Month: May 2012 (page 1 of 2)

Happy Birthday


here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

– e.e. cummings

Justin’s desk

This makes me smile. Even Newton is tucked away back there.

A Song

I sing a sad song –
sadder that the sunset’s walk
in the city streets;
I feel grief in my blood
flowering from some hidden spring;
my friends, we die –
we sail into the end
without pausing to say goodbye;
our dreams, hopes, loves
come to an end
like footprints in the sand
chewed by the desert.

I sing a happy song –
happier than the sunrise
on another shore;
happier than the smile
a birthday-child smiles;
happier than a new kiss;
I feel a stubborn joy
conquering my blood;
my friends, we live –
we live each instant
to its deepest cores, collect
its treasures, trifle with its secrets
lave ourselves within its ecstasy.

Of death and life I shall
a happy/sad sad/happy song sing…

– Shaikh Ghazi Al-Qusabi


One month

One month ago, right around this time, while I was sleeping, everything changed. And now my life is divided into before that moment and after that moment. I am sure the after part will get eventually better, but I definitely preferred the before bit. I still can’t really believe it is over.

6 April 2012.

Celloboxing with Kevin Olusola

This made me happy. But for the moment, even being happy makes me a bit sad.


The last few weeks have shaken my views of the universe and my place in it. And in the midst of all this, I am trying to sift through the mounds of pain and confusion to find some small nuggets of goodness that might be worth keeping. Two things I have found are humility and compassion.

More times than I care to remember during the past weeks, I have been that crazy woman that you see on the street that walks by crying or talking to herself. I’ve seen that woman before and have avoided her gaze and told myself I would never be her and why can’t she just keep it together. And yet here I am now: the crazy lady.

So what I have learned is that the gap between me and the “other” is much smaller than I believed it to be and in the blink of an eye I can find myself on the “other” side. As they, “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” But even more than that, who am I to say that the crazy lady is even crazy at all? Maybe she is just having the worst day of her life. What do I know of her reality? But I don’t even need to take such an extreme example. The mother unable to control her screaming children, the frustrated, unfriendly cashier at the supermarket, the guy who cuts in front of me to get off the tram. Who knows what their full story is, but giving them the benefit of the doubt is the least I can do.

I know this because although I have been that crazy lady recently, I am not really crazy. I am just really sad, and sometimes the sadness spills out and at those moments I am always unspeakably grateful for the very few people who are able to meet my eye and, through some expression or gesture, help renew my belief that everything is going to be ok.

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