Shahd Alshammari's Blog, page 12

With a great loss, you realize later why the loss was so ...

With a great loss, you realize later why the loss was so huge. It was the death of a dream. The death of hope. 

 

Letter

Dear You, 

A good morning to you. I am wondering if you managed to sleep last night? It rained all night, and the dog kept barking. I don’t know if you heard her from where you are. Last night, I circled the apartment. I had a strange feeling there was a ghost nearby, an uncanny presence, something was too close for comfort. I lit a candle, and watched the flame as it spoke to me. My eyes closed and I leaned my head against the couch, praying for sleep to visit me. You were like the candle that burned itself for others. With a candle, you have to be careful. It doesn’t know when to stop giving light, it doesn’t know when to stop hurting itself. 

I never wanted to keep the candle. I wanted the candle to go back to its original state- light. Simple light. Light that radiates, light that gives to the world but also chooses when to give and when to stop. I wanted more for you. I saw you as the Sun and Moon, and us as the stars. You saw us as just a flame that burnt out. Everything diminishes, everything ends. 

I doubt there is an ending, when there was no beginning. I doubt there is an anti-climax, when there was no climax. 

Last night, in my dream, I saw the boat. The boat that has only one of us in it. I don’t remember when, but you jumped off the boat. You thought it was safer to swim, my boat was too small, too unstable, too risky. 

As I had coffee with a friend today, I saw tons of boats. And I smiled to myself, thinking of the time I asked “anyone ever bought you a boat before?” And if I didn’t ask, I am asking now. 

Yours, 

My Fragmented Self. 

  

  

I came across these words: “It was love at first sight, ...

I came across these words: 

“It was love at first sight, at last sight, at ever and ever sight.” Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita.

“Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like volcanoes and then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision. You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is. Love is not breathlessness, it is not excitement, it is not the promulgation of promises of eternal passion, it is not the desire to mate every second minute of the day, it is not lying awake at night imagining that he is kissing every cranny of your body. No, don’t blush, I am telling you some truths. That is just being ‘in love’, which any fool can do. Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident.” ― Louis de Bernières, Captain Corelli’s Mandolin

Beautiful. 

Time

We walked outside, where there were no walls, nothing that could separate us. The air around us was cool, the breeze reminded me of the way your hair would triumph against all odds, refusing to remain still. The calmness of your voice kept me rooted. You called my name, hesitating, not sure if you still recognized me, if I was the same person. It’s strange what time does to people. We grow older, change our looks, our eyes grow sadder, more distant. My eyes had changed, you said. They were different. I tried to tell you that I was still me, that even though time had taken its toll, and we had separated for what seemed like an eternity, I was still rooted.

“But I’m a realist. I’m practical. People change,” you argued.

“I am a realist too. Realistically speaking, I can’t forget you,” I responded.

“You weren’t this emotional years ago, but madri, ” you replied.

“That’s because I was a robot. Dead. A machine. You breathed life into me, and now I can’t go back to anything less than you.” I said it as simply as that. Or maybe I thought I said it. Maybe I didn’t have the courage to say it.

And I know you know, that no matter what time has done, the damage, the scars, the long confusing nights, the wrath of Karma, the broken rules, the promises not kept- I am still rooted deeply in you. And perhaps I can only write these words. I was more courageous when I was younger. Today, I am afraid of time. And yet, I am more afraid that you don’t know that I am afraid of losing you, for the hundredth time.

“I could have fallen in love with her with my eyes closed...

“I could have fallen in love with her with my eyes closed.” Atticus. 

  

Sometimes you really don’t know why things go the way the...

Sometimes you really don’t know why things go the way they do. Sometimes the person you thought wouldn’t hurt you, stabs you. This picture says it all. 

  

Choice

There are two moons surrounding me, one on each side. Right and left. One of them tells me I should be grateful, be blessed, that I am still one of the stars in the sky. The other moon tells me that I should want more, that I shouldn’t settle for being one star in the sky. I want to be your sky, nothing less will do, nothing less will suffice. Caught between two roads, two paths, fearing losing you, and yet, also, the fear of never knowing, of not trying. This is my tenth attempt.

You have a dizzying effect, and a scent that is a mixture of Oud and French scents. There is a danger in that I cannot hold you, cannot stock up on you, cannot carry you in my pocket, spray you liberally whenever I need to. What is the danger? Am I exaggerating? The danger is of loss, of losing the possibility of you. Can you tell the two moons I would rather you choose the road for me? I have failed to light up your path or mine. I shrug my shoulders, in defeat.

But then you say Hello and I get a glimpse of what could be, of what was lost, and how there are things that are better left unsaid, unexplained, and that I cannot write. I cannot write you. I give up.

Cave

The sound of thunder bothers Flake, my dog. She barks and then quickly finds a hiding place.  Usually, she will hide under the kitchen table and refuse to budge. The best thing I could do to convince her that it was safe was to join her in her cave. Once I crawled to her, I realized that she was shaking and very afraid. Heck, the sound of thunder is scary. For me, it’s beautiful and almost musical, but for Flake, I can’t imagine what it sounds like. 

And this made me think of safety and security. We all want to feel safe, and we all have a hiding place. Flake’s is the kitchen table, that’s her cave. Mine has always been within myself- my hiding place was myself. I would crawl deep inside, refuse to communicate with others, and allow myself to feel secure in the knowledge that I was unreachable. In a way, I didn’t think anyone would find me there. Life was loud and scary and I just wanted to be safe and at peace. 

You joined me in my cave, for awhile, and tried to explain that belonging to the world was okay, it was safe to be here. I needed reassurance, and you did it with such grace. And I want to do the same for you, let you know this is a safe place, and that I am your shelter, away from the rain, thunder, and if you’d rather hide in a cave, then I’ll sit by your side until you are ready to step outside again. 

  

Rain

There was a moment of silence between us, as we both tried to think about what to say, how to say it. The distance between us was difficult, the days and nights had left us apart. And yet, the way you responded to my voice, I was relieved to know you still saw the good in me. You were still my home, but I was too afraid to voice it. As the silence grew louder, you told me that it might rain- we never talked about the weather, but here we were, talking about the weather. I shook my head, but didn’t disagree. Rain today? It seemed too far-fetched. But I let you talk, as always, listening to what you said and what you left unsaid. 

And you were right, and I found comfort in the rain, in the droplets soaking my hair, in the the sound of the rain as I drove my car, wondering if you were safe. The rain reminds me of mornings of shivering in the cold, your morning voice, and the sweetness of hope. I don’t know if you still see goodness in the world, if you still are a believer, but I do know that if it can rain on a day I was sure it wouldn’t rain.. then anything can happen. And like the rain, I want to pour myself into you, reach your deepest roots, the part you keep safely tucked away from me and the rest of the world. 

  

The playground: class

The classroom for me is a place of endless possibilities and meaning. But in one word, it’s a playground. You play. You play with ideas, with words, with theories, with stories. You get to really say what “shouldn’t” be said. You get to expose theories that are centuries old, and relate them to today. My newest class is an American Literature class, and I am experimenting with different ways to teach it. I decided to assign the texts to students to present, and when the time came to present the work, a student asked if they were supposed to stand up or sit down while they present. Now, normally, the idea is to stand up, to vocalize, to rely on body language. But I don’t believe in this rigid way of presenting. There are multiple ways to get your ideas across. As a professor who is not always able to stand up, I understand limitations very well. So I informed him that it was up to them, not me. I am not the authority figure. I don’t want to be the authority figure. You decide whether you want to stand up or sit down, how many minutes you want to talk, and the angle you’d like to tackle.

I was met with surprised faces. And then smiles. They loved that the power was not held by one person.

“As individuals, you are all different. I want you to realize this and realize that no one can tell you how things SHOULD be done,” I insisted.

The discussion in class that day was ultimately fruitful and a success. We talked about Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “The Birthmark” and related it to plastic surgery nowadays, whether one should alter the body, what constitutes a flaw, nature vs. science.. it was truly endless. I had to stop the discussion at the end of class because time was up, but some of the students took the argument outside!

And the other day, I attended Dr. Hanan’s class as a student. I used to be her student 12 years ago. She introduced me to the class as an ex-student who she “messed up” years ago. Funny how I wouldn’t have it any other way. My world view was forever altered when I read Plato, Butler, Cixous, Spivak, Irigary, and many others. Sitting next to her in class reminded me of my amazing undergraduate days. The uncanny part was sitting next to her, knowing what she was about to say, how she would explain this theory or that, and being able to predict the exact wording – especially when she was explaining mimicry, Plato (her favorite), and other gender theories. As I sat there, I was overwhelmed with a mixture of emotions: nostalgia for Kuwait University days, gratitude, and happiness, knowing that I was also doing the same thing in my literature classes. Hanan’s policy has always been an open-door one, with an emphasis on participation and discussion. Twelve years ago, the classroom was the place I listened, was forced to argue, formulate my own opinion and voice, and today, it is a playground where everyone gets a taste of freedom. And how can that be anything but fun?