Awakening the Wild Woman

As many times as I’d died, you think I’d be used to this feeling of rebirth. As I step into this new role, perhaps ancient identity—I find myself expanding in ways the physical eye cannot perceive.

I’d never enjoyed the idea of shrinking myself; of being quiet or silenced; of being docile and meek. Being raised by women daring to run against the grain to return to her nature, I’d been a witness to the unfolding process of the wild woman; as she leaves all that she has known to seek the bounty of the divine.

Marveling at the wild woman, I still feared her solitude as I captured her shadow, the isolation solidifying her lack of trust, turning one’s heart cold and speech bitter. The world shamed her for her lack of submission to patriarchal standards, maiming her an outcast of undeveloped community. She was ostracized, and in her exile was forced to nurture light in the midst of darkness. Her nature always frightened me– the threat of loneliness fastening tightly to my neck, going against my nomadic, communal nature. I ran away from the wild woman even as she beckoned me to a quiet patio to write tales of the divine, placing my forehead upon Gods plentiful earth, crooning in the arms of her bitter shadow until I was forced to see her beauty. Its amazing how stubbornly we run from that which we know can save us.

In calling in her archetype, I honor the nature of who I’ve always been and allow myself to step into the simple authenticity of being me. Peeling away each layer of identity underneath, I discover primal essence and return to the spiritual nature derived from God’s very breath. And in that moment, I realized that the wild woman was only called so because she had the courage the break loose of ego’s chains and do what everyone swore they could not.

Return to heaven by setting herself free.

This is the reopening of the journey of the wild woman.

xx Heaven

Healing as a Community Effort

My Home

One of the biggest core wounds I’ve had to heal is doubting myself. Perhaps, it stems from generational trauma: a burden earned from my identity as a Black Muslim woman in North America. I can remember from the time I began grade school that I had in innate need to excel. And this need was driven by a passion to be accepted, to be validated in ways that perhaps my ancestors could not have for themselves. My mother would constantly remind: “You have to work three times just as hard as the next person. Why? You are black, you are Muslim and you are a woman. You are the most hated thing this country has ever seen but never let that deter you from your destiny.”

Memories like these haunt me as I sit in spaces of people dripping of privilege. While I cannot deny my own privilege (having the means and intellect to read, write and work in well-known and established institutions), I cannot deny the trauma experienced from having my hopes and dreams seemingly mitigated by shields of disadvantage. And believe me: I am not the only one. What say you of those whom have been wrongfully incarcerated; having their rights stripped away? What say you of working-class families, whose parents did not have the opportunity to send their children to private schools, colleges and universities? Or immigrant families, forced from their homes into a spaces where they are unwelcomed, ostracized from society as the “other”. We live in a society that separates us not only by color, but by class through means of mental acuity, physique and economic standing.

For those of us whom are deeply empathetic to the struggles of others, we often ask ourselves “what can I do to help”? Its quite admirable honestly; even with our own innate feelings of unworthiness, we still stand for others. But even this can be a trap. How can one untether themselves from their own trauma through fighting for anothers? I must be candid and ask- who will stand and fight for yours? Nevertheless, it is often through this cyclical cycle of seeking healing externally that God grants us the wisdom to finally be able forgive ourselves in ways that we never could before. Our stories are just stories: a culmination of memories, experiences and perceptions all charged with the task of bringing us to your depths. Of helping us understand ourselves. And perhaps…perhaps through this revelation, one finds the strength to look in the mirror and accept who they see. Beautifully so, as time has proven through hearing each others stories, staring at familiar and unfamiliar faces and images, visiting spaces that reminds of us of home, reflecting on the uniqueness of each of our stories—we somehow find healing.

I don’t claim to know everything, in fact I believe that I barely know anything at all. But what I am sure of is that through seeing the humanity of one another, we build systems of healing. I know that through supporting works derived from intrinsic truths, we project strength that allows for others to stand in their own authenticity. I’ve witnessed how beautifully and intricately interconnected we are to one another and how this connection is proof in a greater Divine being that ties us all together.

We all have healing to do. We have generations of trauma, of withstanding pain, of quietly allowing injustice to breed resentment within our being. From these passions given to us from The One we are called to a higher purpose of embodying the righteous qualities that exists within God Himself. We are called to a higher purpose of breaking illusions–helping one another, being kind, reminding one another who we truly are. We are called to a higher purpose of experiencing this existence. Of experiencing humanness, of experiencing Him. Be sure that your experience is one that is well-worth the journey.

Screams from the Silent

office

At times I feel meekly paralyzed
Covering my face at the shame of gruesome deeds
If one could perhaps rip the blindfold from their heart
Lay each story onto a scale and measure them
They’d be horrified at the punchlines we’ve been sold;
One man with limbs marred by pavements heat in the scorching summer
Somewhere near 96th Street
Onlookers watch gazes filled of disgust
And I, I disappear into the crowd
Stomach full of lead
Or perhaps the woman with two children
One upright, one decrepit
As she stumbles up and down flights with purse, babe and stroller in hand
Mere seconds from plunging to her demise
But her worry is with is the place she needs to go,
the mouths she need to feed,
the work she must return to
Never mind patrons passing idly along stairs until she trips on the first child,
Another rushing to grasp the falling carriage from her hands
As she tumbles down 8 flights, child firmly clasped to her chest
Woe to these current times—
Profit at the demise of our brothers
Without the means to purchase tombstones for graveyards
While others are sipping from gold plated cups
Until one sees the face of God within themselves
It is hard to see God in the needy man with burnt limbs;
The wailing child dangling from the mother’s arms;
The man on Wall Street stuffing his mouth with gold
I am horrifically guilty—
Wishing for the return of my innocence

The Empty

white clouds — Photo by Dorothy Castillo on Pexels.com

Take a moment to empty yourself

Release all identities

All perceptions

Become like a child

Open in its awareness

Curious to what God has to offer it

All that it knows is its knowing

Its seeing

Its hearing

Empty yourself of yourself

Turn to God and seek Him in silence

Immerse yourself in the depths

Cleanse your being

Empty your vessel of all that it cant contain

All that distorts reality

All the is subjective in nature

Turn to nature and seek thyself

Oh, once you empty yourself

You will find God lingering in the containment of your being

Finding True Love in Death

flowers marguerites destroyed dead — Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

I had always been a romantic. Ever since I was a young girl. I dreamed of being rescued by prince charming- being loved even in the midst of suffering and being saved to live happily ever after. However, the reality of life had other plans.

It’s been three years since my older sister passed from this earth and moved to the next stage in her spiritual life. My grandfather passed away earlier this year, about two weeks from his 87^th birthday. They both always told me to be comfortable in who I was, to speak the truth and to express love while I’d had the chance. Both, flawed as all humans are, but beautiful in the contents of their soul.

While at home visiting for holidays, my mother asked me a bit timidly if I wanted to go with her to the cemetery. “Maybe we could go to your sister and grandad’s grave site but I’m not sure if you really want to..” I’d been procrastinating on going for the whole three years since my sister passed. Other things always came up; I moved from my hometown and as life proves again and again- time truly does foster forgetfulness. On that day, however, I could come up with no excuses. So, I thought “why not?” and drove with her to the cemetery.

Cemetery’s and funerals have always felt so melancholic. It was a dreary day- the clouds made the sky gleam a sickening grey, the rain made the soil damply wet. On pulling into the cemetery, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The grave site was filled to the brim with tombstones, practically placed upon the other, as close as they could without enmeshing the bodies underneath in order to provide space for the person lying next to them. Visiting cemetery’s are always quite sobering: telling the truth of a journey that we must all take.

We first visited my grandfather, placed right by the river which he loved dearly. This visit was filled with joy at the memory of the beautiful man he was, melancholy at the realization that six months have passed since his passing but also pride in that he lived a long glorious life. Soon after, we left and went on the search to find my sisters tombstone. In between getting lost amidst the other graves, the twisting and twirling of the road and the awkward placement of the landmarks, we finally caught sight of her stone and left the car to go pay our respects.

My mother gleefully calls “Hayat, look at who I brought to see you! She’s finally here.” At first, I felt numb to the core, recalling the day that we actually put her into the ground. I stood silently staring at her stone, unsure where to begin or what to say. At some point, I recall my mother whispering “I’ll give you some privacy to speak to your sister” and hearing her footsteps retreat to the other side of the graveyard. It was at that moment, in the stillness of the wind, tears rolling down my face, my head bowed and speaking softly to the wind that I had the opportunity of greeting my sister for the first time in three years.

Life is quite funny. It’s amazing how we search for love and care in the oddest of places. For the better part of my life, I’d been running across lands, states, places in search of a love that was the purest reflection of divinity. “I hope for a love that is accountable, joyful, easeful, quiet, unconditional, patient and Godly.” I created lists of what it would feel like, of how my partner would love me in hardship, hug me in pain, admonish me when I was wrong and be patient in the midst of adversity. But that day, something just clicked. I realized right there, in that moment, where I stood before the sobering truth of death that the love I had been looking for was right in front of me all along.

God bless my mother, the truest representation of love.