On settling into home

Bismillah…

“Let’s go Yahya, let’s get ready to go outside, it’s a sunny day,” I say as I think through the list of items I need to pick up from the store. He ignores me and carries on bringing his Paddington bear and soft grey blanket to finish making what we call his ‘beaver dam’. It’s a regular practice nowadays where toys and fuzzy objects make their way to confined spaces. Sometimes under my work desk. Often under the dinner table.

“Do you want to go outside or stay home?” I ask as I gesture to the bright sunny view beyond our loft window.

He looks up from all the things he’s gathered: playdough, a few matchbox cars, a firetruck, a mini waffle maker and a round smooth rock from his sisters’ collection.

“Home,” he says. This is the third time this week he’s opted to stay home. His two-year-old mind is immersed in creating a world with ordinary materials around him which he finds far more interesting than store isles and bright artificial lights. 

I’m usually happy to have him stay home but on this particular day, we neededto go out for errands so I chased him with his socks and clothes in hand until my husband came for back-up so we could get on with the day. Time spent getting out the door: ~23 minutes.

//

I had just turned 16 when I started my second job in Old Town, Virginia doing data entry for a small political accounting practice. I’d beat the senior students’ traffic in high school and drive downtown within half an hour before my start time, carefully maneuvering through one-way lanes, alert for any parallel parking spots with ample room to squeeze into.

My colleague was a former student at my high school. Her blonde hair was cut to shoulder length and she wore pastel-coloured capris with white cardigans and pearl jewelry which seemed right on brand with her “Proud Republican” bumper sticker. We made decent conversation over what she was studying in College (American Sign Language) and cute new spots to check out downtown. We’d quietly get our work done to the sounds of each others’ typing and the occasional cough or sneeze.

Truth, my inner thoughts were: She’s probably never talked to someone like me. I am brown. I wear black abayas with assorted colours of hijabs from the Somali mall and shoes from Payless. She lives in the part of our school boundary stereotypically known as “Whitewood” with many family members working in the State Department while I grew up in apartments most of my life until high school. Her playlist contains popular music tracks and Christian songs while mine had lectures by scholars who were considered enemy number one at the time. She would occasionally ask how so-and-so was doing in school and which teachers stuck around.

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On my break, I loved walking down the old cobblestone streets studded with indie boutiques, art galleries and open-air eateries. I would pray ‘Asr by the same tree every week, overlooking the Potomac River hearing seagulls squawking for bits of bread offered by toddlers walking hand-in-hand with their parents. Driving down the same roads toward home, a nostalgic quietude would come over my heart as the sunset merged with purplish hues. Sheikh Salah Bukhatir’s Surah Al-Qalam played on my phone through the miles inching towards home in evening downtown traffic.

Ammi would have dinner made. Sometimes a full spread with fluffy Afghan bread or pulao, and at other times… savoury oatmeal. After Maghrib and dinner, I’d unzip my Jansport backpack and retreat to my room to prep for exams, oscillating between watching Baba Ali clips on Youtube and studying historical names, dates and events I’ve since (mostly) forgotten. To zone out, my sister and I watched Psych and laughed over old jokes. Then came ‘Isha and a few hours of sleep before repeating it all again.

Between 8 hours at school, work, and extracurricular events peppered in throughout my weeks, my home became a rest stop. A place where I’d pop in and out without settling because there was always somewhere to be or something to do for the never-ending list of school commitments. In our earlier years, sitting together with my father to learn Ahadith was a fond memory after school, which sadly dwindled over time as I became more occupied with the world outside.

When my father would request to sit with him and convene the hadith circle in my high school years, I’d say yes with hesitation knowing my mind would warp into a time management Gantt chart where I was half-heartedly listening, thinking of all the AP English and World History and Algebra II work I needed to get done.

Outward compliance. Inward distraction.

Could I recall what my father was saying – the priceless lessons he was passing on? At times, when weeks were less busy, yes. But many times, I had no clue. The demands of my life outside of home overshadowed the gems of khair within my home.

Once the initial stages of excitement came to equilibrium after settling into my new life post-marriage, I remember feeling an alarming sense of confusion about how to spend my day. I had no plans to work. No familiar family or friends nearby. All of my previous commitments vanished with no sign of return. I remember watching my husband go about his life as usual while I felt detached, wobbly, and unsure of who I was all of a sudden.

After weeks, even months of letting me feel what I felt and validating it all, my husband analogized how a caterpillar nests in its warm cocoon before its magnificent, striking transformation into a butterfly. Each stage requires a serene, meditative pause to bring about the next stage. Nothing can be rushed.

I loved the imagery and poetic example but patience is hard for me, friends.

It always has been.

I love sourdough bread but can’t wait all those days for the starter. I peek at the cookies baking in the oven before the timer goes off. I ask the kids to tidy up before they’re done playing. But despite all my resistance to patience, Allah blessed me with the hardest first pregnancy I could ever imagine to instil patience in me down to my bones. And it may be why I’m still homeschooling and keeping on each day, through all the messy stages. In those 9 months, I would go through a steady rotation of journaling, staring out the window from our 25th floor balcony, watching Gilmore Girls, nausea, and ruminating on what to do now that my life looked nothing like it did before. I went from thinking the world was passing me by outside that balcony to turning inward and noticing a world emerging within my home. The months of solitude lead to unearthing dreams and ideas buried in my subconscious for 20+ years.

//

Both of my kids love being home. It may be a phase but it’s a trait I’ve noticed growing in them as I’ve modeled my nesting habits over the last 7 years. From watching me design my planner from the comfort of my bed, running my small business, picking up knitting, watercolour painting, drawing, toy-making, sewing, learning Arabic, writing, and running a mom community, they have in front of them a Mama who leans into her curiosities and creative inclinations, encouraging them to do the same. I get to delve into the hobbies and skills I dreamed of learning when I’d sit through lifeless lectures and courses in school laced with values and culture drastically opposite my own.

These days, Waliya loves making her own stickers after discovering my stash of unused sticker paper. She can busy herself with self-made projects at any hour of the day in-between our weekly rhythm of co-ops, classes and play dates. My son is obsessed with our simple kitchen which is his entire world these days (in addition to the vacuum cleaner). Deeper than ever before, I feel settled into our little life. I pray my children’s love for home stays with them even as the world glitters and gleams outside because of the humble yet effortful investment I’m making each day.

I’m living a life designed with my own priorities at the core, protected from a world that would otherwise wish to usurp my energy for its gain, influence my ideals for its “advancement” and take far more from me than it could ever give back. Just like those years when I wish I would have said a whole-hearted “yes” with my words and spirit when my father asked us to gather around in praise of our Prophet’s (saw) lasting words.

Headaches and dream feeds

I’m wearing my favourite soft pink robe so this night should be restful except that I have a pounding headache. The homemade butter chicken pizza I made for lunch was delectable but I’m no longer 22 and should’ve eased up after slice number two. My temples are pulsing when I touch them. My son is asleep but I don’t trust he’ll stay asleep for more a a couple of hours so I get up and offer a dream feed. I lie down next to him and offer his bottle but he squirms away and pushes his little arms over his eyes. I tried. I walk towards my bedroom and pause at the staircase contemplating whether to take an Advil. Nah. I’ll sleep it off. Unless the pain reaches borderline unbearable, I generally choose to forgo medication. Two homebirths have built a new level of tolerance that I didn’t know I had. I get back under the covers and readjust my eye mask. I poke my head up and notice what I consider “light pollution”. The curtains are scrunched in the middle allowing moonlight into the room. A pitch black room is the perfect room to sleep in. I get up once more to remove the curtain pull-backs off. Ah, complete darkness. My heart starts beating faster as I hear my son moving around. Powerwalking, I go over to his floor bed and offer his bottle. He slowly drinks up and I’m already looking forward to the undisturbed sleep I’ll get soon.

Back in bed, I try to ignore the headache but images of Uncle Wael are cascading through my mind. His daughter holding onto him, weeping. His himmah in the face of unimaginable loss. His son Hamza, martyred in Israel’s continued aggression. 30,000 lives. How can I sleep? I think of the cold wet tents in Rafah. The children amputated without anaesthetics. The horrors happening halfway across the world. I repeat Hasbunallah Wa Ni’mal Wakeel to comfort my heart. My face is scrunched and tense. I know because I remember the meditation book I read said to relax the jaw and mine was a stage just below locked-teeth-grinding. Focus on the breath. I start to notice my heals resting on the mattress. I breathe in and focus only on what’s real right now in this moment Allah (swa) has granted me. Alhumdulillah my family is safe and asleep. I may be living the best moments of my life, ever. My face relaxes. My eyelids flicker less and less until I breathe my headache away.  My racing thoughts won’t bring back martyrs or cure the wounded but breathing and resting will replenish my resolve for a new day, for sound worship, and sustained action.

Whispers

“Why aren’t you prepared? Baba said you’d be going with him two hours ago,” I say glaring at my daughter after a long day of similar qipp remarks. 

She stands a while longer before being asked the same question by her dad while I attend to my son. The next time I look over, I see her the back of her head turned down as she holds back tears. “Don’t talk to me, just leave me,”  she says. 

I suggest having her stay home instead of tagging along as a natural consequence for not being prepared. My husband says it’s best she gets some space from me so she heads out with him as fast as possible. 

They leave for salah while I make the final fixings for dinner. I pop the drumsticks in to roast. Rice goes into the instant pot. Lentils and salad are ready. We all sit together to eat after they come through the front door. Yahya decides he’s done before everyone else and heads over to play with his new toy sink, complete with a working faucet. How can he eat when his little body is so overwhelmed with exciteme over his own sink? Waliya follows. They play nicely until one takes up too much room and the other complains they haven’t had their turn. Mehdi referees while I wipe off bits of dinner and find small containers to store leftover chicken and rice. I can feel my anger rising again as my daughter refuses to give her brother more time with his toy. “Please go upstairs,” I say, knowing full well she’s been afraid to go to any level of the house without us. 

We rush through the evening routines, and at this point everything is becoming a thing. “Pick up your clothes, Waliya.” “Have you done your night routine?” “Did you prepare what you need for co-op tomorrow?” “You need to sleep because I have things to get done, no bed games today!” There is not one positive thing I’ve said and although there’s a teeny-tiny whisper in me telling me to think about how I’m coming off, I ignore it and hammer on with questions creating mounting stress for myself and everyone else. My husband tells me to lie down and he’ll handle the rest of it. “I worry our children won’t even care how we’re feeling or think about what we need at the end of the day, a break!” I say before going to my room. 

I hear my husband reading du’as and my daughter ruffling in her bed, probably wondering if she’ll get a bed-time story. The whisper from before telling me to think about how my words are landing is back but much louder now that the kids are dreaming. 

I wash up, and use the serum my sister gifted me – something that feels like a much-needed hug at the end of the day. Unfolded laundry rests on my side of the bed. I get through some of it before the awful feelings of everything I’ve said in the day are coming back to reflect my inner world. I sit and think about the deeper hurts going on. Anger? No. Devalued? No. Shame? Yes, that’s the one. I’m experiencing deep shame, I realize. 

“How to stop parenting from a place of shame?” I type into my google search bar on my phone. The first words that come up are all about self-compassion and the long-term damage of shame parenting. 

My husband walks in to see me with my head in my hands. He kindly tells me that what I said at bed time was hurtful. It negated all the love my daughter pours into us every day, the hugs and kisses and sweet cards and giddy smiles and stories. “I shattered her spirit,” I say. It’s hard to swallow. I’ve been feeling like I’m not enough. That I’m not good enough. That my best days are behind me. That I can’t seem to figure things out. And instead of keeping those turbulent untrue thoughts to myself, I’ve unleashed them onto my little girl. I hate the ugliness of it all. I try to escape the shame. 

I head onto Instagram and see images that make me weep for Palestine. A young boy, age 2, yelling “Mama” over and over again into a hole in the dirt after she was martyred, only to hear his own echo. I cry and pray for his heart and easing his suffering. I ask Allah to help me be honour my motherhood, to not lose patience with the smallest things, to be careful with my words. I ask Allah to bless my heart and spirit with compassion, for myself and for everyone I love. I ask Allah to give me contentment over what He has written for me, and to pur more mercy in my heart. I thank Allah for my babies for Allah to forgive over my repeated shortcomings. My journal is next to me. I write: “I can change. I will change.” 

I go back to my phone to text my sister while I come across the exact words I needed to read: “Your child only gets one childhood and it will affect how they view the world, how the love, how they trust, and how they feel about themselves. Every time you interact with them, you have the power to cherish or crush their spirit.” – Sr. Sadiya Khan

The simple quote hit my heart like an arrow landing on a target. I screenshotted and made it my phone screen saver to help me show the compassion and patience I lack. Before sleeping, I kneel down beside Waliyas’ bed and cry over the sins I’ve collected in the 6 years of being her mother. I see her growing body stretched over her white bed, stuffies all around her. Her blanket is falling off so I place it over her feet and kiss her forehead three times, tears of remorse and love mixing together. 

//

“I love your brown eyes and warm heart, Waliya,” I say first thing after salaam in the morning. We don’t hug right away but we ease into the day. I don’t barrage her with questions and take two steps back in my mind before saying a word to her the following day. The pausing helps. She takes notice. “Today is going better than yesterday Mama,” she says. “Yes Jaani. I asked Allah to help me last night to be more patient and kind with my words, Allah heard me.” 

A Black Thumb.

I have a black thumb.

I remember ripe tomatoes, okra, and bitter melon taking over our backyard garden patch every summer. My Abbu would plant each seed with the kind of love a first-born child knows too well. He prayed over every seed, weeded without delay, and watched out for any intruders trying to weasel their way in. What started out as a hobby became a full-time job. I would see him setting up elaborate traps and coming home with child-safety gates to prevent the notorious deer from devouring his precious vegetation. Turns out child-safety gates are just as effective for tiny humans as they are for baby deer. He knew his plants and their temperaments better than I knew any phase of photosynthesis despite studying it for years. The best part was seeing his exuberance as he harvested two of the largest squash he found hiding behind deep bushes and bringing them to our local masjid for families to take home. Gardening was a joy to watch from afar, but I was never one to enjoy getting my hands in the dirt. Making mud pies was not a part of my childhood memory box as I was mostly raised in apartments with balconies, which my mother reserved for storing refrigerator essentials in the winter. I recall spending most of my downtime organizing stationery, writing in my closet, and trying to grow up as fast as possible.

I was sitting in my backyard overhearing my daughter playing in her mud kitchen last week when I asked her to bring me the green weeding tool my husband ordered from Amazon. I made it a personal goal to fill in my natural learning gaps through my daughter by repurposing an old IKEA table as her mud kitchen. She makes all sorts of pies and cupcakes and stews and perfumes with her friends and it brings me so much joy to see her doing what I missed out on. I took the weeder from her and stabbed the ground, lifting each weed until I heard the roots crack upwards, leaving me with unexpected satisfaction. I went on to weed out dozen and then a dozen more. “This feels good,” I thought to myself. Sure, I may not be able to sustain a tomato plant without frequent reminders about its finicky needs for regular water and sunlight. I may not even be able to keep a store-bought orchid alive for more than a week, but I can weed, and weed, and weed without complaint.

I’ve wondered for part of this year if I lean more towards pessimism. I know logically it’s better to always see the glass as half full but I somehow manage to notice areas for improvement as a first response, fuelled by my daydreams for how “things could be so much better”. I further developed this kind of thinking pattern as a social worker when I would hear story after story (at times more than 10 a day) about my clients’ deepest darkest struggles and traumatic life events. I looked for glimmers of hope in their storyline while honouring their very real and heavy hardships – the hardships they wished they could remove from their roots before they became overgrown weeds. Five years out from my work in the field and I too have weeds growing within my life, that in hindsight, I wish I tended to much sooner.

These two pots are my own glimmers of hope. I made the intention to take care of these babies and started out by picking up pots that spoke to me at the only dollar store open for business in my city. I got my hands in the dirt, made my du’as upon them as I would see my Abbu do, and let them soak in the sun. I am hoping writing about them will serve as a reminder to care for them again tomorrow and again the next day.

On NPD and how it shows up in families

I’ve always found Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD) to be one of the most fascinating disorders, especially how it plays out in family systems. I was digging through some of my old trainings from the DV work I did years ago and wanted to share some findings.

– In most families, people are viewed as individual people with unique traits, likes, dislikes, quirks, and habits. In families run by narcissists, children and anyone in the family system are viewed by their role. Only when they fulfill that role as is expected do they receive approval and love.

– The main purpose of everyone in the family system is to feed the narcissist’s need for adoration. This often leads to heightened levels of enmeshment and codependence in the family.

– Among siblings, each one also takes on a specific role. Because each child has experienced their own unique level of abuse at different ages, they each react differently as adults. You have the neutral child who will see the chaos and confusion but will choose to remain silent for fear of being further abused or shamed. They will pretend they don’t see what they see in order to play the role of “peacemaker.”

– The needy child will rely heavily on the parent who will further enable the dependency, continuing to feed the narcissists’ need for being adored. Whether based on real or manufactured needs, this creates a noticeable imbalance between siblings, causing jealousy and resentment.

– The flying monkey in a narcissistic family dynamic serves as the carrier pigeon. They report back everything they see among the siblings and stay loyal to the narcissistic parents even when it damages them well into adulthood.

– The scapegoat child will be the sounding board for most of the abuse as they will be seen as the one to blame for nearly any mishap in the family system. If they choose to be vocal about the toxicity within the family, they are berated, belittled, and love is withheld.

– Most people will view differences as just that – differences. But for narcissists, anyone being different from how they think or perceive the world will be viewed as an immediate threat. Conformity is rewarded and any other version of “being” is shamed. Children will often live alternate lives and show a certain face to parents who they know will disapprove of them if they are open about who they are. This creates a lack of safety for anyone in the system.

– Because the narcissist views their particular worldview as the gold standard, they consider themselves as the source of all that is good and correct. Anyone outside of themselves is not considered an authority on any matter. They view themselves as special and unique, which is used to support their sense of entitlement.

– This also leads to a pseudo-mutuality, where there is an appearance of closeness within the family, but when you look a bit closer, you see the manipulation and toxic patterns that are ingrained in how everyone relates to each other. You will often see unhealthy levels of hierarchy and titles used to promote the narcissists’ power structure.

– People with NPD are generally hyper-critical and cynical. Nothing will ever be good enough for them and they will avoid giving compliments or showing appreciation, curiosity or empathy towards others who are not like them.

– Narcissists within the larger family system may take ownership over an adult-childs’ personal space by coming over unannounced, inserting their opinions in order to get a reaction, excessive messaging, over-involvement, and overall neglect for boundaries (refer back to codependence and enmeshment, which leads to a shaky self-concept).

– When boundaries are being set, the narcissist will shun and shame. They may go to the extreme of cutting off relationships because boundaries feel like an affront to their sense of entitlement. This is because they have great difficulty accepting other perspectives, or validating another’s needs.

– Denial is a common tactic for narcissists such that they will deny any personal mistakes, become the victim if confronted, and invalidate any hardship. Their view of the world often falls within black and white thinking. Nuances are not considered.

– In most families, loved ones do things out of love but in these family systems, guilt-tripping is a common way to encourage an action. Unspoken norms are used as leverage for shaming and creating expectations without proper communication.

– They will feel threatened with any new change or shift and often respond in a disappointing way if a “big deal” is announced such as a move, a larger purchase, job, etc. They have a need for being the center of attention, even when it is not appropriate. This creates a lack of safety for those within the system to share their personal joys, knowing it can back-fire at any time.

– Add in unresolved traumas, patriarchy, misogyny, and other problematic world-views, and you have a serious set of problems that can impact a narcissists’ deen and dunya. The way to manage within such a system is to first seek Allahs’ help because He sees all, set boundaries, and be firm, neutral and kind.

Privilege.

I smell the soft ginger saffron scent wafting from my candle in a safe home, free of fear, while Palestinian children and families take cover under rubble, gasping for relief from toxic gas, wondering when the next missile will strike. Their homes stood standing just 8 days ago as they prayed in Masjid Al-Aqsa, on one of the holiest nights of Ramadan when the atrocities began (this year). Israel strong-arms and rains missiles on civilian homes in Gaza, year after year, killing none other than children and families, only for the worlds’ leaders to watch silently with zero moral grounding to call out wrong for wrong, because its not good for business, status, and politics. Egregious and shameless war crimes continue as I type this but I know I must write.

I was a senior in High School when Gaza was under attack in 2009. I remember sitting in my AP Government class, feeling the rage come over my face when my teacher asked us to write about the benefits of democracy and relate it to current events. His privilege, detachment, and utter lack of concern for the loss of Palestinian life was enraging but not surprising. He came over and noticed I wasn’t well and asked if I needed to see my counselor. I said no and explained what was upsetting me. He offered no consolation and instead, provided a nicely packaged neutral diplomatic response. I couldn’t believe we were expected to be neutral on a subject such as the Palestinian struggle in a class that touted its focus on human rights and Americas’ gift of democracy to the world. My anger was not packaged properly for him and therefore, it was dismissed. By the following week, it seemed as though I should have been able to do my assignment as expected since my trauma after seeing Palestinian children being shot at should have an expiration date.

While U.S. politicians on the left will gladly stand for dignity, equality, and all levels of racial justice and LGBTQ rights, they selectively remain callous and indifferent towards Palestinians (perhaps because every missile that strikes Palestinian women and children is made in the U.S., killing 64 children and 38 women in just the last week!). It feels cheap and performative based on wherever the money pours in from, as opposed to standing for justice and an honest stance for human rights. Yet again, I feel the deafening silence from high school friends, networks, and groups I am a part of who turn a blind eye to the Palestinian struggle for freedom because of gaslighting from years of inaccurate reporting on this topic. But I cannot neglect those who are now speaking up and choosing to be on the side of justice. I’ve personally reached out to bloggers, business owners, writers, and influencers I admire who have been vocal on their platforms to recognize and commend their solidarity.

—

I recently began a geography lesson with my 4 year old daughter by picking up several books with colourful maps and continent studies from our library. Not a single world atlas book I picked up had any image or reference to Makka or any of the Islamic Holy sites (I mean, we’re only 1.8 billion people and 24% of the world population). Needless to say, Palestine was also nowhere to be found. I immediately drafted messages to the publishers with serious concerns about their total neglect of the Muslim // Islamic narrative! This is how racism, ignorance, and a collective consciousness against an entire group of people begins to grow among children. When families pick up books and only see images that reflect their narrative, “the other” is subconsciously demoted as less than. And that’s why anyone who is BPOC has to do the exhaustive work of explaining their humanity and existence. Hats off to colonialism and imperialism, which Cathy Park Hong points out brilliantly in her book, Minor Feelings.

I took the good from the Atlas books and made a quick note in my planner to create my own map for my daughter. Even when I purchase geography books, I’ll be going in with a permanent marker to add in all the missing components that seem to be a deliberate removal of the Muslim story within books and media. I want her to see herself in books, which is not something I saw as a child. There were never any books about Muslims at the Scholastic book fair I’d go to in 2nd grade or any visits from Muslim authors or leaders.

—

When I was reading Jane Eyre last December, I wished within myself to be able to write a book one day with incredible prose, focus, and beauty. I quickly snapped out of the thought as I realized, “Oh wait, I’m brown and I have so many levels of explaining to do about my personhood and so much micro trauma to write about .. how could I possibly just write a story that isn’t related to minority topics!” This thought weighed on be me heavily and continues to push upon my shoulders. I wanted to sit down tonight to write just about my life, motherhood, marriage, nature, homeschooling, adventures but there are constant pain points as a brown person and a Muslim woman that require one to speak and write about identity, race, and painful struggles for existence for the Muslim community and communities of colour.

We don’t have the privilege to simply write.

At the same time, I pray that Allah (swa) sees me as someone who stood for justice at a time when the world was silent. I too have privileges that many around the world do not have, and I am waking up to the reality that my voice should be used to lift the curtain from oppression that is funded by my U.S. tax dollars. I will be questioned by Allah with how I used the privileges He blessed me with.

Writing about my own life can wait for just a while.

With and without.

Not too long ago, I found myself walking through the isles at Michaels’ circling around the store looking for the woodburning tool I was eyeing for months. I picked it up with hesitation, questioning if I this would be just another tool collecting dust at the back of my craft closet after a few tries.

I put it back on the shelf and circled the store again to find myself right back at the same isle, but this time with a firm resolve to get said woodburning tool. I didn’t suddenly have the extra funds to get it, but rather, my gut was telling me this tool would help me create the art I’ve wanted to try my hand at, and that enough was worth it. And there went the best $26.70 I spent that month.

My daughter loves when I open a new package, especially when I remember to include a treat for her in my shopping trips. This time, she got a stamp to play with while I plugged in my new tool. I collected scraps of wood from our unfinished basement and itty-bitty keychains to practice woodburning (otherwise known as pyrography, which sounds way cooler). Instinctively, my first attempt led me to burning my daughters’ name into a slice of wood, just as the memory of her home-birth will always be burned in my heart and mind. I practiced pressing the tip with varying pressure until I got the curves and etching just right. The smell of burning wood made me feel warm even though the room was cold. There, in that space, I was the kind of Asma I love being. When I am with my creativity…

I am open.

I am trusting.

I let my intuition guide me.

I am generous and giving, as I think of ways to share my new art with those I love.

I see the good.

I see possibilities.

I struggle, go back, persist, pour myself in, and try again.

I am hopeful.

I can imagine a new reality before it’s real.

I stay open to a sense of wonder and amazement.

I get to feel proud of myself and excited to make what wasn’t there before.

I feel most human.

Without my creativity, I’m missing a piece of my core. I am searching, at odds, or stuck consuming. It’s only after a few days in this space when I realize I must create to feel alive.

My Artists’ Date

I walked through the quietest isle in the entire Walmart in our small town as I pursued a selection of mini fabric bundles and rolls of muslin. My daughter Waliya was home and as strange as it felt, I was not pressed for time. I walked slowly, deliberating prints and complementary patterns. I felt the fabric, not knowing what I was feeling for since my only use for sewing machine in previous years was for hemming extra long abayas to fit my petite height. What I planned to make from striped and dotted cotton in lovely neutral colours, I wasn’t sure, but I simply new I wanted to sew something.

On the drive home, I remembered my sister Ayesha taking sewing lessons from a local aunty in our neighborhood when we were growing up. She attended the classes begrudgingly but it was a practical activity and my mom loved the idea of her daughters’ learning to sew. I, on the other hand spent far too much time after school worried about projects and club meetings and AP exams, so I never had the privilege of learning to sew at a young age.

Only now in my 30s am I getting to experience the joy of sewing. From mini zip pouches to wall calendars to a DIY dress made out of a pattern I traced on $ store kraft paper, each project gives me a sense of utility I can’t find through other means. Had it not been for a long and soulful winter, I wouldn’t have found myself in the self-help isle at my library reading books by Julia Cameron. I spent most every evening after Maghrib in December, sitting cross-legged on my living room floor atop the red Persian rug my father gifted us, reading and trying to find my interests again. On one of these cold nights, I came across the concept of the “Artists’ Date”.

“The Artist Date is a once-weekly, festive, solo expedition to explore something that interests you. The Artist Date need not be overtly “artistic”– think mischief more than mastery. Artist Dates fire up the imagination. They spark whimsy. They encourage play. Since art is about the play of ideas, they feed our creative work by replenishing our inner well of images and inspiration.”

— Julia Cameron

This idea made me feel instantly in contact with my intuition. I thought about the places my soul feels most happy on a creative level. Our local farmers’ market came to mind, bustling with families, children wearing sunglasses, fresh produce, and an assortment of goodies like beeswax candles from our mennonite communities up north. I thought about my favourite isles at local shops and boutiques, and small towns with hole-in-the wall apothecaries. For me, these places sparked the idea of an “Artists Date”. I hadn’t thought of Walmart at all, but in the thick of winter, I didn’t have as many options, so there I was, picking out fabric bundles that brought me more joy than I can explain as I sewed each zip pouch for my daughter in hopes she’d never lose a hair-tie again (who am I kidding?).

My Artists’ dates have included going to book stores to smell candles I don’t intend on buying but love seeing. There’s something about the lighting and placement of everything at Indigo that makes me smile. I’ve also gone to Bulk Barn on a whim, to randomly sample various spices and blends I’ve never tried before. Turns out, I love caraway seeds on everything, and Nori Furikaki is my favourite topping on fried eggs. I also can’t help but pop into my local marketplace attached to the most Canadian farm I’ve ever seen, just so to smell the baked goods and take in the lovely decor and cookbooks up for display. Doing this simple practice helps me see and experience new ways of expressing creativity, even if I only manage to squeeze them in every now and then. The idea is to go in with the intention to be open and ready to feel inspired.

Garage visits and holding on.

With a warm tumbler brimming with coffee in my hand each time, I’ve looked forward to every meetup with my two closest friends. I am never not available when I get the text, “Meetup at (insert location) at 11?” from either of my twin friends.

I’ve always shied away from making friends too quickly. There’s a part of me that wants to keep myself hidden and a part that wants to be deeply known. The former often makes me feel most protected. Perhaps its because I have a subconscious fear of not being all that I want to appear I am (ugh, imposter syndrome). Or, I could just pin it on my introversion. Either way, I’ve noticed certain elements that make my friendship with my twin sisters so special.

Our friendship unfolded in a rhythmic way over several experiences. Since the pandemic began, we’d meet in local parks, overhearing teenage chatter, going on about motherhood and speculating about when our children will feel a sense of normal again. They listened, and I listened. We’ve laughed and sighed, and cried together through our monthly meetups, keeping ourselves hopeful in the ultimate plans we don’t understand.

Through the months, we’d hike through conservation parks, forcing ourselves to forget housework for a few hours, taking in the view from the highest cliffs around us. We’d grab burritos and eat on a patch of grass like we were in high school.

On warmer days, we made it out to Toronto for a beachside picnic with our families. We gathered around, a few feet apart, sharing snacks and stories trying to fill the voids we knew were awaiting as soon as the experience was over.

Autumn invited us to to the trails where we’d walk between lunch, contemplating work-life balance, taking care of elderly parents, and hopes for our children.

Even in frigid weather, we met up on local benches to chat about our favourite books, what we’re missing, watching, baking, and struggling with. With these two special friends, I felt myself willing to share the harder parts of myself and my life. With a full heart, I noticed they were still there.

We’d meet in our garages with mini-space heaters in -12 degrees. The conversations blanketed us with the warmth and connection we so deeply craved. With bubbling excitement for having company, I’d set up a warm tea kettle and my favourite chocolate-covered pretzals, chatting and munching together, wishing for time to stop.

These few hours of friendship every month have sustained so much of my (limited) social life during this pandemic and I can say unequivocally, I would not have developed such deep friendships after so long, had it not been for these past 14 months.

Alhumdulillah, for honest friendship.

Warm stuffies.

“Mama, I’m gwateful for you,” she says, holding my arms as she looks up at me with her big brown eyes. If only I remembered this moment and how it filled my heart before snapping at her for losing my keepsake earring the next day. Of course, the thoughts that help me make better choices always come at night, when she’s fast asleep and when I’m feeling the kind of guilt that keeps me awake till 2 in the morning. I sigh as I pull down my eye mask, putting it over my eyes as a comforting insulation between me and all things difficult. I pray and ask Allah to help me do better tomorrow. I commit to doing better tomorrow, even if it means sticking post-it notes in places where I tend to lose my patience.

“Create a relaxed environment.” This one will be in our homeschool room. “Slow down the morning routine.” This needs to be right next to my bed. “Let her eat without commenting.” Put this right next to the dinner table.

Even if we still have friction tomorrow, I feel armed and ready with my post-it note plan to help us have a better day.

—

As I was praying dhuhr a few days ago, I felt myself sinking into thoughts about whether I was doing “enough”. Am I teaching my little daughter everything I need to? Will she thrive as she grows or will she have a lot of unlearning to do because of my mistakes? Will her childhood memories be overwhelmingly positive or less so? Will she know enough about her Creator to turn to Him out of love and awe in any stage of her life?

As I stood in salah, wondering what “enough” looks like, I overheard her playing gently with her stuffies, putting them in one-by-one into her cardboard “car”, asking each stuffy if he/she felt comfortable in their pretend carseats. She prayed and read the travel du’a for her stuffies just as we always recite when we’re buckling up in the car. She even went upstairs to grab an extra blanket to keep her stuffies warm as she got ready to pull them through the living room on her pretend drive to school.

In this simple moment of play, I felt her her concern for others’ well-being, even if they were stuffies. I felt her spiritual self-guided connection with her Creator. I heard her mimic the habits I’ve wanted to instil in her. I saw how she adds warmth and love in everything she does.

It was as if Allah was showing me the glowing rays of my broken efforts in this moment. All I can do is put in my honest effort, and leave the rest to the One who created her and guides her just as He guides me. In this moment, I was seeing what enough looks like and perhaps this view appears when least expect it.

Even on days when my sense of “being enough” is shaken, I want to cling to this feeling and remind myself to look for the rays that pour through the clouds, showing me the glow emanating from pieces of my struggle, sustained by His help.