We are but specks of dust

We are but specks of dust catching the light and moving with the breeze.

We came from distant places to this earth that is blue, so that we may become ocean.

We are here to shine, and embrace sorrows and joys.

We are here to be kind, and speak words of comfort.

We came a long time ago,and since then, some have forgotten that it is to love that we are here.

Kenza.

Gregor Samsa – a better world is possible

So you know how it goes.

You are a child and they put you in school. If you are lucky they won’t cram A’s and B’s into your brain. But most of the time these days they will, even if you already grasp the concept.

Numbers also appear and sometime along the way, you are asked to learn multiplication tables by heart. And then they explain adjectives and verbs and grammar. But never do they tell you why grammar is important. Diligently you learn the rules, make mistakes aplenty and in orthography too, and you start fearing exams. And you study some more, and you memorise some more, and somehow it is fine. Grammar you see is important because without it there would be chaos and there would be no communication. But they never tell you that.

And you move on … with the herd.

Then one day, while at the public library, you notice a little book on a table waiting to be placed back on the shelf. You are barely 11 years old but the cover attracts you. It is a bug -kind of a cockroach really- and it is looking at you. You pick it up, sit on a chair at the corner, and start to read.

“One morning, upon awakening from agitated dreams, Gregor Samsa found himself, in his bed, transformed into a monstrous vermin.”

You meet Gregor Samsa for the very first time and your life changes.

The world becomes multi-dimensional and filled with the unknown. You realize that not understanding is not such a bad thing and that it leads you to question, to ponder, to search some more. You realise that someone else thinks along the same lines as you do, and even writes about it without being belittled. You encounter poetry and the magic of words. You realize imagination has no boundaries, no shapes, and that it is immense, colourful and filled with flavours that you, yes you, can change at will.

I remember the joy of delving into a new world, pondering Gregor Samsa’s dilemma and feeling sorry for him; but also rejoicing at his uncanny freedom as he leaves the house, and by the same token, the drudgery of his working life. He may be a bug, a “vermin” as some translations put it, but he is suddenly free and unburdened. And that, you see, is just fine.

The world is an open field and we have the ability to avoid falling into drudgery if we really want to. We need not become a bug, but we can metamorphose at will. Our mind, our imagination, our sensitivity to the world are to be used, to be expanded upon.

As the world seems to be breaking at the seams with rampant ignorance, prejudice and violence, we can let our mind be free and we can dream. Just like Kafka, we all have a wonderful capacity to expand our imagination beyond the confines of even books and words.

Thank you for reading.

Kenza.

The carpet

I sit on the carpet, my fingers slowly tracing its intricate patterns. I wonder what the carpet weaver was thinking. He has left me few clues. I follow lines that go nowhere, jump to what seems like a flower or maybe a star, and get lost amidst its radiance.

Hafez tells us that the soul knows one hundred sighs.

Maybe the carpet weaver weaved his sighs into the carpet. Maybe the colourful patterns are calls to his beloved to come and sit next to him.

I am not a carpet weaver and you are far away. All I can do is let my sighs scatter light across the night sky, tracing the road you must take to come into my arms.

All I can do is wait – wait with the carpet weaver’s same infinite patience as he tied each knot thinking about his beloved.

I am tired now so I will slowly place my head on the carpet, and in the comfort of its softness, let my thoughts blend with its colours.

My eyes are closing. The faint aroma of Mohammedi rose water enrobes me, the same roses I once admired in Kashan, the same ones I use to flower apricot jam so that others may taste poetry.

I think I will sleep now. So looking east, I orient my last thoughts on your face hoping it may look up and see the road my sighs lit up for you in the sky.

Kenza.

Sadness

Sadness is an immense meadow.
A misty meadow filled with elegant trees,
branches laden with silent love.

Live your sadness thoroughly
like a rainy day that seems to never end.
Shed tears. Shed them all.

Let sadness devastate you,
crush your heart
until slowing it to the limits of life.

Then let the intense force of love,
the very root and fruit of sadness,
awake it all.

Let love open your eyes
and pull you up so that you may stand
in the vast meadow of sadness.

Let love reveal to you
that state of grace that only beauty confers.
Let it enrobe you with its immeasurable tenderness.

Yes, the world is often rough and cunning,
shattering our most intimate thoughts
and forcing us to doubt the simple beauty in our lives.

So open your eyes and take in the beauty.
Let all your sadness become a piece of cloud,
then place it inside your heart so that love may find a place to rest.

Kenza.