It’s Sunday, 7/7 as I write this. It’s my maternal grandmother’s birthday, and her and my mom and all of my mom’s siblings, including my aunt who lives in Jordan are in California celebrating her right now. Birthdays are sacred. It’s so important to celebrate another year of life; it doesn’t need to be a big hooplah, but something to commemorate the joyousness of experiencing another year, because really, nothing is guaranteed. Not even another birthday. So when it comes, we should honor all that we learned, witnessed, and grew from each year. And that’s something worth celebrating.
I write that also to myself, with a birthday coming up in just a couple of weeks, and the first birthday that I really wasn’t excited for. This year was tough and humbling. Going through your Saturn return during multiple genocides, loved ones’ health scares, and the general times that are now is… formative. I’ll share more birthday reflections during another post, but for now, I’m grateful to welcome in an energy shift and inshallah, a year that is closer to my loved ones being healthy and a year closer to justice, peace, and a free Palestine.
I’m just on the other side of having Covid (for the 4th time, for the 4th consecutive year), and what started as a lament that summer is the worst time to get sick, is the new perspective that it might actually be the best time to get sick.
To be clear, there is no “good” time to be sick, and it’s never fun being unwell. I am lucky enough to experience Covid as a bad cold, despite the general public callousness and dismissal of a disease which is still rampant and still harming immunocompromised and Disabled folks exponentially.
As has been a general theme [for me] this year, health and being well are so sacred, and when compromised, dulls every other desire by measure. The few days that overlapped with work illuminated internalized ableism, capitalism, and child-of-immigrant guilt by way of feelings of shame or embarrassment at not being “productive.” One of the many things that capitalism has robbed us of is a strong sense of self calibrated only by existing; it trains us from a very young age to associate our worthiness with what we can do and how well we can do it.
But so long as I was low energy and self-isolating, I let the sun warm me, the rustling trees listen to me, and the fireflies keep me company. Sunbathing and sniffles went hand in hand, as did reading in the park, and by day four, daily 3-5 mile walks were a balm, as I let myself cry to the trees and allow myself to be deeply present in my body and deeply present in Nature, while deeply aware of my body as Nature.
Midweek, a friend brought me soup and right after, I was stung by a wasp twice — once on my back, and another time, an hour later, by surprise (and terror) on my hand as I combed my hair up to put it in a ponytail after it lay in wait for that entire hour.
There were many varying opinions on the symbolism of wasps, but much of the consensus was that they symbolize taking action, positive defensiveness, logical thinking and that abundance is near. At first, for just a second, I feared I’d traded the magic of fireflies for the stings of wasps as an illustration of my attitude and life in general. Instead, I took it as a reminder to protect myself and my boundaries, and the reminder and knowing that abundance is always near. It does no one any good to imagine that everything is a punishment; sometimes the world just has a sense of humor and wants you to pay attention to something. Other times, you get a new roof and it aggravates wasp nests.
This, and the entire week, were a push towards observing without judgement. Letting my senses be heightened and following them where they went. Feeling everything — the fear, relief, tiredness, congestion, aches, the warmth from the outside in, playfulness, this closeness to Nature as a friend and companion. My laughs were as hearty as my tears and I indulged them both.
By the weekend, just as I was well again, Baba and I went canoeing then hiking at a state park a couple hours away from us. It wasn’t humid, the high was no more than 83 degrees, and my dad and I were in sync on the water. When I returned home, I sat outside on the phone with my partner for another three hours because the day was just too delicious to be left alone.
It felt like a gift especially for me. But of course, it’s your gift too.
I needed that reminder, especially as a chronic “wanter,” and “doer”, that being in gratitude, just being period, is more than enough.
In fact, it’s everything.
And now that we’re at the halfway point of the year, the start of month seven (the entire month is a portal), may we all reject the temptation to take inventory of what we have and haven’t done this year, but perhaps instead, asking ourselves, as Grace Lee Boggs asked, “What time is it on the world clock?”
We are inching towards a year of genocide in Palestine. We are inching towards an election in November with two damned options, as if “options” is even the right word.
We can’t help but to tally each day and month, but where are we, the world, in this season of life?
What season of life are we, singular and personal, in?
How have you changed? How has the world changed?
What changes are we still working towards, and what stage are we in now? And how can we exist in this stage and nourish it, evaluate it, and refine it without living in the next stage?
Do we decide when to move to the next stage or is it revealed to us? Will we know how to listen when it does?