Mindfulness underrated

Being mindful is what we should be focusing on these days.

Mindful – to be aware, to live in the moment, not sharing it with another moment or experience. Experiencing it fully and immersing oneself in it.

In this age of technology, we are so caught up in our screens that we have almost forgotten to fully enjoy a moment. Everything needs to be instagrammed… snapped….boomeranged….and in doing so, we tend to focus only on filters and the number of likes or views. That special moment is then forgotten. It now only exists on your wall, to be reminded by the internet a year later, and we smile at how lovely the filter looks. It's now one of the myriad flotsam and jetsam floating away in the sea that is the internet.

My husband says to our kids… “use your eye cameras”. He’s right. It’s so important to have the ability to capture the moment in your mind and make it a memory that you will recall and smile at when you are alone someday without a screen to access your memories. This can come only with mindfulness.

I remember how I once experienced this without even knowing what being mindful meant. Standing on Montagne St. Victoire inhaling and exhaling. I didn’t click any pictures of that iconic mountain. But in my mind’s eye, it’s as clear as now. When I close my eyes, I can feel the warm, fragrant wind caressing my skin, and the sun’s heat pinching my cheeks, forehead, and chin. I remember my orange Doc. Martens- my comfortable companions helping me hike on this mountain whose colours changed from a light gold to a grey to an almost bleached white. I remember the company of my friends, our laughter, and lame French jokes echoing into the wind.

I was mindful.

I was immersed.

I was one with the environment.

‘I’ ceased to exist in that moment.

And now when I recall it time and again, I am able to reexperience it fully.

The memory came back to me as I was flipping through an old book on Impressionism and the same feeling hit me when I saw one of Paul Cezanne’s many renderings of this beauteous mountain. I could see where I stood on that mountain in his painting. In his mindfulness, he had captured the entire experience with his brushstrokes. He had so aptly captured the temperature, the light, the flora, and his mood. My heart raced as my own experience came back to me in vivid detail.

It reminded me that in order to fully appreciate someone or something or a feeling, one needs to be in that headspace of complete awareness of that moment. And because I had experienced the same environment as Cezanne, I understood his mood whilst he painted St. Victoire.

So now, guilty, busy typing away on my laptop while my little Jennah sits next to me telling me in her wittle baby voice “Mooooommmmyyyyy, I waaaaant tooooo huuuug yooooo” I have decided to stop, turn off the laptop and immerse myself in her huge brown eyes and let her laughter wash over me.

Time to make more memories.

40 Rotations after Ashura

After 40 rotations of the earth, 

40 million leave home and hearth,

Barefoot, running, yearning, chanting,  

Labbayka ya Hussain.

The multiverse grieves,

Suns collapse, moons wane and disappear,

Nebulae shift, black holes appear,

Stars fall in deep dolor

Every Muharram, every Safar.

Yet mother Earth is still here,

In extraordinary pain, 

In insurmountable shame, 

Made to drink the blood of martyrs, 

Made to witness, forced to bear,

The fruits of suffering in Karbala.

So now speaks the daughter of Abuturaab (1):

"In the Forty circumambulations I made,

Around Karbala's scorching sun, 

Aal Mohammed's worth I saw,

Degraded, impaled, abused and wronged.

Under tents like forest fires, I burned,

Shrieks of wounded innocence, I heard,

Blood and tears, severed limbs, 

Beauty everywhere.

I cradle Asghar in my bosom, 

I hold together pieces of Qasim, 

I nurture Akbar's mangled body,

I bear all this silently.....

while, 

Weeping for Abbaas' helplessness,

Filling the Furat with my tears,

Mourning Hussain's loneliness,

Under the tread of zawwar, for years. 

And then I bore the weight 

of that journey, 

From the terrain of distraught,

To the glimmering court of ignominy, 

I moaned and lamented shamefully,

While my sister Zainab said,

"I see nothing but beauty".

And then I did echo in grief,

The cries in the dungeons inside of me, 

"Baba, abi, ya waaladi,

It hurts everywhere, 

Please, put me to sleep". (2)

Another tiny grave was dug, 

Sakina’s bed for eternity,

Sajjad's tears soaked through me, 

A brother's shattered heart, buried in me.

I'm still here, oh wretched mankind, 

Cringing under your myriad sins,

Imprinting every misstep, deed unkind,

On the sands of time, on these lands of mine.

Your secrets, one day, I will reveal,

And shame you, as you have shamed me.

1. Abuturaab- father of the earth 
2. this verse is both Bibi Sakina (a.s) and mother Earth complaining to their respective fathers, Imam Hussain (a.s) and Imam Ali  (a.s)

Paradise found

It's no easy feat, finding that headspace again, the blissful one that we're in usually rarely. It won't come easy and when it does, we're lucky if it stays long enough. And the ungrateful humans that we are, we lose all sense of the importance of this bliss and take it for granted... until it's no longer there.

I had lost my blissful headspace, my paradise, and come crashing down some years ago. Those who know me know my story... only this time, it wasn't I who was ungrateful.

I searched hard and I searched long.

So, on the 10th of January, at 8:15 am, she lay in my arms umbilical cord still attached.

I have not felt this happy in a very, very long time.

I had lost my Paradise... and now it is found... My Jannah is here.

A lifetime of sajda to my Creator will not suffice for this gift He has given me.

Alhamdulillah.

Black Positively

I dreamt last night while asleep restlessly,

Of a painting I had painted, apparently.

Blackness overpowered a layered background,

The kind a nyctophile would be around,

Like heavy rain on a dark, black night,

The calligraphic 'Allah' glowed in white,

And unseen symbols scattered around,

Of beige, off- white and lapis ground.

The emotions felt were of immense relief,

That Allah is present in the darkest grief,

That unknown beings are sent to guide,

Light forms, Dakini, positive minds.

Dark negatives and imagined scenes,

Are the 'Sharri waswaasi khannaas'* it seems,

Veils of lies cast upon

a vulnerable mind trying to hang on,

Not giving in, fighting on, climbing up and moving on.

Black it was before He said 'Be',

Black, the shroud of all mystery,

Black, the source of the colours of life,

In black He is, the source of light.

*the evil of the whisperings of the slinking (Shaitan).

(Qur'an, Surah An-Nas, Verse 4)

~Ambereena Razvi

For Ali Mahdi - 'Piece of Paradise'

For Ali Mahdi - 'Piece of Paradise'
40 x 60 cms
Colouring pencils on white card

هيهات منا الذلة

هيهات منا الذلة

I saw her scattered all over the sidewalk….

Hijab askew.

White before, now of a red hue.

‘Haithaath minna dhilla’, escaped her lips

Before she closed her eyes,

And slept in bliss.

I see a child crouched a little further….

Head buried in her hands,

Longing for her mother

Who died fighting for her honour

‘Haihaath minna dhilla’, she hears the chant and feels the power.

I see the old man,

His white beard soaked in blood,

Protecting his kin,

His clothes torn, his mind worn,

‘Haihaath minna dhilla’ - to himself he has sworn

I see the youth,

Some still fighting,

Retaliating an oppression,

Refusing to live in disgrace and depression,

They wake up every morning,

Shedding their blanket of dreams of freedom,

Stopping to take a breath - seldom,

‘Haihaath minna dhilla’running through their blood,

Never to give in,

Minds made up.

I see me

Painting their troubles,

Painting their pain,

Telling their tales,

‘Haihath minna dhilla’, running through my veins. 

-Ambereena Razvi

For my Forefather

I am a dust particle

the one that floats aimlessly.....

maybe guided

maybe oblivious

I am one of numerous

of your sons and daughters

one unworthy of your attention

yet one who seeks it

I am of you,

of your lineage,

a bit of the remaining dust...

dusted away by the Sculptor's hand

Floating away aimlessly...

maybe guided,

Oblivious.

(A monologue with Imam Ridha (a.s), from 'Monologues with my Forefathers - by Ambereena Razvi)