on if we could see what we carry

In a world of manifest metaphor, we carry our baggage by our sides and on our backs. Into suitcases, hold-alls, carry-ons and duffel bags, we cramp and stuff once significant others, bruises taken as children, rejections suffered at the hands of those more than us, dreams we were slow to claim and the crumbs of daily inadequacies that flake off to line the inseams.

We struggle with our mis-matched luggage; backs stooped, gaits shuffled; into cars, onto busses, taxis, shifting for space around our legs in coffee-shops, cinemas, cubicles at work, restrooms and parks.

Some people’s baggage precede them – taking up too much of your elbow room while others clutch them tightly to their chests, afraid the bones will fall out. We all move around each other in concerted rhythm; this sluggish dance of dragging trunks and lockers, weighted down by chunks of heart, reams of unwritten words; hard-drives of emails we never pushed the button on and what-ifs that clutter in-between.

We see each other for the mules we are and search for some luggage carousel’s re-assuring loop to offload and walk away straight backed; leaving hang-ups and let-downs to circle unclaimed.

soul’d (memories of ramadaan)

Ramdh, “burning of the feet from heat”

Ramadha, ‘intense heat”

Ramad, “the heat of the stones arising from the intense heat of the sun”
Heat.
And yet Ramadaan brought a coolness of spirit; satin pools offering respite from the insistent fingers of the sun.

And the whisperings of the Shayateen, kept far from us, we’re told, during the fast, which amplified to me just how much of our baseness is our own, the internal conflicts – civil wars.

Praying in evening congregation – hundreds of souls binded by the lifting of one finger, “God is One”, wired firmly by the “Aameen”, in one supplicant voice – I held Hope by the shoulder, “we will smash through our schisms, if only we all prayed together.”

And don’t tell me that women should not pray like this, don’t tell me that masaajid and congregational Eid salaah are not for those born without a y-chromosome. These are times of Fitnah, only because we’ve kept mothers away from that which will feed their children.

And as swiftly as Ramadaan shades us, that is how it leaves us, open; with a longing for 11 lunar births to whole the soul. May its legacy live on in the little things we forget; give off yourself in ways that will not lessen you- smile without motive, acknowledge those with hands cupped at traffic lights, be kind to all who join you on your path.