Where the Road Forks

A narrow path leads to a fork
A crosswalk on one side
Come this way, the pavement calls
The other, there's nowhere to hide

To tread upon the path less traveled
Means to be stung by twigs and thorns
But to continue toward a familiar road
Means bombardment by eyes and horns

Exhale

Exhale onto the wind

Let the current sweep by

Release the moments

Release the memories

Release the musty air

Inhale into the sun

Breathe in a lullaby

Embrace life's smiles

Embrace sage strength

Embrace the glow of time

Phoenix

Out of the ashes springs my love.
Feathers of red and gold
Fall across his broad shoulders, 
Rippling with the wind trying,
Trying to push him down.
Tears in his eyes
He looks at me and smiles
"I used to be beautiful."
Climbing over rubble, I call to him
"You will always be beautiful,"
For I can only tell the truth.
His bravery and courage
Shine the light through the darkness.
Even as he burns, he grows.

My Earliest Memory of Anxiety

When I was 4 or 5-years-old, nearing the start of kindergarten, my preschool had sod installed in the back of the playground. After one of my weekly concerts, where my best friend and I would sing our favorite song, "Follow Me" by Uncle Kracker, for the other students, I noticed the new sod. I found it absolutely fascinating that grass could be pulled up in sheets, and I decided to hide small objects underneath a few of them. Smugly, I placed an acorn under one of the pieces of sod, imagining that a huge tree would grow in it's place.

As soon as we were led back inside, I began feeling incredibly guilty. Clearly if there was supposed to be a tree there, someone would have planted one. The next day, I tried to remove the acorn, but I could never find it. While the sod took root, I had terrible nightmares in which I was playing when a full-grown tree suddenly appeared. In my dream, the adults were baffled and called the police to investigate. The nightmares lasted for weeks, and I lived in a constant state of worry that my crime would be found out.

On one of the last days of preschool, my father was driving to drop me off. I remember suddenly bursting into tears and confessing the illegal tree planting. He reassured me that I had done nothing wrong, and that a tree would probably not grow there, anyway. Instantly, I felt freed.

Now, more than 15 years later, I still think about that instance. Whenever I feel like my thoughts are irrational, I remind myself of the acorn. I can't help but wonder, however, if a tree ever managed too take root.

Welcome to My Mind

Welcome.

There's a boom box in the corner
That never turns off.
It's fine, though--
There's always a reason to dance--
As long as you remember that
Only you can hear the music.

There's a constant rhythm
Keeping the world in time--
Tap, tap, tap,
Knock, knock, knock--
It's impossible to fall out.
Your body will soon keep the beat.

We can certainly converse,
As long as you can hear me
Over the sounds. Oh, and
Pardon the mess.
My thoughts swirled by
Right before you arrived.

It's a work in progress,
It's small and cramped,
But it's my very own.
So, wipe your shoes by the door
And leave your coat behind.
You've arrived.

Welcome to my mind.

Muslim in America

I am a Muslim. I am an American.

I am not a Muslim-American because my religion does not qualify my citizenship.

I was born in Connecticut to two doctors who legally entered the country to further their education and career, with the bonus of being able to openly practice their faith. My parents taught me to be proud of my religion, Pakistani heritage, and American citizenship.

Beginning at a young age, I was told that as a Muslim—in a predominantly Christian community—the burden fell on me to exemplify all that is good within Islam. I was constantly reminded that I could be the first Muslim someone might meet, so the way I presented myself would follow a person throughout their life.

I was in kindergarten when the 9/11 attacks occurred and parents told their children not to play with me. I was frustrated and felt like a failure. If I was a better Muslim, would the towers still be standing? If I worked harder, would I still have friends? Only two years later, on a school trip to New York, did I realize that the act of violence impacted me more as an American than as a Muslim. I remember my father standing solemnly next to me as we looked on to Ground Zero. He explained to me, for the hundredth time, that the loss of life was a huge blow to the country and could not be blamed on the religion of Islam. Since that day, I and countless other Muslims around the world have had to come to the defense of Islam after attacks, rather than be able to mourn the loss of life of our fellow citizens.

As you prepare for the upcoming election, please remember that the hate-filled rhetoric surrounding people of different colors, races, and religions does not describe those people. Go out into the world and introduce yourself to people you wouldn’t typically approach. Ask people for their stories and share your own. As Americans, we have a responsibility to understand and protect our fellow citizens.

Reflections

A Beautiful Leader

"Gather around, chickies. I've got a story to tell you before I fly into the great unknown. Now, this story isn't a long one, but it's true, I swear. Listen closely, chickies. I expect you to find the lesson in all of this.

"When I was a young fledgling, there was a great power struggle within the flock. No one could agree on whether or not to migrate, seeing as how our winters were getting warmer every year. The two biggest birds fought and fought, and turned their little ones against each other.

"During one of our mid-autumn city meetings, a glorious, shining black bird circled right around us. I saw the adults shift on the wires, trying to ready themselves for conflict. He did not stop to fight, though. He circled and circled, eventually jumping into a wind stream and drifting away. Fascinated, the biggest birds directed us to follow him. He was to be our new leader.

"He was beautiful, I tell you. Just absolutely gorgeous. His feathers were so smooth that when the sun shined down on him, they looked like one flawless sheet. However, this bird was a weird creature. He never talked to anyone in the flock. In fact, none of the others were able to meet him eye to eye. They were so afraid, everyone stopped questioning his authority. Us little ones were taught to follow and not ask silly questions.

"Sometimes we flew for days--never even nearing our normal path. He never seemed to tire. When our leader did land, he might only allow us seconds to scavenge for food. Other times, we'd stay in one spot for a week, only barely skimming across the ground. I didn't know which situation was worse. Either way, the biggest birds were impressed.

"Onward, we flew for weeks, over rivers, trees, valleys, and wires. Each and every day, it got a little colder. The flock was just starting to believe that the migration would never end when we were stopped abruptly. The leader had been following the wind's every move, causing us to go back and forth, again and again. We were tired--exhausted, really. Some of the mommas had to leave their little ones behind. Birds weren't meant to fly but in one direction at a time, that much was clear.

"One of the biggest birds flew to the front of the flock to confront our leader. He hovered above the beautiful beast, trying to gather his nerve. While doing so, he pooped out the last thing he'd been able to eat in the form of a liquefied berry. The dropping smacked our master, and instantly he began spiraling to the ground. When we all found a spot to land, the biggest of the biggest inched towards the master to see what had happened.

"See now, chickies. We'd been following this guy thinking he'd save us from the cold and provide us a fertile land. Instead, we'd ended up on some concrete in a place colder than even most of the adults could stand.

"Anyway, much to the flock's surprise, the biggest picked up our leader in his beak and through him in the air. Then he stomped on him. You know why, chickies? As it turns out, our leader wasn't a bird. He was a torn plastic bag. And we'd followed it for weeks into a cold, desolate place.

"So, I hope you found the lesson on all of this. Blind faith in something or someone beautiful won't get you nowhere. It'll just get you tired, cold, and hungry."

Third Time Lucky

More often than not, when I get a break from school, I decide to challenge myself to complete a task. Again, more often than not, I fail. However, this time will be different. This time I've set a penalty: no Diet Coke EVER if I fail. Basically, I'm relying on my unhealthy obsession with Diet Coke to get me healthy.

Here's the plan:

I will combine these two challenges, and hopefully be in the best shape of my life by the 1st of July. The only problems I anticipate running into are the days I'll be on vacation and my energy level during Ramadan. Somehow, though, I will finish this challenge and love the way I feel about myself. 

Plus, I'll still have my Diet Coke.

Chewacla State Park

Shared Experiences

There's something very reassuring about knowing other people in the world have shared some of your experiences. I'm very much drawn to the field of psychology because I want to understand why the chemicals in my head do what they do, and how those same chemicals influence other people differently. I've found that quite a few people are drawn to the subject for similar reasons.

This past semester, I took a class called Research Methods. Auburn University requires the class before taking most other psychology classes. Because it's required, the class draws a large crowd of psychology students, all who love the field and many of which share certain experiences. During this class, I met another person with OCD--the first time I'd met anyone with OCD. As we talked, I felt myself sigh several times with relief. There was a real human being sitting next to me who understood how I felt on a daily basis.

Me: I'm sorry, but I just overheard your conversation. You have OCD?
Her: Yes, I do.
Me: Oh my goodness, me too.
Her: Real OCD?
Me: I think so. It seems pretty real. Do you count?
Her: Yep. I have to wash my hands a certain amount every night. My boyfriend makes so much fun of me.

And just like that, I was no longer alone.

We may not have exactly the same experiences--for instance, I don't count things, I have a song constantly stuck in my head--but knowing someone else near me understood what I felt made a world of a difference.

Shards

Piece by piece,
By starving piece,
The glass comes back together.
Attention is paid,
Focus is kept
To the face behind the curtain.
Flirt with reality,
Look at the past,
The mirror never sees what was.

Click here to view the original artwork by Diana Chitu

The Summoner’s Tale

A few years ago, in high school, I was assigned "The Summoner's Tale" from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales to rewrite as I saw fit, as long as the story remained under 300 words. For those unfamiliar with the work, a short description of the character can be found here. The general goal of the Summoner is to make fun of the role of the Friar, especially by making him look unholy. 

In an effort to post on a regular basis, and despite a severe lack of creativity at the moment, I figured I'd share an old piece. Maybe it'll give some literary aficionado somewhere a good laugh.

_____

The Summoner’s Tale

“I have been chosen for a special pilgrimage,” bragged the humble friar as he held out a basket for food.  “God bless,” the old woman mumbled, dropping some bread, before quickly latching her door.

Satisfied with his provisions, the friar examined his map. First, he was to first travel toward Depford and help someone in need. He hurried down the path, only to find a tavern blocking the way. The friar entered, hesitantly, and waited to ask for directions. “Help!” cried an old man. “My friend has left me alone to drink.” The friar rushed to the needy man, and faithfully remained by his side until both men were sufficiently drunk and happy.  

The friar stumbled out the door towards Rochester where he was commanded to give charity. The long path was covered in newly bloomed roses, so the friar collected a handful as he went. After many hours of traveling, the friar encountered a family of beggars resting beside the path. “Food,” they called. The friar considered their request. He needed the food to sustain himself for the rest of his pilgrimage--how was he supposed to give it away? The friar surveyed his belongings. “These people are so ragged,” he thought. “They could certainly use flowers to brighten their clothes.” He passed the flowers to the family, smiling, and continued without waiting to be thanked.

The friar traveled onward to Sittingbourne, where he was set to preach the word of God to a group of criminals. A while down the path, he found a hole spouting smoke. As he leaned in to take a closer look, the friar slipped and fell into an enclosed room surrounded by flames. “Welcome,” said the devil. “It seems you can’t read a map.”