HAFTSEEN

It’s Navroze today, the 21st of March. Spring equinox. That daffodil time of year. A good Iranian creates a beautiful haft-seen table, as described in this article perfectly. ‘Haft’ is seven in Persian, and the seven objects to be displayed all begin with the Persian letter ‘seen’ … S.

It’s not a big Parsi thing as far as I recall? And not a practise we have ever engaged in as a family, but it does look delightful when done… as would any feast table at iftar, Eid, Diwali, Passover and Christmas… beginnings, middles, ends of years. The seasons are scuttling by faster than ever, humans are humaning so fast that we have already ushered in the dawn of our intelligence companion - dear old Chat GPT, invisible amanuensis, ever ready with a thoughtful answer, memory ever updating. Feeding us and fed by us. An Additional Intelligence. 

I mentioned in a previous post that I had been attending poetry workshops once a week… in January, I began attending a God Fellowship course in tandem with studying the Hebrew Bible with Hadar Cohen, a mystic Arab Jewish scholar, who possesses that rare ability to invite deep spiritual and spirited thought by the quality of her listening. In Hadar’s case, the peace she creates is secondary to the justice and universal liberation she works for.    

Listening is an art we aren’t encouraged to practise. It’s the talkies we like to engage in. Chatters by nature, our opinions have become currency. The radio has been replaced by podcasts and Instagram can be dipped into all day long. I love podcasts. I think I’m subscribed to over one hundred and sixty! I have uncounted tabs open on my various devices, an enormous list of movies/ documentaries to be watched and partially read books glower at me, reproaching their once loyal, now absentee friend.

I like to think I will make a longed for return to reading. I like to think I will attend to my patiently waiting novel. My yoga mats stretch out, hopeful in purple and pink… but… early this morning, a song rang out loud and conspicuous - ‘Pretend you’re happy when you’re blue!’ - and I knew Dad had not slept, was desperate for a cup of tea and company. The sun caught him out the other day, as he soaked up rays in the doorway. He fainted and Mum had a tricky time trying to manage him back to bed, and then, when he still hadn't fully regained consciousness, down to the floor - I was at the hospital having an infusion. The paramedics arrived and were brilliant, but Mum had already wrenched her back by then. Dad’s ok, Mum’s ok … Nat King Cole sets the tone… and I, trying not to cry most of the time, keep quilting the patchwork of my days, a haft seen of its own.

(Images of the Haftseen above are by Pauline Eleazar for Savoir Flair)

(Hadar Cohen can be found at her own website and at Malchut, her Jewish Mystical School)

MAKING TEA (A SURVIVAL GUIDE TO WAITING)

Like Leila Chatti, I remember

the 6pm brewing of tea

for Dad, for me, 

to get through the long winter evening 

that stretched ahead

into an insomniac night. 

A bridge between two terrors. 

Sometimes it’s the hot water

bottle we are waiting for, 

to take us from shivering, 

back aching paralysis, into

a softer, more pliant acceptance 

that this is it, this is our life.

And this small pocket of heat is love.

For me, it’s dihydrocodeine - 

the friendly morphine coin

the size of a biscuit for a mouse.

Bitter, of course - 

but as miraculous, as soothing

as the hot water bottle,

the hot tea

that frees me,

moves us forward

into the day, counting the hours, 

tasting time in bitter sweet gulps - 

a friendly fire of sorts.

(There are other less pleasant waitings - 

for blindness, for death;

but we won’t speak of those,

just yet.)

© Shaista Tayabali, 2024

For the past two months I have been attending an online poetry workshop facilitated by the poet Trivarna Hariharan. Today is the shortest day of the year in this part of the world. The nights have been drawing in, foggy fingers envelop cars on the dark roads and Christmas lights are a gladdening sign. I wrote my poem using as a prompt the poem below by Leila Chatti - the poet in the very glamorous photo above!)

TEA

Five times a day, I make tea. I do this
because I like the warmth in my hands, like the feeling
of self-directed kindness. I’m not used to it—
warmth and kindness, both—so I create my own
when I can. It’s easy. You just pour
water into a kettle and turn the knob and listen
for the scream. I do this
five times a day. Sometimes, when I’m pleased,
I let out a little sound. A poet noticed this
and it made me feel I might one day
properly be loved. Because no one is here
to love me, I make tea for myself
and leave the radio playing. I must
remind myself I am here, and do so
by noticing myself: my feet are cold
inside my socks, they touch the ground, my stomach
churns, my heart stutters, in my hands I hold
a warmth I make. I come from
a people who pray five times a day
and make tea. I admire the way they do
both. How they drop to the ground
wherever they are. Drop
pine nuts and mint sprigs in a glass.
I think to care for the self
is a kind of prayer. It is a gesture
of devotion toward what is not always beloved
or believed. I do not always believe
in myself, or love myself, I am sure
there are times I am bad or gone
or lying. In another’s mouth, tea often means gossip,
but sometimes means truth. Despite
the trope, in my experience my people do not lie
for pleasure, or when they should,
even when it might be a gesture
of kindness. But they are kind. If you were
to visit, a woman would bring you
a tray of tea. At any time of day.
My people love tea so much
it was once considered a sickness. Their colonizers
tried, as with any joy, to snuff it out. They feared a love
so strong one might sell or kill their other
loves for leaves and sugar. Teaism 
sounds like a kind of faith
I’d buy into, a god I wouldn’t fear. I think now I truly believe
I wouldn’t kill anyone for love,
not even myself—most days
I can barely get out of bed. So I make tea.
I stand at the window while I wait.
My feet are cold and the radio plays its little sounds.
I do the small thing I know how to do
to care for myself. I am trying to notice joy,
which means survive. I do this all day, and then the next.

Author’s Note

This poem was the first I wrote in a long period of drought. I was, as the poem alludes to, suffering from a depressive episode, one that dislodged my language and made the simple tasks of living significantly difficult. There was one act of self-care, however, that I could bring myself to do with regularity: make tea. All day, each day, I did it; it’s true. I made the connection one day between my love of—dependency on, even—tea and the cultural role and history of tea in my Tunisian ancestry. Tea is so beloved in Tunisia that when it was under French rule, colonial administrators believed Tunisians’ tea consumption was a psychological condition, teaism, similar to alcoholism, and that the amount of tea my people drank had poisoned both their bodies and minds. I was interested in examining my own experience with my body and mind, harm and care, pleasure and survival, as it relates to tea, and this poem tumbled out of that. As a note to this note, my pantry continues to be stuffed to the brim with tea—enough to last me over a year, at least.

photo images from Carthage magazine

IN SEARCH OF DELIGHT

With every year that passes, I seem to accumulate a smaller number of blog posts. I think this is the inevitable fate of The Blog as a vehicle for our thoughts. Technology intruded in its rapid way and demanded a change - but for the writer, all the modes of transporting thought to word remain alive, however strained the thread.

It has been a very difficult two months. The beloved friend I wrote about in my last post, Victoria, would have read this post, but for her life in this human form taking flight on the 29th of August. A month later, Dad, who had been having trouble with infection in his ears, had episodes of losing consciousness, developed a high fever and was hospitalised with E.coli sepsis on the 18th of September. Here we are, at the end of the month and Pops is still in hospital. His infection markers have all returned to normal but his hearing has not. Communication has been a struggle but he is as ever graceful, remarkable and heartbreaking in the loveliest of ways. Dad, I miss you horribly. Come home soon.

In between, my brothers and Mum's brother have visited and done the supportive work that makes family continue to be family. In between, a young boy cycled up to my house and seeing a handbag unattended, stole it. This is the intersection of being human. My lapse of judgment in doing a careless yet trusting thing - oh it's a young boy I've seen many times before, cycling up to ask if he can wash our cars, I can leave my bag unattended, the front door open while I dash out to the back for... what? I cannot recall now, as I was waiting for friends to take me to Victoria's funeral. In my bag was my mobile phone - which, once upon a time, might not have impacted my life too much. But, today, our little devices hold worlds within them. 

I had a bone infusion yesterday. I picked up a cold a few days ago while at the hospital with Dad, so I feel rather heavy and my eyes feel bleak. But Dad is sitting up, practising his standing with the walker and I have hope returning for the first time that we might bring him home by the end of next week. In the meantime, I am doing the homely things of cooking meals for Mum, chicken soup for Dad, laundering clothes from hospital and watering the precious indoor plants that Mum tends to with a far greener thumb than my own. I just pat them on the head and apologise and they pat me back and say they understand. 

In the meantime, I have rewatched several old favourites... aren't movies one of the greatest reasons to stay alive, stay reminded of why we are and who we are? 'The Young Victoria' is sumptuous in its romantic portrayal of her courtship with Albert, 'Mrs Harris Goes to Paris' is delightfully Parisian in her search for the dreamiest Dior gown and 'Miss Potter', one of my most favourites... not only for its charming illustrations of Jemima Puddle-Duck and its central character being the excellently feminist Beatrix Potter, but also for the sweetest musical refrain... 

'Let me teach you how to dance,

let me lead you to the floor;

simply place your hand in mine,

and then think of nothing more.

Let the music cast its spell,

give the atmosphere a chance;

simply follow where I lead,

let me teach you how to dance.'

 

WALKING WITH DAD THROUGH A TIME OF UNCERTAINTY

Over the course of this week, beginning Monday 23rd March, I have had a swathe of texts from the NHS Coronavirus service. The very first one instructed me to stay home for 12 weeks and this morning’s told me to make sure I phone a friend or relative everyday. I’m phoning in this way, through my blog and vlog.

The willow and cherry trees sandwich our home and I try to keep my mind steady. In some ways life is unchanged for me, and in other ways everything is new because everyone else is experiencing it for the first time - this global disorder to the sense your life made to you. I have experienced a microcosm of this disorder every single day for the past twenty years... and still make little sense of it.

So I walk on ... as you do... taking one step at a time.... que sera sera ... except we don’t really believe that, or adhere to it. We don’t want it to be what it will be. We want to make it what we want it to be. Who wins this? The men in power keep speaking in war analogies. No room for softness and gentleness even in this time of great vulnerability. My walks with Dad can only be described as gentle and vulnerable. Especially now that I can’t manage them anymore. I have a heavy cold, cough and sore throat, have re-started antibiotics on the recommendation of my immunologists and need to stay away to protect him, and Mum, for a while.  I’m glad we walked when we could.

A POET AT WORK

My father, asleep in an armchair,
breathing in Chopin,

his head resting
on two fingertips.

Silver grey hair,
and a face

gathering thoughts,
before he wakes.

© Shaista Tayabali, 2018

A recent photograph of me and the Chopin listener (taken by our friend Sue Fox), and also one of Mum’s earliest portraits of Dad...  ‘a very quick oil sketch’ is how she describes it... the most talented artists are sometimes the most humble! I love her use of blue, don't you?

(For a Dverse Poets Open Link night)