Of birds & men

Sitting at the the dark, flimsy desk my elbows resting casually on the hard surface, the sun hits me with intent through the open window. I squint at the offending orb, chiding the rays for trying to lure me outdoors. Outside is where people are thriving, carefree and careless. My mind is darting, distracted by green trees and bright sunshine. To me the outdoors is a balm, it soothes my tired soul. I'm not entirely sure where this session is going to take me, but I wish it was more than my fingers getting exercise today. I lean back in the chair as if I'm leaning against rock, testing the wheels, not wise! With a "whoa",  the chair threatens to tilt beneath my weight.

I sigh deeply: "Ai ja!"

 "Focus, Nariman!" 

My mind tends to be flighty these days. As flighty as the group of tiny birds being birds outside. I know they see me, they are often perched on the wooden fence, eyes darting, tiny heads cocked at the prisoner inside. I'm jealous that they get to play with their friends among the trees. Also they get to fly! And I'm stuck rocking chairs, trying to pop wheelies while these tiny creatures meander through the trees at the back of my house, circling the branches as if in play, diving down then zooming back up  through low hanging foliage, refusing to be curtailed by diggers and relentless contractors on the small plot of land. 3 more strip malls are being built where the rainforest once grew wild. They continue circling overhead and I am drawn to the sight, jealous that they get to frolic outside while I'm stuck in the house held hostage by covid and fear.

"Focus, Nariman!" 

Asking me to concentrate is the equivalent of asking me to sleep for 8 hours, it is very much desired, but highly unlikely. "Ah, menopause, the heat in Brunei is slightly milder than the flash you release throughout my body on a whim." 

I dig around blindly for my purple headphones in the drawer and put them on, pressing play on The 99-names of Allah, and set the volume to loud. The melodious sound reverberates through me, the drum base setting a rhythm that I follow along on automatic. It calms me and my focus returns, briefly.

"Free as a bird" never rang truer.

OF MEN

Thinking of freedom leads me to thinking about attachment and men, and "the birds and the bees". 

"What, am I five?"

And I think about appearance as a commodity, and the kind of men attracted to our surfaces, living in our shallows.

And I think about the kind of men who sees beyond all that. You know, the man that calls you beautiful because he sees your soul.

Anyway, that kind of man.

The best of men knows the joy beyond the flesh.

The best of men know how to love women, not as objects, but as spiritual, soulful creations, with  minds sharper than tongues.

And the best of them know our true value as mothers, as wives, and friends.

Show me a man who puts his family first, and I'll show you greatness. 

OF ME

Thinking of men leads me to thinking about our attachment to beauty. 

And I think about the perceived value in our appearance, and the kind of women we've become, living for the superficial.

Argh! Us too, only seeing what's on the outside?

Why are we buying into this BS? So many rituals! 

Its creams & serums.

Beauty treatments & procedures.

Botox & injectables!

Vitamins & supplements.  

Why are we working so hard on body maintenance? For health? For vanity? To live forever, and  to look fabulous doing it?  

So we're plucking and tweezing and threading and lifting and tightening and whitening? From head to toe:  the hair, the brows, the lashes, the teeth, the cheeks, the lips, the  jawline...and that is just the head! To get it "right" takes willpower, money and pain. EVERYTHING! EVERYDAY! It must be tight, firm, pore-free, hair-free and blemish-free! Its unnatural. The list is endless: the hair, the make-up, the spider lashes, the full lips, the round booties, the firm boobs, the tight skin... skin is wonderous, it stretches and protects and absorbs, its supposed to, we bake babies, and bend and stretch, and laugh and frown! 

We have become the sum of our parts. And we covet Her booty, Her glow, and we mask ourselves with our favourite filters.  Objectification has become normalized. And aging has become something maligned. And we end up hating ourselves. And we forget to live in the now.

How can we be Anti-Aging, when growing older is part of the natural cycle of life? And how does one grow older in this type of culture? 

With difficulty, not wisdom it seems.

I view the world outside and I am drawn to it's healing.

"Come."

 Softly at first.

"Come!" 

Louder now.

My intuition is calling me, leading me to the spaces within. The birds are tweeting and the soft wind is rustling through the trees. They have come to remind me of my place in the light where peace resides amidst the clutter and chaos. 

I am creation, and beauty and light. Perfectly imperfect. Eternity mine  all along.

Inside I am dancing in green fields in the sunlight, and with a tiny flutter my soul takes flight.