890625px;"><blockquote style="border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-left-color: rgb(41, 128, 185); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 3px; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-top-width: 0px !important; box-sizing: border-box; color: #9fa6b4; font-style: italic; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em 0.75em; outline: 0px !important; padding: 0px 0px 0px 0.75em; quotes: none !important; vertical-align: baseline !important;"><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; border: 0px !important; box-sizing: border-box; color: #50beb4; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro; font-size: 1.4em; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 1rem; margin-left: 0px !important; margin-right: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important; quotes: none !important; vertical-align: baseline !important; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">I escaped the psychiatry department, but I never fully freed myself from the guilty association between my relationship to sleep and medical noncompliance.</p></blockquote></div><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">I escaped the psychiatry department, but I never fully freed myself from the guilty association between my relationship to sleep and medical noncompliance, even though my relationship to my bed began not with noncompliance but with the administration of high doses of intravenous and oral steroids. Prednisone would make anyone crazy, if crazy were what you were looking for. Add in daily doses of morphine, and you have Elizabeth Taylor in <span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic;">Cat on a Hot Tin Roof</span>, except she’s not on the roof, she’s house-bound, hopping in and around her bed.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">To this day, if the hour is late enough, I feel a twinge of something unsettling. Alarm that things are still far from normal. A quarter to six in the morning and I am still awake. Not widely so. I think I could switch the light off now. The traffic outside is a gentle hum, a soughing wind. The birds have not yet begun to sing. Quickly, before the fates decide I am lost, I pack away my wakefulness. And slide down into submission.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; text-align: center; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">« »</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">There are addictions to my night life. Tidying my Pokémon, for example. Or Candy Crush. I could delete the app. I’m sure I could. But there is something about those brightly colored candies and the jolly jelly-busting fish. And the rewards of a hammer disguised as a lollipop. I play at least five games before bed; after five losses, you have to pay, so I try to stay within reason. I’m sure there is a connection between the happy candies and my decision to finally let go of the night.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">I know I’m not alone in my night life. It used to be a more eccentric thing, an Artist thing—this staying-awake business. But now it’s an Everyman-with-a-Smartphone thing. The sky darkens to purple, lightens to mauve, the birds fall silent and then wake, but the world continues to glow and chatter in the palms of our hands. It never stops rewarding us with more and more of whatever we desire and much that we don’t. At night is when I go to the school of the globe. I meet my famous friends and I read the encyclopedia of Wiki wonders. I catch up on the latest articles that Twitter has been kindly accruing for me all day long. And then, since it’s morning for them anyway, I message my siblings in Singapore or India to see if anyone’s up.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; text-align: center; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">« »</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Ever since he could pronounce the word, my nephew Rafael has enjoyed saying he is “nocturnal” just like his Aunty Shai. At four, he was proud to share this quality with me. At six, his only anxiety was the distance between us. I was living alone at the time. What if I needed him? How would he get from Singapore to Cambridge in time? He especially didn’t like the spooky sounds he could hear across the miles. Owls dancing on my roof, I told him. Keeping me company. But maybe they weren’t owls. He couldn’t see them. He didn’t like not knowing. His younger sister, Bella, adopts more of a Guillermo del Toro attitude. Could they be monsters? Let’s see!</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">If it’s the twins I get, Ellie or Eva, we discuss mysteries like why Grandma and Papa are in bed sleeping and I am eternally awake. Why is it dark in Cambridge and morning in Bangalore? Would I like a piece of pancake mashed through the phone? Why don’t I get on a plane, since I’m up anyway, and then we can play properly? The circles beneath my eyes deepen into moody maroon bruises and I peel away before three a.m. “Let Shaista sleep now,” says a voice in the background. My siblings are the proper grownups. My position is unclear, variable. “I’ll only go to sleep if there’s a grownup in the room,” said Eva to me, negotiating, prevaricating. “What do you think I am?” I asked. Silence. But always, always, all four of them will instruct me to wake early.</p><div class="perfect-pullquote vcard pullquote-align-full pullquote-border-placement-left" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; color: #363636; float: none; font-family: Times; font-size: 21px; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.5em 0px 1em 0.5em !important; padding: 0.5em 0px 0.5em 1em; width: 324.890625px;"><blockquote style="border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-left-color: rgb(41, 128, 185); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 3px; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-top-width: 0px !important; box-sizing: border-box; color: #9fa6b4; font-style: italic; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em 0.75em; outline: 0px !important; padding: 0px 0px 0px 0.75em; quotes: none !important; vertical-align: baseline !important;"><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; border: 0px !important; box-sizing: border-box; color: #50beb4; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro; font-size: 1.4em; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 1rem; margin-left: 0px !important; margin-right: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important; quotes: none !important; vertical-align: baseline !important; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Once, Eva held my face firmly between her hands, looked seriously into my eyes, and said, “In the morning, when I wake up, wake up early with me, okay? Don’t sleep.”</p></blockquote></div><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Once, Eva held my face firmly between her hands, looked seriously into my eyes, and said, “In the morning, when I wake up, wake up early with me, okay? Don’t sleep.” And, “I get tired waiting for you to wake up.” This said without heat or drama. All the more potent for it.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; text-align: center; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">« »</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">The house is cold now, radiators temporarily in retirement. I switch on my small heater and contemplate slugging myself to the nearest kettle to boil water for a hot-water bottle or a cup of tea. I am hungry. Nighttime food is packaged food, unless dinner wasn’t completely wolfed down. Chocolates and crisps feature now. Occasionally, an experiment: Cheese and tomato ketchup. A fried egg with sesame oil over mixed vegetable rice leftovers. Kimchi, kimchi, where art thou, kimchi?</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; text-align: center; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">« »</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Sometimes my first waking thought is this word: “death.” And just as quickly on its heels: “life.”</p><div class="perfect-pullquote vcard pullquote-align-full pullquote-border-placement-left" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; border: none; box-sizing: border-box; color: #363636; float: none; font-family: Times; font-size: 21px; line-height: 1.5; margin: 0.5em 0px 1em 0.5em !important; padding: 0.5em 0px 0.5em 1em; width: 324.890625px;"><blockquote style="border-bottom-width: 0px !important; border-left-color: rgb(41, 128, 185); border-left-style: solid; border-left-width: 3px; border-right-width: 0px !important; border-top-width: 0px !important; box-sizing: border-box; color: #9fa6b4; font-style: italic; margin: 0px 0px 1.5em 0.75em; outline: 0px !important; padding: 0px 0px 0px 0.75em; quotes: none !important; vertical-align: baseline !important;"><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; border: 0px !important; box-sizing: border-box; color: #50beb4; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro; font-size: 1.4em; line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 1rem; margin-left: 0px !important; margin-right: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline: 0px !important; padding: 0px !important; quotes: none !important; vertical-align: baseline !important; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Know this about your chronic-illness friends—we are closer to death than you, in thought, but just as busy with life. And because we are alive, we never get used to our closeness to death.</p></blockquote></div><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Know this about your chronic-illness friends—we are closer to death than you, in thought, but just as busy with life. And because we are alive, we never get used to our closeness to death. Les Murray’s poem acknowledges the busyness of bed, how it heralds our screaming arrival, pushes us up and out on bedsprings and legs and then lays us out, cold, our first grave. “Shield that carries us to the fight / and bears us from it,” he writes.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Bed is my yew tree. The place where I heal, the place that heals me. I was born here, and perhaps I will die here, but that doesn’t scare me. There is nowhere I would rather be when something, an appointment or social engagement, gets canceled. The intense relief is a type of nirvana because the lead-up to it is arduous. The flip-flopping is not as boundless as it once was because my life and the people in it are more streamlined. I know myself more.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">But there are still occasions when I force myself forward, thinking it will be all right. I’ll manage. I won’t fall apart by the side of the road. The ambulance won’t have to come for me. “I won’t die” is often the barometer for going ahead with a plan. But “I will spend the next several days or weeks surviving the decision” is also part of the barometer.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">When the phone rings with a cancelation, there is something specifically personal about the moment—as though the universe really is listening to me with my tiny problems, seeking to find a solution just for me. This is not the truth of it. More than likely someone else is suffering too in that moment—the cancelation, after all, is occurring because someone is ill, or has had bad news. Sometimes you don’t know why. But the sweetness of the reprieve is unconcerned with these humanitarian details. <span style="box-sizing: border-box; font-style: italic;">Thank you, thank you, thank you</span> is the sleepy sigh that emerges from every intelligent cell. Now we can get back to work—fighting ourselves and fighting inflammation as always. The business never ends on the inside. On the outside, you may see the twitch of my lips curl into satisfied happiness. The rest of me continues to lie in my bed as though nothing monumental has happened.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Only my niece Ellie sees through the stillness, into the truth. She draws a picture of me in bed and captions it “Shaista: Having the Life.”</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; text-align: center; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">« »</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">Calling to cancel a hospital appointment is a trickier business because NHS appointments are gold dust, and because I spend hours thinking that if I can just rest until the last moment, I’ll make it. I’m always calculating the mathematical minutes, working backward from any appointment: Minutes to get there. Minutes to get a taxi. Possibility the taxi will be stuck in traffic. Minutes to change out of pajamas. Minutes to work out what to wear, what to pack—medicines, reading material for waiting rooms. Food? Have I eaten? When all along my only desire is to be unmoving. A sea urchin upon the bed of the ocean. Coral. You wouldn’t know I was breathing unless you lay curled up beside me.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; text-align: center; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">« »</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">You know those dreams where you get up, brush your teeth, eat breakfast, change, and walk out? You’re on your way, and then you wake up to discover yourself still in bed? It’s that, except it isn’t a dream. It’s my reality. A type of forced sleepwalking, where I wish I were still sleeping. Where bed is the lover I have been forced to leave because reality pulled me away, but my body yearns to return.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8JC__ce0bqnTrlQs0g4PLOk-vR0tZrHOnKLMRy0zIWWk1L4qwHH7MwRh14YdtM-i-dGtlhjhk6M54xJWleDjk_-o6vs8eZY7rXukg4Cb-INTP0sJ45s_QgSlJylIlsYv2eBo1Gn6tVIRaqbDMw60jfrAuZjC3DxWBrlAd6Kp7rZU703it-2RXHXYMg/s1800/F4743F69-68B2-44E7-8A43-10C185B937C6.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8JC__ce0bqnTrlQs0g4PLOk-vR0tZrHOnKLMRy0zIWWk1L4qwHH7MwRh14YdtM-i-dGtlhjhk6M54xJWleDjk_-o6vs8eZY7rXukg4Cb-INTP0sJ45s_QgSlJylIlsYv2eBo1Gn6tVIRaqbDMw60jfrAuZjC3DxWBrlAd6Kp7rZU703it-2RXHXYMg/s320/F4743F69-68B2-44E7-8A43-10C185B937C6.jpeg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; -webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: adobe-caslon-pro, serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px 0px 1rem; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;">You can buy my book at this Amazon link : <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/LUPUS-YOU-UNNATURAL-THING-auto-immunity/dp/B09MYTDVH5/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?crid=2O2Q9MTUYL4KU&keywords=lupus+you+odd+unnatural+thing&qid=1651972634&sprefix=lupus+you+odd+unnatural+thing%2Caps%2C69&sr=8-1">https://www.amazon.co.uk/LUPUS-YOU-UNNATURAL-THING-auto-immunity/dp/B09MYTDVH5/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?crid=2O2Q9MTUYL4KU&keywords=lupus+you+odd+unnatural+thing&qid=1651972634&sprefix=lupus+you+odd+unnatural+thing%2Caps%2C69&sr=8-1</a></p></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-23497665552818307272022-04-27T02:14:00.004+01:002022-12-08T08:27:15.697+00:00VIEW FROM BED<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcErTIExgYQNZIZXgiHZpB-bzn2Dcx6-2Zc5OdXqHQITht5PoM9EiI49s_jPsbwGUwSdc2iIN7OcNGY77xgddwZVopIP09mr8kO8k_TOiWbFQ7-NHQnqbDPvXCyO_pn-S5WJ6u_8CeNodLm2zNiqKhWZgoOjGW4N7KeKDasLoXzTD07Dz6d8RXz3KeSQ/s3088/D2AF5BA5-9C41-4107-954E-7B0943BBDCF2.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcErTIExgYQNZIZXgiHZpB-bzn2Dcx6-2Zc5OdXqHQITht5PoM9EiI49s_jPsbwGUwSdc2iIN7OcNGY77xgddwZVopIP09mr8kO8k_TOiWbFQ7-NHQnqbDPvXCyO_pn-S5WJ6u_8CeNodLm2zNiqKhWZgoOjGW4N7KeKDasLoXzTD07Dz6d8RXz3KeSQ/w300-h400/D2AF5BA5-9C41-4107-954E-7B0943BBDCF2.jpeg" width="300" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;">A week ago was an IVIg day. For a year, protocol has required me to have a covid test on the Thursday before the Sunday infusion, but rolling out across most lands today are ‘the end of covid restrictions’. These are words that do not inspire feelings of delight and freedom in the immuno suppressed person. For us, once again, the personal negotiations, with each situation, begin. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">And yet… something has changed, I think. Some deep understanding of fatigue, of the way an invisible source can derail your forward movement, has entered human consciousness. It hasn’t affected man’s desire for war, oil and nuclear arms. But between the two, I think a dialogue has begun. Or, at least, space has been created for dialogue. That’s progress. </p><p style="text-align: justify;">IVIg this month was sandwiched between two Rituximab doses. In the interim, I walk my bundle of cuddly fur and attempt to be fully in the present moment. Aware of wisteria and magnolia at their plumpest. Aware of sunshine and friendly dog related conversations. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJaImXXAQsYDVb12412JvKc2oScR70rOoxFYpLLOOaiz5tY0e17uH6koyOOxbs5iClDxCL41oqkXOy-KAOdW4_TGhjTuVcyvh7jBa4pL4OUWVXu4VLqIu2BBcVjY7SF1sersih4bYUuewXr1LsseFwDt5mS5-28Gc31wNtuGjfHNObaTH8AVPTaJ8Qgg/s4032/44E9A7E5-3294-44C2-9791-4968899B7BF3.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJaImXXAQsYDVb12412JvKc2oScR70rOoxFYpLLOOaiz5tY0e17uH6koyOOxbs5iClDxCL41oqkXOy-KAOdW4_TGhjTuVcyvh7jBa4pL4OUWVXu4VLqIu2BBcVjY7SF1sersih4bYUuewXr1LsseFwDt5mS5-28Gc31wNtuGjfHNObaTH8AVPTaJ8Qgg/w400-h300/44E9A7E5-3294-44C2-9791-4968899B7BF3.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Two pairs of not so tiny hands have arrived from Malaysia and Papa has company shouting and screaming and jumping all over him. Games are being invented fast and furiously and bath time is once again a special English delight…<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyizOiVxfHrTPOIrM41fA5tIogTdC8X1wnOBjHp_VeNzRFbG-vDTXnu5TDL7MOkprpzNKEohr6vXLJsLTI5TkFr10aNtwL6xn_c5pHxrOAtGJ8a4IkIpqm4b84hoHsZZvso6ryjI0Byr7evEseaC-lbJ-ZkCxeu6DcX5OJiEFUk881-FxTm6mGQN6oYQ/s4032/52AA5175-DB87-4EFC-A2AE-1DCA40CA41DA.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyizOiVxfHrTPOIrM41fA5tIogTdC8X1wnOBjHp_VeNzRFbG-vDTXnu5TDL7MOkprpzNKEohr6vXLJsLTI5TkFr10aNtwL6xn_c5pHxrOAtGJ8a4IkIpqm4b84hoHsZZvso6ryjI0Byr7evEseaC-lbJ-ZkCxeu6DcX5OJiEFUk881-FxTm6mGQN6oYQ/w300-h400/52AA5175-DB87-4EFC-A2AE-1DCA40CA41DA.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">At the hospital, in between joys of dogs and nieces, I managed to catch up with my friend Daisy, who had a little cry when we wrapped our arms and masked cheeks around each other, and then proceeded to coolly sketch this masterpiece of Zadie Smith. Next commission: Ocean Vuong.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCKnfO4taODCDeV6gQfb-IAeoXrCXLD2RiMFbGb--ptEtmO83KCvzNT0zsQ6sbPfB7ogVEMoFBU596gW136KX_NYn8UBeWgJw2M8_13Tbk0lzt5aESFNyqqs38qEzS9-J1e38hqgW8vph7atl84yTK-ZKQcEcoiJyVgOPkpB8b1_VSP88s6trt9QLz_Q/s2160/B34AC4E0-3325-425F-8648-35CEA8EBEDDA.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1620" data-original-width="2160" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCKnfO4taODCDeV6gQfb-IAeoXrCXLD2RiMFbGb--ptEtmO83KCvzNT0zsQ6sbPfB7ogVEMoFBU596gW136KX_NYn8UBeWgJw2M8_13Tbk0lzt5aESFNyqqs38qEzS9-J1e38hqgW8vph7atl84yTK-ZKQcEcoiJyVgOPkpB8b1_VSP88s6trt9QLz_Q/w400-h300/B34AC4E0-3325-425F-8648-35CEA8EBEDDA.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">View from the bed, the faux blue chair… cloudy with a chance of sunshine. (How about your view?)</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vzAHndIrdLSkBuyWYrjgkXzAYBIliEpEdXqJMltbOdpBRrP40d0BrafatpNOYxY6QoZmRgz-Ind1K39p2m33Kgwde2c8QXZkANMws_lU4jmjRwh1Uya3nl-BbOogeEQhJG-1sJGUEJXjE-JlHmaFTkZD8a3HahSvTCw4Dn2yUGLWU7R0dHz8ae7Nuw/s1800/E758A9B1-320B-4B3E-8041-12486902250A.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vzAHndIrdLSkBuyWYrjgkXzAYBIliEpEdXqJMltbOdpBRrP40d0BrafatpNOYxY6QoZmRgz-Ind1K39p2m33Kgwde2c8QXZkANMws_lU4jmjRwh1Uya3nl-BbOogeEQhJG-1sJGUEJXjE-JlHmaFTkZD8a3HahSvTCw4Dn2yUGLWU7R0dHz8ae7Nuw/w305-h400/E758A9B1-320B-4B3E-8041-12486902250A.jpeg" width="305" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-89347411172560220342022-04-02T02:07:00.006+01:002022-04-02T17:40:38.743+01:00ARTIST TO ARTIST: KRITI BAJAJ, INDEPENDENT EDITOR AND WRITER<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0rwNy1kupXfsNVP1mPi1X3akF8WRC3LvfvlKPD65uIe2I7TTTCemvXWUeeCMah5Rx5jTfUtuNBt4QYiG-7nnvI5ttNsKQUc5S0tZP1u5MG51Pq0q0HQXGA0vpemK0y-ee4Xc8xBMRD5fiPVfNbAw7OUg0fDDG47GNi1NMbVL0zIN9nyr6pnciNWsww/s4666/Kritimountains.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3047" data-original-width="4666" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0rwNy1kupXfsNVP1mPi1X3akF8WRC3LvfvlKPD65uIe2I7TTTCemvXWUeeCMah5Rx5jTfUtuNBt4QYiG-7nnvI5ttNsKQUc5S0tZP1u5MG51Pq0q0HQXGA0vpemK0y-ee4Xc8xBMRD5fiPVfNbAw7OUg0fDDG47GNi1NMbVL0zIN9nyr6pnciNWsww/w400-h261/Kritimountains.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">photo credit: Sahil Bajaj</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; font-family: Spectral;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i><span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">I'm a mountain person. I was three years old when I first visited my grandparents' secluded home in the Himalayas. Though I was too young to realise it at the time, the sense of possibility that this new world opened up would stay with me.</span></i><span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-k-qvB3vtadxEKT7DyOOMxbxt--wXm43bmcxFOzoo5raUnBcnWaK1k8xhQ0i5ExooIl2Z2kvZOktDC49bXuJ6E-kGW3gIeotH-L6ALXVm_ruaz1N70_EVWN-m6wbeQGT0nTIp7W85vIEhPvDiKu1y1c0K1BxqXKgwE2twtGy3RMmQrcZRbvX4DJrKQ/s6000/Kritiwalking.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6000" data-original-width="4000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA-k-qvB3vtadxEKT7DyOOMxbxt--wXm43bmcxFOzoo5raUnBcnWaK1k8xhQ0i5ExooIl2Z2kvZOktDC49bXuJ6E-kGW3gIeotH-L6ALXVm_ruaz1N70_EVWN-m6wbeQGT0nTIp7W85vIEhPvDiKu1y1c0K1BxqXKgwE2twtGy3RMmQrcZRbvX4DJrKQ/w266-h400/Kritiwalking.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Himachal Pradesh, 2016, photo credit: Sahil Bajaj</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">Kriti, this is how you begin to describe yourself on your website: <i>I've lived in cities my entire life – Bombay, Delhi, London – but every so often, I have a longing for grass studded with clover, starry skies and a majestic view that changes with each cloud and shadow, but is always constant.</i> I mean, is it any wonder we ‘found’ each other? Poets just do! 'Poet’ may not be a term you would use to describe yourself, but I mean it in the way a writer uses her language. So, there you are, three years old in the Himalayas… were there books there? Did you start writing as a child?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">There's a whole wall of books, though I can't remember whether this excited me at that age – I was a bit of a late bloomer when it came to reading. It's one of my favourite nooks in my grandparents' home. There was no internet here until a few years ago, and even phones arrived relatively recently. As a child, I used to communicate with my grandparents through letters. Many of the books are encyclopedias and reference texts on everything imaginable; my grandfather had many interests, from carpentry to photography. He once bought the contents of an entire bookshop! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKndHPWVaWQtBI0-ABddDypNRqfNJ9YFKr5ajBsr0AH04D8RcWRTwZK696l3ogJRhAaZatRHHx6qKzDLyKC8JPb1eqinUjfqPoHHwBCm1HSSLbIEf4pYm-9duiSYWzYq0BLJQT0h3LbwYe5T2SYH9tuFM5wOm43qtWS7nbZED0oVKksFrccxbGz-Gg1Q/s3095/Kritibookcase.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="3095" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKndHPWVaWQtBI0-ABddDypNRqfNJ9YFKr5ajBsr0AH04D8RcWRTwZK696l3ogJRhAaZatRHHx6qKzDLyKC8JPb1eqinUjfqPoHHwBCm1HSSLbIEf4pYm-9duiSYWzYq0BLJQT0h3LbwYe5T2SYH9tuFM5wOm43qtWS7nbZED0oVKksFrccxbGz-Gg1Q/w400-h297/Kritibookcase.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>photo credit: Kriti Bajaj</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">I used to write poetry before I ever wrote anything else. I remember the first 'serious' poem I wrote was in fifth grade, and it was probably very derivative – I mean, I was only ten – but it felt like I'd found my calling. I'd come across little snippets of poetry at my grandparents' home, newspaper cuttings of poems by Patience Strong that my great-grandmother used to send to my grandmother, which I found wonderfully simple and musical. My <i>nana</i> also loved poetry and would recite some of his favourites often – Omar Khayyam, Swinburne, Henley – and inevitably start crying a few lines in. I wrote poetry all through my school and college years, with rhymes gradually giving way to free verse, and imaginative themes being replaced by real experiences.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN"><span style="font-family: Spectral;"><span style="font-size: 13pt;">There were a few years between the first time I met Clive James and the second. It was during our second encounter that he told me about a young friend he had made on the oncology ward (he and I met on a less </span><span style="font-size: 17.33333396911621px;">specific</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 17.33333396911621px;">infusion</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;"> ward), only to lose her to a rare bone cancer.</span></span></span></b><b style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"> This friend happened also to be your dear friend, Shikha. Tell us a little about 'Oblomov'?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">I met Shikha (known to the world as Oblomov) in my final year of college, when we were editors at a Model United Nations conference, leading a team together, completing each other's sentences and finding that it was very peaceful to curl up in our cabin rather than attend the sessions. We did our Masters in London at the same time too. The best introduction to Shikha is through her own words, so I will direct readers to her beautiful </span><span lang="EN"><a href="https://oblomovssofa.wordpress.com/"><span style="color: #1155cc; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">blog</span></a></span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">. So many amazing people found Shikha through this, and she connected kindred spirits, like you and I. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjT2Sb4EYPTF82y4ckOkX5BhV034S_iAoGoB7C0C-8eY6cknLc3KiGbRLUZFiWxI5mXqS5_FuMwSXXaofq0UuAXcNgO47TM0aaZBMohX3lX6EGLtGcDeCV7KISPFBaHft7wkZI19E2nd100w_rMOINcygkKFqE_GJfrlEFba-fBpbiOMzbbi4Wp2-kRA/s1600/shikhers1.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjT2Sb4EYPTF82y4ckOkX5BhV034S_iAoGoB7C0C-8eY6cknLc3KiGbRLUZFiWxI5mXqS5_FuMwSXXaofq0UuAXcNgO47TM0aaZBMohX3lX6EGLtGcDeCV7KISPFBaHft7wkZI19E2nd100w_rMOINcygkKFqE_GJfrlEFba-fBpbiOMzbbi4Wp2-kRA/w400-h266/shikhers1.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Kensington Gardens, Oct 2011, credit: Kriti Bajaj</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">Clive James, of course, made her very happy through his enthusiastic support of her writing, and his wonderful sense of humour, some of which she shared with me. I reached out to him once in April 2015 with sad news, and we exchanged a few notes. He was very gracious; his words brought comfort. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">Since 2016, you have been on an ancestral quest to discover more about your family tree. Tell us a little about that? I often find myself googling my grandfather who was the first Muslim Chief Justice of Udaipur and aide-de-camp to the Sultan of Zanzibar. I want him to just pop up! I do the same for my great-grandfather, who was another High Court Judge, from my maternal Parsi side. Both were Khan Bahadurs. My maternal grandfather was in the railways like your great grandfathers. Trying to trace the female line is much harder, unless you have someone doing the oral remembering, like my mother. I am so envious of your ability to access from direct sources and digitise your findings - future generations will no doubt be thankful to you!</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">That's literally how I took a step forward with my research – I Googled my great-grandfather and he popped up! I'd done this for years, but there was nothing. I'd heard stories, seen photos, made family trees, but I was desperate for more. Then I went on a trip with my grandmother to her parents' last home, my first time there, and I felt really close to them even though I'd never known them. When I returned, information was awaiting me. I think the universe was sort of collaborating with me by giving me what I sought right after this trip.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0KZjgmgUPN836onJV6lxsZzklHMyVx8BOrfhlScgpQDFepflQPVUdf7dMqJrSsvZnV8f7YLdkaBHELiRHp20mP81yEzf5ooRHo6xd64mRJNkYiZeyd9bAu6IVvpzsRRH2KkaSIY5iGopLecn9KOwd5RuJN_npVYynGsE8J_bnu1WLbUYEpL2Ht5OkZQ/s632/Kritifamilyalbum.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="632" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0KZjgmgUPN836onJV6lxsZzklHMyVx8BOrfhlScgpQDFepflQPVUdf7dMqJrSsvZnV8f7YLdkaBHELiRHp20mP81yEzf5ooRHo6xd64mRJNkYiZeyd9bAu6IVvpzsRRH2KkaSIY5iGopLecn9KOwd5RuJN_npVYynGsE8J_bnu1WLbUYEpL2Ht5OkZQ/w400-h297/Kritifamilyalbum.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">photo credit: Kriti Bajaj</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">An entire family tree appeared, going back generations. It made me realise that there were ways I could do this research myself. I didn't actually end up using much of the information since I wanted to verify everything on my own, but it was a start. Since then, I've been learning about genealogy through online courses, resources, Facebook groups, and I recently attended my first genealogy conference too. Of course, as you say, the availability of records has made it much easier to trace the lines and connect with more people, places, and contexts. I'm about to embark on research of another branch of my family, for which there will be far less information (and perhaps a lot lost during Partition), but interestingly, we do have access to a handwritten family tree in Urdu that might give us something to work with! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">You went to Lady Shri Ram College. Tell us more about this experience - what is the college’s history? Why were/are you drawn to German particularly? Was it for German film appreciation? <o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">LSR is a women’s college affiliated with the University of Delhi, though the campus is separate from the other colleges of the university and feels a bit like its own little world. It was founded in 1956 to encourage and enable the higher education of women. My years here were definitely a turning point, because up until then, I'd been more interested in studying the sciences than the arts. But literature was the perfect subject and opened my mind in many ways. I think both the colleges I've attended – LSR and SOAS in London – have shaped and added nuance to the way I view the world and what's happening in it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizclJLRQxBprPk7RUDScaEoDm-_FeO4mcyUyoZqlc571s0Km3uPfVQ7c9GdEiwIhFqS-aCPDE-QxHStJbQc6EVJJrm7E6GV1wymjvB6W_L6P9-QmgSuNdyCI-GZD1WYhBr6WnOgkvq82CoMdB-j6JfS4drcX3oR9RK5Ip5NnK-PD8IMh0WWFU85s7cFA/s2006/KritiLSR.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2006" data-original-width="1587" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizclJLRQxBprPk7RUDScaEoDm-_FeO4mcyUyoZqlc571s0Km3uPfVQ7c9GdEiwIhFqS-aCPDE-QxHStJbQc6EVJJrm7E6GV1wymjvB6W_L6P9-QmgSuNdyCI-GZD1WYhBr6WnOgkvq82CoMdB-j6JfS4drcX3oR9RK5Ip5NnK-PD8IMh0WWFU85s7cFA/w316-h400/KritiLSR.jpg" width="316" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lady Shri Ram College, Delhi, credit: Kriti Bajaj<br /></span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">I started learning German as a third language in school when I was ten. We had three options: German, French and Sanskrit. I felt drawn to German mostly because it was the underdog and we were tempted with promises of exchange programmes to Germany (which never materialised). I also attended weekend German classes at the Goethe Institut for about three years when I was in college. I enjoy the worlds and cultures that a new language allows access to, and I've tried learning several over the years, but so far, German is the one that stuck. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">How did your interest in Zoroastrian heritage develop? I love that you were able to source a seven month internship at Parzor. (I’ve written for Hamazor.) Give us a sense of that time?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">I wasn't very familiar with Zoroastrianism until I did the internship. Dr. Shernaz Cama was my professor at LSR and is also the Director of Parzor, and I'd expressed an interest in working there. I was taking a gap year after completing my Bachelor's degree as I figured out what to do with my life next, and I wanted to try all kinds of work. I also wanted to save money to buy my first camera, so a paid internship helped me meet both goals! I did all kinds of work during this time, from helping redesign brochures and the website, to assisting with sales, exhibitions and photography, as well as compiling Parzor's tenth anniversary souvenir book and covering the occasion for leading Parsi magazines like <i>Hamazor, Parsiana </i>and <i>Fezana. </i>This was the beginning of my freelance writing journey. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnfBqIVkfIHqwXXpDFa4bPNF63na6E6Ps7GksNC4n-F1O37Q3bAtAhhhNKXxmYhljB4t3G9_2yLDVGB3dj0q8pXFW55JMksdMxEfFfd0IOSMD6VGwul2Q74HIWIqgbZNc-b5Bp4sohAsSdnEu8AzF0ashjdBnJquMGI58E9lVh8ULHn1_c3VI8AsFH_Q/s2701/KritiParzor.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2330" data-original-width="2701" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnfBqIVkfIHqwXXpDFa4bPNF63na6E6Ps7GksNC4n-F1O37Q3bAtAhhhNKXxmYhljB4t3G9_2yLDVGB3dj0q8pXFW55JMksdMxEfFfd0IOSMD6VGwul2Q74HIWIqgbZNc-b5Bp4sohAsSdnEu8AzF0ashjdBnJquMGI58E9lVh8ULHn1_c3VI8AsFH_Q/w400-h345/KritiParzor.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh-QJapxm32GwbFnVgq-NlMIcfa-0CKNF_d_C-BdueQFQ0gYcbu7ktYOVCc51boGA_AGrzoDVWgXbFP7c0lBDgmtzZDOkrPl3Qu3U5Fhh02zKZOuls5xSogCT-DG3b1kekvHGDmzXtaEdTzSVXzZrUyKQVSIeMKtW1AHJ0kC9WVVghVlEccKO6fo3ueg/s3293/5536983954_ca68e21395_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3046" data-original-width="3293" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh-QJapxm32GwbFnVgq-NlMIcfa-0CKNF_d_C-BdueQFQ0gYcbu7ktYOVCc51boGA_AGrzoDVWgXbFP7c0lBDgmtzZDOkrPl3Qu3U5Fhh02zKZOuls5xSogCT-DG3b1kekvHGDmzXtaEdTzSVXzZrUyKQVSIeMKtW1AHJ0kC9WVVghVlEccKO6fo3ueg/w400-h370/5536983954_ca68e21395_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">How extraordinary that you wrote a dissertation on mental health in film years before Deepika Padukone became the first Bollywood actress to openly speak about her mental health. What drew you to this topic?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">I was studying anthropology at SOAS, and my interest was specifically in visual and media anthropology. But I had a hard time selecting a dissertation topic. In initial sessions with my supervisor, I presented my plan of writing about the role of photography in war, but somehow it didn't feel like the right fit then. (I do love photography and I'm researching its history independently now.) I thought about other topics that made me really eager to know more, because a dissertation is a fairly long road. I'd written one of my term papers on the complex relationship between anthropology and psychology – it was one of the topics we studied – and I'd been fascinated by it. So I decided to combine that with visual culture. I did find a fair amount of research on the portrayal of mental health in Hollywood films, but only one book about Bollywood. I thought this would be a good gap to fill. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35YZNZhS3czK0UWIgw28u1ncAn35W5LJm_7UpyY0_G1hIHU0utpmYkH5vbv66gqpOnwSarIX4cw8nIY3hm92QFdEd2fb6pvOfzdcxAEpkdm9NnMe3axN8743Nx_0LbZMHgb9bz_TdHAv_2mmwIYfOhR0Mh-Ii9RVUD55vkenuhT6OVN_h5UpGWMhZ7w/s599/Illustration_by_Kay_Nielsen_2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><i><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="446" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi35YZNZhS3czK0UWIgw28u1ncAn35W5LJm_7UpyY0_G1hIHU0utpmYkH5vbv66gqpOnwSarIX4cw8nIY3hm92QFdEd2fb6pvOfzdcxAEpkdm9NnMe3axN8743Nx_0LbZMHgb9bz_TdHAv_2mmwIYfOhR0Mh-Ii9RVUD55vkenuhT6OVN_h5UpGWMhZ7w/w298-h400/Illustration_by_Kay_Nielsen_2.jpg" width="298" /></i></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">'East of the Sun and West of the Moon', Nielsen, 1914</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">Back to Bollywood, or rather not, how did your passion for line dancing come about? Why line dancing rather than … well, anything else? You’d fit right into any English or American dance class with that up your sleeve, but what’s the appeal? (I’m an ex Bharatnatyam and tap dancer, but ballet was definitely my true love. Now I just free style in the house, after hours, when no one’s looking…)<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">I didn't know what line dancing was until I showed up one day for a trial class by Merry Feet, which is one of the only line dance clubs in India. I'd been looking for a way to be physically active and I'm not really fond of going to the gym, so I thought dancing might be a fun way to care for both my physical and mental health. From the beginning, I loved the music, the way that line dancing brought together so many different dance traditions from around the world, the stories behind them, the philosophy of not chasing perfection but learning and repeating patterns, the inclusiveness. I also liked how it was a community or social dance form, but individualistic at the same time – both in that you don't need a partner (I've also learnt salsa and bachata for a while, and felt quite limited by that, though they are beautiful in their own way), and you have the freedom to express yourself within the structure of the choreography. Because of this, we were also able to learn and practice line dancing online throughout the lockdowns in the last two years. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #202124; font-family: Spectral;"><span style="background-color: white; caret-color: rgb(32, 33, 36); font-size: 17.33333396911621px;"><br /></span></span><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiO8CU4W5YQC1cbZ4SraZ-RSmRJoV4Rt2DZL6F6hZjzmkSyC0fCrz5HiFt22JgafUg8kd6Jz88_iA2MiG78SwiYQQqFCVxDPjI7QttRrizENYQW7kma7siBrzc9Nd_vd3yiDK24we9WW660jmcs5uou70ZhUCVDo12oDM6urZdWOOWCUc_SuBmjOY-FQ/s1345/10_Illustration-from_In-Powder-and-Crinolinew-2.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1345" data-original-width="1170" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiO8CU4W5YQC1cbZ4SraZ-RSmRJoV4Rt2DZL6F6hZjzmkSyC0fCrz5HiFt22JgafUg8kd6Jz88_iA2MiG78SwiYQQqFCVxDPjI7QttRrizENYQW7kma7siBrzc9Nd_vd3yiDK24we9WW660jmcs5uou70ZhUCVDo12oDM6urZdWOOWCUc_SuBmjOY-FQ/w348-h400/10_Illustration-from_In-Powder-and-Crinolinew-2.jpg" width="348" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: x-small;">'In Powder and Crinoline', Nielsen, 1913</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">I also taught line dancing for a while before moving to Bombay. One of my happiest accomplishments – and this is what I love about teaching, mentoring and also learning – was watching the steady rise of confidence as people went from being very hesitant in the beginning to guiding new learners a few months in without a second thought!</span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipQB3Kb58Mhg4mxrLWDQcJwLnLQj9xJh_TG4-oIrA1jH_Bl8luddVE8cDZ9PEqWH-NWIEt4EtL35rnPDlGc7aW7s--p3kKmhg8DWqbIB_Gc_Hv_r3gDvqUJNCogQ_zWuj-IWXNee_utG9uMQpt0puw7y69tbI5t0Yp_4IyvovBSEKbpt8r75UuCPaicA/s438/kkhebbar_2006summer_42288_3_big.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="438" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipQB3Kb58Mhg4mxrLWDQcJwLnLQj9xJh_TG4-oIrA1jH_Bl8luddVE8cDZ9PEqWH-NWIEt4EtL35rnPDlGc7aW7s--p3kKmhg8DWqbIB_Gc_Hv_r3gDvqUJNCogQ_zWuj-IWXNee_utG9uMQpt0puw7y69tbI5t0Yp_4IyvovBSEKbpt8r75UuCPaicA/w400-h301/kkhebbar_2006summer_42288_3_big.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: x-small;">'Untitled', K K Hebbar, 1911-1996</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b style="font-size: 11pt;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">About your many years as editorial manager for an art auction house, you say this: <i>the real perk is getting to lay eyes on masterpieces that otherwise remain hidden away in private collections, as well as stunning gemstones, and centuries-old books and photographs. </i></span></b><b style="font-size: 11pt;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">Tell us about one masterpiece in particular (or a few that spoke to you).</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">One of the first auctions I witnessed after joining Saffronart featured a beautiful painting by Nicholas Roerich. I'd been to his former home in Naggar a few years prior, and there are paintings there, but this one was quite different, almost haunting. Another artist whose work I really like is Jehangir Sabavala. Apart from art, I was fascinated by 19th century photographic processes like ambrotypes and stereoscopes, as well as rare and limited edition books such as those with illustrations by Kay Nielsen and Arthur Rackham. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCC3XrqjyotrGLq2HftS7dxg2Tmb3jXCCMusPjJawkcUdCiwylN9N5TsY1MTSVyE6ISIGCWUhqNKiDytCF76iMKE34S194h__nIeA4hcKUSeNGRlSS10K5o8gZi4EpFli7kAUiWb2RKPjxDd7Qt76Afd-sT5SOBjxkBqFRdxUxEc6fOmnXsikW_iOwg/s730/N02479_9.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="391" data-original-width="730" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCC3XrqjyotrGLq2HftS7dxg2Tmb3jXCCMusPjJawkcUdCiwylN9N5TsY1MTSVyE6ISIGCWUhqNKiDytCF76iMKE34S194h__nIeA4hcKUSeNGRlSS10K5o8gZi4EpFli7kAUiWb2RKPjxDd7Qt76Afd-sT5SOBjxkBqFRdxUxEc6fOmnXsikW_iOwg/w400-h214/N02479_9.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Dance in Cupid's Alley', Rackham, 1904</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">The colleague who sat nearest to me was in the jewellery department and would routinely receive boxes of glittering creations that were hard to look away from. I've never really been into jewellery but I do like beautiful things, and I've learned everything I now know about gemstones and techniques (which is probably just scratching the surface) from her. She even guided me when I was picking out my engagement/wedding ring!</span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirfNuBCxCOPAFyEPnIM3JzijjtvH--7A9AFmGmIZqDj4-viQabzW7zKy_RkAarWQRnL8BKpVz7_TTGStsCXuCZWkgQRIRqGIoalAMdS8hKYUCHltdHMBkeJQumoTsJOwOehb0uhBCvbSyk5gl2i4iCSxfGE8dbXCu-80p0whTlw4dYDIx3AKX6RYZSOQ/s388/sabavala_11as3831or_big.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirfNuBCxCOPAFyEPnIM3JzijjtvH--7A9AFmGmIZqDj4-viQabzW7zKy_RkAarWQRnL8BKpVz7_TTGStsCXuCZWkgQRIRqGIoalAMdS8hKYUCHltdHMBkeJQumoTsJOwOehb0uhBCvbSyk5gl2i4iCSxfGE8dbXCu-80p0whTlw4dYDIx3AKX6RYZSOQ/w326-h400/sabavala_11as3831or_big.jpg" width="326" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">'The Bangle Sellers', Sabavala, 1954</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><b><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">Your <a href="https://blog.kritibajaj.com/p/the-food-x-books-project.html" target="_blank">2021 calendar or cookbook of food</a> inspired directly from books is so worth reading. Of all your many worthy accomplishments, I would recommend this as the most delightful and delicious. Which brings me to my final question - as a fellow blogger and non-fiction writer who secretly longs only to write fiction (but seems never to do so), do you fantasise about writing a novel? I ask this because I can easily imagine your novel - it will weave in the art world, and the food world, it will possess the photographer’s eye for detail and the researcher’s eye for historical/ genealogical accuracy. Am I way off course here? And if so, what dreams do you dream of next?<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">I think everyone who enjoys writing hopes to write a novel some day! When I was young and innocent, I attempted starting a couple – a fun exercise while it lasted, planning the stories, chapters, characters and so on. But I haven't attempted anything of the sort in a long time. The closest I've come is writing several dozen pages about my family history, a compilation of my research. I've always thought I'd write a book someday, when the right story comes along, so for now, I'm just waiting patiently. I used to think it would be fiction, because that's what I chiefly read, but I'm not so sure anymore. I've read some delightful non-fiction, and I wouldn't be averse to it if the story intrigued me. I have some latent ideas, though none are quite developed yet. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">This year, I want to build my business further, continue my research, put time and resources into honing existing skills, and hopefully learn a few new ones. I also hope I'll get a chance to travel a bit and have a few little adventures here and there. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuWC6UvYfkoBFnL1-yDKXkhcxdmbiLt4wiYhC_JNn5lmwyvd4VWWwhIbbpnVrpW_9s1RGTC88TKLOsqqV-NvG7tuKBvCNwhc8oAg1ShQ-aC4V9ZMq-aDuZK0VRJc1zDbIeYOiqRr5PTanXsf_crKqA-DrX3f_-zBVK12oKkoA04F1eTgcGCM0MIZTpXA/s4752/pop1.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3168" data-original-width="4752" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuWC6UvYfkoBFnL1-yDKXkhcxdmbiLt4wiYhC_JNn5lmwyvd4VWWwhIbbpnVrpW_9s1RGTC88TKLOsqqV-NvG7tuKBvCNwhc8oAg1ShQ-aC4V9ZMq-aDuZK0VRJc1zDbIeYOiqRr5PTanXsf_crKqA-DrX3f_-zBVK12oKkoA04F1eTgcGCM0MIZTpXA/w400-h266/pop1.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: x-small;"><i>from Kriti's blog 'Onwards'</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><b style="font-size: 13pt;">Kriti, </b><b style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; text-align: left;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;">Clive’s sign off on all his emails to me was ‘Onwards’, the title of <a href="https://blog.kritibajaj.com/2021/01/anne-shirleys-teatime-biscuits.html" target="_blank">your blog</a>, which was born months before you ever interacted with him. As you say, </span></b><span style="caret-color: rgb(0, 0, 0); color: black; text-align: left;"><b>there are connections in everything. You chose 'Onward' as the title for your blog as a reminder to keep moving, keep learning, keep trying. Even when you don't really know where you are going, you remember that journeys are important.</b></span><b style="font-size: 13pt;"> I wish you all the success and adventures your writing fingers and creative heart desire. Thank you for opening a little window into your life for my readers! </b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><b style="font-size: 13pt;"><br /></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt; line-height: normal; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN" style="background-color: white; color: #202124; font-family: Spectral; font-size: 13pt;"><b><i>Kriti can be found at her website <a href="http://www.kritibajaj.com">www.kritibajaj.com</a></i></b></span></p><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtKsib3jA9nE_XD3lLtuO_t9SgEyHMds2tAxKWi5kB2sy7Beqb-cEa4o-KKSKEDGghSwSyxhlTh-L3pV-_91dCsM0itAYc090MaxUn3NuveebSpp_lyI2YMn45MqSYgEeGuu-osZAD3yZnNXjEHTz65DbbUzCdurIefPhcbpau8zXo8pzkjTKvjDz0hQ/s1024/bisk.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="722" data-original-width="1024" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtKsib3jA9nE_XD3lLtuO_t9SgEyHMds2tAxKWi5kB2sy7Beqb-cEa4o-KKSKEDGghSwSyxhlTh-L3pV-_91dCsM0itAYc090MaxUn3NuveebSpp_lyI2YMn45MqSYgEeGuu-osZAD3yZnNXjEHTz65DbbUzCdurIefPhcbpau8zXo8pzkjTKvjDz0hQ/w640-h452/bisk.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">photo credit: Kriti Bajaj</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br />Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-33504778984141625432022-03-31T20:33:00.004+01:002022-03-31T20:39:52.754+01:00HOW TO RECONCILE<p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiEUL5vOLwZ_zRIZc05H8OoDPS5zv_vlIcaZMXuaEr06gB40HYzD_OAQdtmvmfh__v05PM4d-NZafujbflVNvp1MU9dclcdsVWdn4ed29zx7JW_QUZL4vzSU1gOT497xZ7wRMonzV14Xzap2_6BHE4ocTWbEfaYcBRc3KOik-mR1gJgJ7GdD7vt0wn0g/s1200/1139478.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiEUL5vOLwZ_zRIZc05H8OoDPS5zv_vlIcaZMXuaEr06gB40HYzD_OAQdtmvmfh__v05PM4d-NZafujbflVNvp1MU9dclcdsVWdn4ed29zx7JW_QUZL4vzSU1gOT497xZ7wRMonzV14Xzap2_6BHE4ocTWbEfaYcBRc3KOik-mR1gJgJ7GdD7vt0wn0g/w400-h266/1139478.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">I write my experience in sand this time,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">wanting it forgotten.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Not like last time, every day recorded<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">in verse and flower, a memory scripture, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">a treasure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Older now, none the wiser now.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Just swimming in the sea of me,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">a current of one, in the ocean of all.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">More scared now, knowing how far <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">the fall.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghubrpA2-MbryH6l2D9usAbF58Z9MqlarETDy5A19Ql1y1ce_So47fmiz6ZKSITvrnK799WlQAFCJ7WrfmZ74FJqiRJD9w5YRTk3_odMSSFS78QtJ3fVjch_9Cpk9q4w-Va8io75WbpWVGjAETOv6gDav9URxAMHSA-3MDt_Kq-g7n8FB1rGPGXv042g/s610/2A06223A-3C27-4AB4-8E6A-C26CCE47C4D1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="610" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghubrpA2-MbryH6l2D9usAbF58Z9MqlarETDy5A19Ql1y1ce_So47fmiz6ZKSITvrnK799WlQAFCJ7WrfmZ74FJqiRJD9w5YRTk3_odMSSFS78QtJ3fVjch_9Cpk9q4w-Va8io75WbpWVGjAETOv6gDav9URxAMHSA-3MDt_Kq-g7n8FB1rGPGXv042g/w400-h266/2A06223A-3C27-4AB4-8E6A-C26CCE47C4D1.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"><br /></span></p></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">In some ways, it is all the same.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Gold dust on white blossom, still plump. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">And yet, already, the slow drift<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">to green grass, to soft earth,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">to winter down.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">The nuns have so much to remember, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">like nurses, saving lives.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">They need the bell even more than we do,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">we, temporary retreatants – fleeing our worlds,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">escaping to theirs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Breathing in, I breathe with my father’s back.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Breathing out, I breathe with my father’s lungs.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">I invited my father to join, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">but he declined, knowing I would <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">bring him in anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">It’s harder for some, no light or ease,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">but the bells toll on.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"></span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPs--n8sc2ZjfOSwORJaFHKu7oRhx9o9SdkpF41vrtzT_jgoqNIAKTkN_QFUTV6CiVgssj39HVfU6ETDdEquJCJQx4iNDkhK3wi1pHC9wss8L-Tp29a3zFFzgXmcJNgnzfq5tktxhwKz-qSF4ePrOImWswEKYOAuAFEjptIa-2IPULfxPU0vE48q_zw/s1100/71097867-A-Buddhist-nun-drinking-yak-butter-tea-Drepung-Monastery-Tibet-Xizang-China.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1100" data-original-width="734" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZPs--n8sc2ZjfOSwORJaFHKu7oRhx9o9SdkpF41vrtzT_jgoqNIAKTkN_QFUTV6CiVgssj39HVfU6ETDdEquJCJQx4iNDkhK3wi1pHC9wss8L-Tp29a3zFFzgXmcJNgnzfq5tktxhwKz-qSF4ePrOImWswEKYOAuAFEjptIa-2IPULfxPU0vE48q_zw/w268-h400/71097867-A-Buddhist-nun-drinking-yak-butter-tea-Drepung-Monastery-Tibet-Xizang-China.jpg" width="268" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Drepung Monastery, Xizang, Tibet</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">The birds are here, the birds are there.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">My cup of tea grows cold, again.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Mother breathing in with me, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">mother breathing out with me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">I want both things at once.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">To choose is to lose. Something. Sometimes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Can anything stay a secret?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">And still, we try so hard to hide.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Suddenly, the flood gates open.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Everyone cries.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">The gold is gone now. Soon, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Sister Tea Cake will sound the bell<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">for final goodbyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Everyone cries.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Sometimes. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Present moment,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">wonderful moment. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Thây is still alive. Smile. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Be still and heal. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Reconcile.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><b><span lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif; font-size: small;"> Shaista Tayabali, 2022</span></span></b></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-weight: bold; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcIbttDI3F9jj4yGfdR38u9T5HOQ8KX-_xfpWcWc-v_GFKBzEd4oMXVs7NPa1GkROPGMHSplvPZW8fk_q_5QkIB_jJPw0Hd8omtl78hr4cUGtsxOuGtt_Fk-fl8fCxR8svm7VdAV2ADqEpLZrEFRDc_tCHwqINw4ziradu26V41C55hC8MnoFgN58UNw/s1400/2019_01_30_Thay_viewing_a_book_of_paintings___PHOTO___PVCEB_high_res.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1400" data-original-width="1400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcIbttDI3F9jj4yGfdR38u9T5HOQ8KX-_xfpWcWc-v_GFKBzEd4oMXVs7NPa1GkROPGMHSplvPZW8fk_q_5QkIB_jJPw0Hd8omtl78hr4cUGtsxOuGtt_Fk-fl8fCxR8svm7VdAV2ADqEpLZrEFRDc_tCHwqINw4ziradu26V41C55hC8MnoFgN58UNw/w400-h400/2019_01_30_Thay_viewing_a_book_of_paintings___PHOTO___PVCEB_high_res.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Thây, Tu Hieu Temple, Hue, Vietnam</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: right;"><i>poem linked to <a href="http://www.dversepoets.com" target="_blank">Dverse Poets OLN</a> </i></div><br /><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif; font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; margin: 0cm;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></b></p>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-5599953297636935262022-03-17T21:42:00.008+00:002022-04-02T18:00:26.246+01:00ON ST. PATRICK'S DAY, GRIEF AND JOY OBSERVED<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">I am surrounded by churches in the village where I live. Samwise and I turned right today, and walked down to the church past the railway line. It's a quick decision, and the sun seemed to be calling us thataway. We made a nifty getaway from his nemesis, a tiny dachshund with war on his mind, and made it to the church. Sitting outside on a bench with two crutches propped beside him, was a man eager for a chin wag. He was John, ex police officer, 57 years in England and still in possession of his County Kerry accent. "I'm Catholic,' he said, 'but I believe there's only one God and I come to this church for the peace.' His mobile phone was lying beside him - he'd been trying to get a hold of his sister to wish her a happy St. Patrick's Day. I asked him to explain the origins of the day, and we both commiserated over the tragedy befalling Ukraine.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOWYPaPB3RoE4mxKPAMoJGayfm36rH6JeJpKpbbv61hVic687ZfoCdJcVEZUk7e8Bf3lnwfI_zwppVTt826RG3FwIx_nKI5tJ6D3_j7_ZPJClzSWCTyIPTqo_F2Udumi0b2M8aMEq5RH4due0LwK4rjpD46ltfgGGWOx-8EITT4Q7ySOClrQyZb_cbmg=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiOWYPaPB3RoE4mxKPAMoJGayfm36rH6JeJpKpbbv61hVic687ZfoCdJcVEZUk7e8Bf3lnwfI_zwppVTt826RG3FwIx_nKI5tJ6D3_j7_ZPJClzSWCTyIPTqo_F2Udumi0b2M8aMEq5RH4due0LwK4rjpD46ltfgGGWOx-8EITT4Q7ySOClrQyZb_cbmg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Two days ago, I was approaching the other church (Sammy and I had turned left this time), and I saw a man praying his namaz on a prayer mat on the tiny triangle of green outside the church. He had stopped his car, and was observing the evening prayer. I couldn't believe it! At this very church, twenty-nine years ago, my father had been pointedly informed by the choice of words in the sermon that he would only be welcome if he converted from his unwelcome religion. And now, the namaz. I wanted to applaud the man for his... courage? Defiance? Simple observation of prayer? I wasn't sure. So I dawdled with Sammy until the man rolled up his mat, and I waved in a friendly fashion at the companion in his car. They waved back. And onwards we all went. If only it could always be this way. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm; text-align: justify;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKX8M21qVTerw0WZQEkLvfo00sW4nsp5Zy9v3byc_EzOojwZ6VHFkEoLF8FkMRnE7jZ4g_d-qE_4mG6_JqBpGS23DfWUwWISNrHlz0ilmtBMNpNbeUCTg8NtBXbD4L1uZWIGPSulkPANu4L9_H5-Z-ThCnxR-dwLuxfJRkUDPQ4gyquJeDNMPL34jTcQ=s3088" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjKX8M21qVTerw0WZQEkLvfo00sW4nsp5Zy9v3byc_EzOojwZ6VHFkEoLF8FkMRnE7jZ4g_d-qE_4mG6_JqBpGS23DfWUwWISNrHlz0ilmtBMNpNbeUCTg8NtBXbD4L1uZWIGPSulkPANu4L9_H5-Z-ThCnxR-dwLuxfJRkUDPQ4gyquJeDNMPL34jTcQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"><br /></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Grief, Observed<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></i></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 16.100000381469727px;">‘The act of living is different all through. Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything.’<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">I settle into the graveyard with C.S. Lewis,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">observing grief together.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">All my childhood I was accused<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">of being too sensitive. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">And make no mistake, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">it is an accusation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">No one ever declares it worthy of praise. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Not in a girl.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">For how will she cook and clean and submit easily,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">if her mind dissects and discerns?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">When they say <i>too sensitive</i>,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">they mean <i>too knowing</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">It’s a Sunday and the church doors are open. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">I walk into the incense. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Mary greets me, I like to think, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">and Jesus invites me closer. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">I approach. And see the candle tree, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">electric lighter awaiting me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Every night we light a divo, my mother and I, <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">keeping going the Zoroastrian fire. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Here, the lights are blood red, not white. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">I place one like a star atop the pyramid wire.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">I recite, out loud, a gatha and a surah,<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">binding myself to as many of the prophets <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">as will have me. Come now rain! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Come now thunder!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">Why do I fear? The fire <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">tree protects me.</span><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></p><p><b><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">©</span><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif; font-size: small;"> Shaista Tayabali, 2022 (linked to this evening's<a href="https://dversepoets.com" target="_blank"> dVerse Poetry</a>)</span></span></b></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif;">To end in hope then, with news of another mother and daughter, Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe and her daughter Gabriella, finally united in freedom, back in England, thanks to the determined, relentless efforts of her husband Richard. A long road ahead, of course, but a little corner of peace begun.</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4f6KPhbDpK446H5lhbAMMUTdm1wCSoLtrPlVQTiSteMIwRr7h6t8IkNI5XTDdDcvoqXYhXCZKGWWFU7_P6Z2ACxrc1CTwL5C3aOuRcD-fUkQOVNmt7JT_EkcShuKhLnko3TyjdqbDNvKMVunVRYWRD3-nFNZr_RoTiWX9bW8CH2Fk91M7tNU0DXoamg=s1179" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1179" data-original-width="1170" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh4f6KPhbDpK446H5lhbAMMUTdm1wCSoLtrPlVQTiSteMIwRr7h6t8IkNI5XTDdDcvoqXYhXCZKGWWFU7_P6Z2ACxrc1CTwL5C3aOuRcD-fUkQOVNmt7JT_EkcShuKhLnko3TyjdqbDNvKMVunVRYWRD3-nFNZr_RoTiWX9bW8CH2Fk91M7tNU0DXoamg=w398-h400" width="398" /></a></div><p><b><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"></span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhVO53HR3-NAglo27IGZN__8jBDcC-YOQ6cfpRK7KptNjPnWSRv6eYzHWmPl9T8vUuyzNwZV7Fb7makNIxDphrCBalmDlxOB8v2YXVwo1OYDbLdJBhMVtY6SrqvhCAcf4wtj4RhibyFlKDc4DReSk40KkhDmuIjNpRJCubJdrS4O0gL1MZ6F-hw0K6-4A=s976" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="949" data-original-width="976" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhVO53HR3-NAglo27IGZN__8jBDcC-YOQ6cfpRK7KptNjPnWSRv6eYzHWmPl9T8vUuyzNwZV7Fb7makNIxDphrCBalmDlxOB8v2YXVwo1OYDbLdJBhMVtY6SrqvhCAcf4wtj4RhibyFlKDc4DReSk40KkhDmuIjNpRJCubJdrS4O0gL1MZ6F-hw0K6-4A=w400-h389" width="400" /></a></span></b></div><b><span lang="EN-US" style="line-height: 18.399999618530273px;"><br /><span style="font-family: Bembo, serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 18.399999618530273px; margin: 0cm;"><b><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Bembo, serif;"> </span></b></p>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-63494613031661708162022-02-28T19:10:00.002+00:002022-03-01T04:09:42.895+00:00PAUL FARMER, KING, GANDHI AND THE STRUGGLE OF NON-VIOLENCE<p style="text-align: justify;">On the 21st of this month, Dr. Paul Farmer, infectious diseases physician and ambassador for the democracy of public health, died of a cardiac arrest in his sleep. With his death, we lose another giant oak under whose shade many small trees were trying to bloom. They are shaken, but we can only hope the roots are strong and the seeds are many.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirtZlDTxRiS_TaNyrLBF79K-PPzzpdYmbhXhA4DxDgssaXhUSsEZ9TYYKF7q0vg445qFxXWPX2V52ZluocdjTl9dmvsEbYvU-phXHCncd9lrPmC1TCMgTyRuEob60httmIAr4jKP3fTsaCvFFMgkUhdLsJhEiswZTAxCh8ixYS_e0nE-WWZ1kba2S1YQ=s1200" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEirtZlDTxRiS_TaNyrLBF79K-PPzzpdYmbhXhA4DxDgssaXhUSsEZ9TYYKF7q0vg445qFxXWPX2V52ZluocdjTl9dmvsEbYvU-phXHCncd9lrPmC1TCMgTyRuEob60httmIAr4jKP3fTsaCvFFMgkUhdLsJhEiswZTAxCh8ixYS_e0nE-WWZ1kba2S1YQ=w640-h360" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">As the grimmest of news swirls around our homes (are we not once again united by consciousness of a global storm brewing?), the work of Farmer in Haiti and Rwanda must not be forgotten. The grotesque healthcare inequities that characterise our modern world steered Farmer’s moral compass; compassion and charm did the rest. This month also ends Black History Month…</div><p>In March 1959, when Dr. King disembarked on the shores of Delhi, he said, 'To other countries I may go as a tourist, but to India I come as a pilgrim.'</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRT9zePuwTu-h2y2vzIPujIQ2_mqv3qGVWCp77E8xobUPz3f87QxJwY33AycckqKgcrPDZ4pmc6EJPB6SPTodjtUPTjkpGW8eSu8EcQGwcFvJJYIiyPl-29wtUdumqlCM8W1rFBZyvqFetHZ0HEpwHi66PuES9dCXOQra5WIi4lmFK4NlxoLYEaxVnGA=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgRT9zePuwTu-h2y2vzIPujIQ2_mqv3qGVWCp77E8xobUPz3f87QxJwY33AycckqKgcrPDZ4pmc6EJPB6SPTodjtUPTjkpGW8eSu8EcQGwcFvJJYIiyPl-29wtUdumqlCM8W1rFBZyvqFetHZ0HEpwHi66PuES9dCXOQra5WIi4lmFK4NlxoLYEaxVnGA=w640-h400" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgkAqYm8UYE0UYYfn7yzioBdCgrmgeNfmlpVXOnIz5P5G2MFP3HU9TNlFVy_-oV7RkgvVbS-rbsAoIfOjZnV8rn5AMhqE-iCCxJPc31uJ73NNXk4TqXMqA7kZkVQoR9mtQxpJ_QB5WFWgSxNc_7dRqUJxF96zayU15my3KqAO-MEfXkhfOFLufiICte-g=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgkAqYm8UYE0UYYfn7yzioBdCgrmgeNfmlpVXOnIz5P5G2MFP3HU9TNlFVy_-oV7RkgvVbS-rbsAoIfOjZnV8rn5AMhqE-iCCxJPc31uJ73NNXk4TqXMqA7kZkVQoR9mtQxpJ_QB5WFWgSxNc_7dRqUJxF96zayU15my3KqAO-MEfXkhfOFLufiICte-g=w640-h400" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgBoFc34c0Yq94M3Q4nx5eUajDcNlLFgh_DDUyaVSmrl5UUfyrV8mNOpPTOC6u2PzsDSe6Ip60N8-di_bfLdS9Pd75s0gJQjuuRRCV1n7NrBIlM4BL_j4bNvZ2-lbiShSxiGcmf4FW3rmvVCuUPvV_Ny0f0z1Kd28AnkV98--rZgkCvqzR_kO0AtQAf2A=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgBoFc34c0Yq94M3Q4nx5eUajDcNlLFgh_DDUyaVSmrl5UUfyrV8mNOpPTOC6u2PzsDSe6Ip60N8-di_bfLdS9Pd75s0gJQjuuRRCV1n7NrBIlM4BL_j4bNvZ2-lbiShSxiGcmf4FW3rmvVCuUPvV_Ny0f0z1Kd28AnkV98--rZgkCvqzR_kO0AtQAf2A=w640-h400" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">King was besieged by villagers for his autograph and spent a night at Mani Bhavan, Gandhi's residence in Bombay, on a mattress on the floor beside the charka. Among the many elite persons he dined with, he also met with Dalit students in Kerala.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxfHKcu6X8r_VyXhLd1pCbRYytETVB_57QCqFVJXUmxFU0Ze0DqRbb4C-hfxoSdcP5EIoE_Eu8s66FXNCDxg7LshWVKKRFzivm2kcWR00WXWkMHZJPkIj3SoS_ePwNWvhJYM1nls6toaZlnVYXQ0AoNdJ5KCc7oy-aFomC6eXAFldbRAcAzyGjYkcCFg=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgxfHKcu6X8r_VyXhLd1pCbRYytETVB_57QCqFVJXUmxFU0Ze0DqRbb4C-hfxoSdcP5EIoE_Eu8s66FXNCDxg7LshWVKKRFzivm2kcWR00WXWkMHZJPkIj3SoS_ePwNWvhJYM1nls6toaZlnVYXQ0AoNdJ5KCc7oy-aFomC6eXAFldbRAcAzyGjYkcCFg=w640-h400" width="640" /></a></div><div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The five weeks King spent in India expanded his thoughts on race, the caste system, and land use discrimination.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh9ne1B4Et31BeB7wxrsjbwaHdDdkSVVwVgMpCE5MQzFH-d6cYZ1psek60JeY-KT-ni75MkoLTbQQ8OjdfsN2vPA7hiBfqGNo9NGwN6vpYTYDh6nk-IByUlpHaDp3wFlJb4NwFzgV-_c2t-MgL6xBm5EdWdG7B6_O-nSwxpCspWLu2p9ZcJUISER967gA=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh9ne1B4Et31BeB7wxrsjbwaHdDdkSVVwVgMpCE5MQzFH-d6cYZ1psek60JeY-KT-ni75MkoLTbQQ8OjdfsN2vPA7hiBfqGNo9NGwN6vpYTYDh6nk-IByUlpHaDp3wFlJb4NwFzgV-_c2t-MgL6xBm5EdWdG7B6_O-nSwxpCspWLu2p9ZcJUISER967gA=w640-h400" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEictYOLQ-sl0TSfg4z5tpqZaYkgrLUWF78ZwXmFGNbV64ZfIaU6Y_PnyckD0gEduGBkni_3JZ6-ibqcVkvL15gfokxuv3vOHebww2FCDtuvSlRC_zK5ewPH7bmmCpmcxmTZdXQIIxmVeXh0JUEuxhYWx22Fu53u6PUBuJRxNoxIvTwpmI5gZr25wECDzQ=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEictYOLQ-sl0TSfg4z5tpqZaYkgrLUWF78ZwXmFGNbV64ZfIaU6Y_PnyckD0gEduGBkni_3JZ6-ibqcVkvL15gfokxuv3vOHebww2FCDtuvSlRC_zK5ewPH7bmmCpmcxmTZdXQIIxmVeXh0JUEuxhYWx22Fu53u6PUBuJRxNoxIvTwpmI5gZr25wECDzQ=w640-h400" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The struggle to remain non-violent in the face of tanks and shells and every other instrument of war, cleverly crafted by the brilliance of the human mind, continues. Two peaceful leaders have died, and a non peaceful leader has re-awoken. What next? It is up to each of us to decide.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPKjAJ8J4B0NPDE1fKKZFSPpRkDdRyTzfrqTAwIzD7vZT3hbLz9Mfrev4EcdHXItgubfJVPdmJHhmNADteDo0uTFBhOf7E2goMiHvJvWQADP4g5i9EY3Zqkz3fhout1F8i_Qh8qzAtx0MgD0NbrOaMeh4lD1BUn0oUMfjbnO9IGhQh9j7IzT89CxpBuw=s1264" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1264" data-original-width="1080" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPKjAJ8J4B0NPDE1fKKZFSPpRkDdRyTzfrqTAwIzD7vZT3hbLz9Mfrev4EcdHXItgubfJVPdmJHhmNADteDo0uTFBhOf7E2goMiHvJvWQADP4g5i9EY3Zqkz3fhout1F8i_Qh8qzAtx0MgD0NbrOaMeh4lD1BUn0oUMfjbnO9IGhQh9j7IzT89CxpBuw=w546-h640" width="546" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p><br /></p></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-61872019620719581532022-02-26T01:57:00.001+00:002022-04-02T18:01:24.182+01:00ZITRONENMELISSE AND RAINER MARIA RILKEOne of the special teas sent by Sister Linh Bảo, my friend and student at Plum Village, is Zitronenmelisse, otherwise known by the equally soothing name, Lemon Balm.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHerZbqOrvOoE84lojVA5eZ1CZzoXFJGGNiMBxPaiJQLoH7_TbscArGImnNH222MUGu42A_rsTfKxWM3bxo6cKvROVweovqiS3PDSw_rduxSesRbU3gfTB4DpFa0LL15qi6zzc2eADo3S/s768/1DE8B797-39A3-46CA-923B-C69F8E1D161E.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="768" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHerZbqOrvOoE84lojVA5eZ1CZzoXFJGGNiMBxPaiJQLoH7_TbscArGImnNH222MUGu42A_rsTfKxWM3bxo6cKvROVweovqiS3PDSw_rduxSesRbU3gfTB4DpFa0LL15qi6zzc2eADo3S/w400-h303/1DE8B797-39A3-46CA-923B-C69F8E1D161E.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">I have taken to drinking a herbal tea every night - another favourite is Twinings Digest in the flavour of 'Spearmint, Apple and Rooibos with Baobab'. I think about my monastic friends and the mindful significance of brewing and then drinking a cup of tea, alone or together. Alone, we are still together. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Last night, I wept after reading about the reality of American evacuations in Afghanistan, simultaneously thinking about the Ukrainians trying to decide whether to stay, fight or flee. Today, I spoke with my dear sister, who took her phone, and via the magic of zoom, showed me around the outside of Thây’s hermitage in Lower Hamlet, specially pointing out the Fragrant Stream in the middle of the Bamboo Forest. Then suddenly, by Thây’s favourite swing, three giant Ukrainian pine trees. Thây had brought them back to France to plant in his beloved space. The sight gave me so much comfort. The timing was so beautiful. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg8D71R22vJwd3Y02mNo6EhzmgMREzfyHG-Z2utSN1Ijj6eO66l9IQApZdFnyVr-oShuPxndF2nkjUW21LTSeVmniOoBJ2Q8fR72SMRfV3vvW5DOUgpBTUftFhKvHudRLX7tGAnvANmsacwkBW_Z14d8uaBzXuOPGjsqdGcNof8StRgQ36yAMW3vSe-BQ=s2048" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg8D71R22vJwd3Y02mNo6EhzmgMREzfyHG-Z2utSN1Ijj6eO66l9IQApZdFnyVr-oShuPxndF2nkjUW21LTSeVmniOoBJ2Q8fR72SMRfV3vvW5DOUgpBTUftFhKvHudRLX7tGAnvANmsacwkBW_Z14d8uaBzXuOPGjsqdGcNof8StRgQ36yAMW3vSe-BQ=w640-h400" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Tonight I, like so many others, find my way to this poem of Rilke, translated by Joanna Macy...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let This Darkness Be A Bell Tower</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(85, 85, 85); color: #555555; font-size: calc(16.736842105263158px + 0.2631578947368421vw); line-height: 1.65; margin: 0px 0px 25px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Quiet friend who has come so far,</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(85, 85, 85); color: #555555; font-size: calc(16.736842105263158px + 0.2631578947368421vw); line-height: 1.65; margin: 0px 0px 25px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">feel how your breathing makes more space around you.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Let this darkness be a bell tower<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />and you the bell. As you ring,</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(85, 85, 85); color: #555555; font-size: calc(16.736842105263158px + 0.2631578947368421vw); line-height: 1.65; margin: 0px 0px 25px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">what batters you becomes your strength.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />Move back and forth into the change.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />What is it like, such intensity of pain?<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />If the drink is bitter, turn yourself to wine.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(85, 85, 85); color: #555555; font-size: calc(16.736842105263158px + 0.2631578947368421vw); line-height: 1.65; margin: 0px 0px 25px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In this uncontainable night,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />be the mystery at the crossroads of your senses,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />the meaning discovered there.</span></p><p style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: 100%; box-sizing: border-box; caret-color: rgb(85, 85, 85); color: #555555; font-size: calc(16.736842105263158px + 0.2631578947368421vw); line-height: 1.65; margin: 0px 0px 25px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And if the world has ceased to hear you,<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />say to the silent earth: I flow.<br style="box-sizing: border-box;" />To the rushing water, speak: I am.</span></p>(from Sonnets to Orpheus II, 29)</div><div><br /></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPcOr8jDZAJzuc04ZUQQTNu3Azfvqa3GmhOwnWvL4DlDTVe0oHqjUar_z5kYd58OkgFC6X8lkwE2dhJf9Yb6X9nuI_b8iY46ThwkXZqpKuGdYycMm30-2vdJiACrpnicaDALnVU-YkzU1tU-SgpvU1acowx1ICD3w2PauhQliCJ5M5tbsQd2L5P-jVFg=s1440" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="807" data-original-width="1440" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjPcOr8jDZAJzuc04ZUQQTNu3Azfvqa3GmhOwnWvL4DlDTVe0oHqjUar_z5kYd58OkgFC6X8lkwE2dhJf9Yb6X9nuI_b8iY46ThwkXZqpKuGdYycMm30-2vdJiACrpnicaDALnVU-YkzU1tU-SgpvU1acowx1ICD3w2PauhQliCJ5M5tbsQd2L5P-jVFg=w640-h358" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sofiis'ka Square, Bell Tower, Kiev © Michele Ursino</td></tr></tbody></table><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7577160948898919178.post-45120949013282509072022-02-18T17:03:00.006+00:002022-02-18T17:03:34.073+00:00FRODO AND SAMWISE, DOG DAYS<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Who am I? Where am I? What day is it?</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihkfu07Gphyx-E7eqUtEjcpASXDcLmp9BxD6zYOIIwImfbB8qHP91FW-4SUxKUkU9Pvg_um0V62Z8RknS_CF42kItnDZoCuoI7iJGbVrtrBahblWljHoW1pTHKysael3IspA_IYxaT07H0TZ__8LE9nYhT_oMUz52argXP5EWth8noCWxbg-9bMj4K3g=s3088" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2316" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEihkfu07Gphyx-E7eqUtEjcpASXDcLmp9BxD6zYOIIwImfbB8qHP91FW-4SUxKUkU9Pvg_um0V62Z8RknS_CF42kItnDZoCuoI7iJGbVrtrBahblWljHoW1pTHKysael3IspA_IYxaT07H0TZ__8LE9nYhT_oMUz52argXP5EWth8noCWxbg-9bMj4K3g=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_n9i96JRZwLMm76EH-ExT4v100MeZEt5PAAQBGgG_r_8M3lgiZkjE8cPqDcrNcChHHp3zKGUCVXd_mQwLfdm1kKDC_C5bQDN2vT9srL6qmSlHHW0GYvtSJl4xA3phlCqXnPwWaGK9K32pyqqdodYfL482Zq9y1mLQHaDHAk8_E6d0OvaahG04CkcV-w=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg_n9i96JRZwLMm76EH-ExT4v100MeZEt5PAAQBGgG_r_8M3lgiZkjE8cPqDcrNcChHHp3zKGUCVXd_mQwLfdm1kKDC_C5bQDN2vT9srL6qmSlHHW0GYvtSJl4xA3phlCqXnPwWaGK9K32pyqqdodYfL482Zq9y1mLQHaDHAk8_E6d0OvaahG04CkcV-w=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwIPmXC1UKWiZiMjEZLBrjdpU9POq_liVTYj66gNgwIheGY4kFfbK-u60a_cZQuUsxcL6b9Tw--MdQZXQlTY-JrbRnwG4W3EXKAkBBoGxrsYubX_x9ibo8988a1jORJjG48ElYM81xCFS-GIBGp-pZHXNog3PabJmBZigpjCF2JXdkovI1ixoiCAlR7Q=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiwIPmXC1UKWiZiMjEZLBrjdpU9POq_liVTYj66gNgwIheGY4kFfbK-u60a_cZQuUsxcL6b9Tw--MdQZXQlTY-JrbRnwG4W3EXKAkBBoGxrsYubX_x9ibo8988a1jORJjG48ElYM81xCFS-GIBGp-pZHXNog3PabJmBZigpjCF2JXdkovI1ixoiCAlR7Q=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: left;">There are hailstones flinging themselves against my window pane and the wind sounds more like a hurricane, tunnelling between trees and rushing down these village lanes. Storm Eunice is here. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaOpB40V-bYBYaqIuXvL1jqpcfeqmrcJTgwmzFNn-JS2cMNE7SH6nSmO7LZ5bzxsjyur6taYTYyi5yDdvQE9Hj1f_FqkvJg7KOfEBB6tbKKfT_s2Qn5bOQK1U-wCEDspcfVs1SIjCwPtRW7_Aj08Om86wSnHs382D6_p2xEUPRDQC-MjdAa0GcB0EObg=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiaOpB40V-bYBYaqIuXvL1jqpcfeqmrcJTgwmzFNn-JS2cMNE7SH6nSmO7LZ5bzxsjyur6taYTYyi5yDdvQE9Hj1f_FqkvJg7KOfEBB6tbKKfT_s2Qn5bOQK1U-wCEDspcfVs1SIjCwPtRW7_Aj08Om86wSnHs382D6_p2xEUPRDQC-MjdAa0GcB0EObg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGHvtaDco5TSWkZ8Cu8xT7cZZMimiQAMMgS1mLGNFXCtomwsjPu843BPx3Jc_EqtILZFILIRiiqA-nK_apm7CuG75k646BN2Ct6qFqhtR3nmKMd_KFcWPdYWBGjzXTcKe_MOPi2KGtJ1GasyNykz3tuHbg4Og860cWhfem0CzfdvI4-j0TrCg8or_ZWw=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjGHvtaDco5TSWkZ8Cu8xT7cZZMimiQAMMgS1mLGNFXCtomwsjPu843BPx3Jc_EqtILZFILIRiiqA-nK_apm7CuG75k646BN2Ct6qFqhtR3nmKMd_KFcWPdYWBGjzXTcKe_MOPi2KGtJ1GasyNykz3tuHbg4Og860cWhfem0CzfdvI4-j0TrCg8or_ZWw=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiS8l1nqEV9nTGBn5uofmOnNfcqDo2-23g8v5szL9OwiRR9-N5CM9giw4ji9_YTCk0plc1Kc1k1DE_CqpfuRrioMo8WLTLVMv0YY8mYJjsZGrciYegO_KzpwHr3pWPfIS_cntz9u72z_Pk_94ENNOVtwCyhiOGebE4SUZgJWiflpOMFUEfJcSFvyafT5g=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiS8l1nqEV9nTGBn5uofmOnNfcqDo2-23g8v5szL9OwiRR9-N5CM9giw4ji9_YTCk0plc1Kc1k1DE_CqpfuRrioMo8WLTLVMv0YY8mYJjsZGrciYegO_KzpwHr3pWPfIS_cntz9u72z_Pk_94ENNOVtwCyhiOGebE4SUZgJWiflpOMFUEfJcSFvyafT5g=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">Sometimes Samwise and I stare down country lanes that lead into the unknown, but having had one experience of being ‘lost’ in a field, with no end in sight, I steer my little pooch away from mysterious scents that beg to be followed. We chase sunsets and friendly scarecrows instead... </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhXixhO5-YJ71p3L5f7zOTtZe5LXyyRhGM6ff5rjRZtNPfW5MGcDxs14_p4p1fGUpJ9O0boV_qCgQ90eBjFayyB36MMFw8D0toynYP8QYP8FmL1C72rFWZpepy5PatE6t_6ISv6u197vKfXn8zPy86K9Z1azi3hbp84pqo9O0PK1mL2AKxbauaN_YLkXg=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhXixhO5-YJ71p3L5f7zOTtZe5LXyyRhGM6ff5rjRZtNPfW5MGcDxs14_p4p1fGUpJ9O0boV_qCgQ90eBjFayyB36MMFw8D0toynYP8QYP8FmL1C72rFWZpepy5PatE6t_6ISv6u197vKfXn8zPy86K9Z1azi3hbp84pqo9O0PK1mL2AKxbauaN_YLkXg=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6k6jeKMeM_FJChy1XsinCuUdS_aAi3zPUUCfJ1SvunwjOpsop7WwoHFf6pwAChSJ_OBuGqznmk_BgDwre38FNZoe9_kaUih0kO1vB6qVsCwiACqHFUlnVY0Gtwgz7Ywc2WdQl-Wx3K9cSzGCFYk2CE3dLC5Duty60OnPjALswniF65-XHR_IO9BV2hA=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj6k6jeKMeM_FJChy1XsinCuUdS_aAi3zPUUCfJ1SvunwjOpsop7WwoHFf6pwAChSJ_OBuGqznmk_BgDwre38FNZoe9_kaUih0kO1vB6qVsCwiACqHFUlnVY0Gtwgz7Ywc2WdQl-Wx3K9cSzGCFYk2CE3dLC5Duty60OnPjALswniF65-XHR_IO9BV2hA=w400-h300" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEPoRgfLWSU0MNVcg9ENW_N7iYSYIJyCn6uH5_dUxMlSIN_8ko0Fkm-2EcaRCEdbLUe2rw7cXSHA9wiTASpamo7JGJbrzFAbvOZfBCu560oi5Re5-UsjFbBlNDJjzAGVuv7tWqr6h50A-dn4JH-Yz4PKAL5_2NGplkg4uAgOuhNi0_9T7_nTO6hyr4Pw=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiEPoRgfLWSU0MNVcg9ENW_N7iYSYIJyCn6uH5_dUxMlSIN_8ko0Fkm-2EcaRCEdbLUe2rw7cXSHA9wiTASpamo7JGJbrzFAbvOZfBCu560oi5Re5-UsjFbBlNDJjzAGVuv7tWqr6h50A-dn4JH-Yz4PKAL5_2NGplkg4uAgOuhNi0_9T7_nTO6hyr4Pw=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHWLyXtfDgzLLXwJPi7VZmbfFzAZ84ILjFPR6qXi5ICH-mXFyG9JT_QTRDWFP6ZFe_ps0XA-3YF3LQciRo2OAkUqznJlXJf3efU1e8aE-PjP7hlQhJIDna71122eVqMbuXhKVousNM2gamFLARTi4DQqR3dSzI-yuCcM7Qk9KzeWQZVOio4Rrfk-boNQ=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjHWLyXtfDgzLLXwJPi7VZmbfFzAZ84ILjFPR6qXi5ICH-mXFyG9JT_QTRDWFP6ZFe_ps0XA-3YF3LQciRo2OAkUqznJlXJf3efU1e8aE-PjP7hlQhJIDna71122eVqMbuXhKVousNM2gamFLARTi4DQqR3dSzI-yuCcM7Qk9KzeWQZVOio4Rrfk-boNQ=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhdz-KZkottc7am1qUhgkVB8pBsK76lfNKBo4JPTLSNOECXzs3F4CclLesVB1aS4IOkdudLSBnu7hOVarFee_OvqJOMfCrWMfRqcYAzcXtmb8nnEYfEMuJBtSAf_NzrAaluhEIIX-0AVRFxO0v-GKQdx-wUuOvpfTyQ_6685f5hPc8bFAzonZnK_Jqelg=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhdz-KZkottc7am1qUhgkVB8pBsK76lfNKBo4JPTLSNOECXzs3F4CclLesVB1aS4IOkdudLSBnu7hOVarFee_OvqJOMfCrWMfRqcYAzcXtmb8nnEYfEMuJBtSAf_NzrAaluhEIIX-0AVRFxO0v-GKQdx-wUuOvpfTyQ_6685f5hPc8bFAzonZnK_Jqelg=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div><div><br /><p>Mum and Dad celebrated their wedding anniversary at the end of January, and Mum had a birthday a few days ago. The house is full of flowers, scents of freesia and mimosa, vases rarely used had to be found. A freshly baked chocolate cake arrived the day before Ma's birthday, via our friend Joan, and Irfan sent mithai - from Gupta’s - gifts can arrive this way these days - Singapore to London to Cambridge…</p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhdInZCjYd_HtzmUQ58WRbxyKvkr9r4vA76o9ESYZzselst9lt5Jinrknof5aNVhQ22tSgRR0Whc56xQAxZN3R6slnNA3Fqc3KdEDFcU-43WKnCxBkJhlvtpfcw1KeU5q_DPjfEBFZoVpXh9wESc7Ftrx6JeKGb3gOy4DsVwcsbyyiT5vX-jGVzK9WoRw=s4032" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhdInZCjYd_HtzmUQ58WRbxyKvkr9r4vA76o9ESYZzselst9lt5Jinrknof5aNVhQ22tSgRR0Whc56xQAxZN3R6slnNA3Fqc3KdEDFcU-43WKnCxBkJhlvtpfcw1KeU5q_DPjfEBFZoVpXh9wESc7Ftrx6JeKGb3gOy4DsVwcsbyyiT5vX-jGVzK9WoRw=s320" width="240" /></a></p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEuj11EUNK4UIgTWuLSA481GMgJqjzeC_lHvA85-nqPuZRLSqrSe00943-4jaJr5eH19wAfbdQg0NmOCFiUaCKHXgo5ZBvXeNeNS9TS5vUNf-JN7i8JTda-JOSxVzQL0Oa1VjCeaEBrN1LPkRckc29aZNt__ZnZhw5ele-9JUqeDqdVLKUkHBWQo2JCA=s1800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgEuj11EUNK4UIgTWuLSA481GMgJqjzeC_lHvA85-nqPuZRLSqrSe00943-4jaJr5eH19wAfbdQg0NmOCFiUaCKHXgo5ZBvXeNeNS9TS5vUNf-JN7i8JTda-JOSxVzQL0Oa1VjCeaEBrN1LPkRckc29aZNt__ZnZhw5ele-9JUqeDqdVLKUkHBWQo2JCA=s320" width="256" /></a> </p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhU0MC9PxO1xUQHGVdEyW2PLmac9-jTwq16rrEpmzDNR9kW2b5BlxANrSRRPJNmQhWnpWcrajymGwvM296pufWV981ljALGJgOmek9l-uQqkL_Owu1IILWq9xpbKXkv12NMOBrBujaxvuAhQUZ23axyA0qqzybI_eVpP6dXCBvwxhxTB1lKbp07quA9vw=s4032" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhU0MC9PxO1xUQHGVdEyW2PLmac9-jTwq16rrEpmzDNR9kW2b5BlxANrSRRPJNmQhWnpWcrajymGwvM296pufWV981ljALGJgOmek9l-uQqkL_Owu1IILWq9xpbKXkv12NMOBrBujaxvuAhQUZ23axyA0qqzybI_eVpP6dXCBvwxhxTB1lKbp07quA9vw=w400-h300" width="400" /></a> </p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEix3tbyfnyjEp7s61v-vN2gfbfMlsXuzTk1ssHZbAWUFcbhsZZtrKc50GxfgRgPSCe4hVZXuPlnkHWSxanGu-Imo_HadFmy23mDdHzP0-qQtd4QXLr8SeF0gCK6T_mZSB45adZrTExH4DHS9-SxNTwyhTfQq20mNow-HR1FZXwCo20ufQLp_sgxIWvP2w=s1800" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1800" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEix3tbyfnyjEp7s61v-vN2gfbfMlsXuzTk1ssHZbAWUFcbhsZZtrKc50GxfgRgPSCe4hVZXuPlnkHWSxanGu-Imo_HadFmy23mDdHzP0-qQtd4QXLr8SeF0gCK6T_mZSB45adZrTExH4DHS9-SxNTwyhTfQq20mNow-HR1FZXwCo20ufQLp_sgxIWvP2w=w320-h400" width="320" /></a> </p><p style="text-align: justify;">Who am I? We have lived so many lives already. The bell of mindfulness on my Plum Village app sounds every fifteen minutes, bringing me back to my present moment, which is quiet and safe and peaceful enough. My book is out in the world and being read, and I am learning that it takes Time to approach another piece of work while your heart and mind are still engaged with your first. I am tired, there is no doubt of that. Pops has had many sleepless nights, and I have been his aide-de-camp in matters of tea and biscuits… posh ones, Cartwright and Butler…</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh17CKIZXAXEdScOsG7UJUD62yyPfWQKHgbl2R8XYFx5OD2gsXCxxEW9wa6u1KMkFvrg2ub-OZbIwC1llQRbj3bP4Px3fDh-ZDPoGv6sswkUYgm0l7PU1M0P6JX9yu6HjgvomSxtFgYiuRVRBpWm-80rYpXWoisBk1f-3SGqL9H2QQ3WCOv_g8a3COzMA=s3780" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3780" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEh17CKIZXAXEdScOsG7UJUD62yyPfWQKHgbl2R8XYFx5OD2gsXCxxEW9wa6u1KMkFvrg2ub-OZbIwC1llQRbj3bP4Px3fDh-ZDPoGv6sswkUYgm0l7PU1M0P6JX9yu6HjgvomSxtFgYiuRVRBpWm-80rYpXWoisBk1f-3SGqL9H2QQ3WCOv_g8a3COzMA=w320-h400" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: justify;">My fourth booster must be organised soon, I have taken my pre-infusion covid test in preparation for tmorrow’s infusion… and so it goes… do your days and months have a pattern? Do you experience the funny swoop? The little flutter that reminds you these are still strange times, and we must take care of ourselves and each other. The bell of mindfulness sounds again. </p><p> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipbnLf4U6O9wkPC1ETEvszB__cCcBYwtPINR2YS2b_l08Q8ROlHfexZFuOhh0WHdgWaaCFMLasM058Hm7Fc7PLct-NXF8Qr5nok8LzAx3vJ8ZF5TfD3WJffEniV76szw4CPdBEAWDylprTSN-tU6SV07Vg6IUPZi3hIjI8TFSTGYAmxhoITQau17g8hQ=s2048" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEipbnLf4U6O9wkPC1ETEvszB__cCcBYwtPINR2YS2b_l08Q8ROlHfexZFuOhh0WHdgWaaCFMLasM058Hm7Fc7PLct-NXF8Qr5nok8LzAx3vJ8ZF5TfD3WJffEniV76szw4CPdBEAWDylprTSN-tU6SV07Vg6IUPZi3hIjI8TFSTGYAmxhoITQau17g8hQ=w400-h300" width="400" /></a> </p><p> </p><p><br /></p></div>Shaistahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00259344471712162333noreply@blogger.com2