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[liveeatwrite]

Respect the soldier, detest the war.

I took this photo of Bampa, my grandfather in 2003, when he had left his home and friends, everything he knew, to live with my mum, here in Canada, after my Nanna passed away. I can’t imagine how hard it was for him to leave; leaving meant he lost his independence in many ways: he loved to take a quick jaunt up the street, gather raspberries in his garden or go for a drive to town to fetch something or other. He never got a Canadian driver’s license.

Respect the bravery, detest the policies.

It’s not only my grandfather who was in uniform; my dad’s eldest brother was a member of the United States Armed Forces, now retired, he served as an orthopedic surgeon. One of my husband’s brothers, also retired, had been a Major in the Pakistani Army. While we abhor war, its causalities, along with the capitalist, racist and colonizing policies that start them, we have high regard for those that choose to serve this way. Our hearts are such that we can hold dichotomies.

Respect the service, detest the battles.

Bampa was a quiet man, preferring to observe and listen, rather than talk. Happy to sit back with ease, never wanting to be the center of attention. A very admirable and increasingly rare quality. When he would tire of hearing the conversations around him, he would turn off his hearing aids and retreat into own world or pick up a book. Bombs blasting near him during the war, made him deaf in one ear and partially deaf in the other. I’m sure he dealt with symptoms of PTSD until he died and sometimes it’s better to tune out the noisy world.

Respect the hope, detest the pain.

John Hastings served as a paratrooper for the British Royal Army. Before he died, he recalled his “life” story, stenographed and edited by his daughter, my mum. In it, he regales us with tales from his childhood, marriage and war days. One especially poignant passage recounts that when in Tunisia, where his brigade was doing night drops over the Atlas Mountains, “…one day out on a keep fit march, we stopped at an orange grove, very soon one of the Arab workers appeared waving his hands around. We had expected him to be mad at us, but he went and picked some of the best oranges I have ever tasted; we marched back with loads of them tucked in our shirts.”

Respect the causalities, detest the consequences.

In the past several years, in many online writing groups with fellow participants spanning the globe, I have had the privilege of reading poems and passages by veterans – war leaves its marks. On the body, on the psyche, on the soul. Bampa worked as a carpenter after the war. He worked in London, a good 4-5 hour bus drive away from his home. He was away from his family a lot. War leaves its mark on families. His stories, many of them cheeky, most matter-of-fact, leave out a lot of feeling. War it seems can numb people to their feelings, starting another longer, lonelier war inside themselves. I only hope Bampa was able to let some of it out through his walks, while washing the dishes and making jam, through telling his stories and laughing with his grandkids. Though Bampa wasn’t demonstrably affectionate with hugs, I knew he loved us by actions like speaking up for us, little things he sent to us from across the pond, and his acts of service. Spend time with your grandparents if they are still with you – really listen to their stories and listen for what is not said too. Tell them you appreciate them and the sacrifices they made, the hardships they endured. You want to understand yourself? Learn your family’s stories.

Respect the sacrifices, detest the occupation.

*************

“But in the end, stories are about one person saying to another: This is the way it feels to me. Can you understand what I’m saying? Does it feel this way to you?” ~ Kazuo Ishiguro

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Polishing our Connections Yesterday I got down on my hands and knees and polished my hardwood floor. This would been the way that my foremothers would’ve done it I thought to myself as I kneeled under the table and squeezed through a tight space between a chair and a bookcase. (no, that’s not a word, but if forefathers is a word then so is foremothers) I started off on my hands and knees and then switched over to squat style; I think that’s how my Asian grandmother would’ve done it; Both my grandmothers were poor, so neither of them would have had hardwood floors, they were from large families so there would have been a lot of mess. I don’t have kids so there’s not much mess, except for the clutter in my mind; this is why I clean and polish. In a yoga class once the teacher asked us to do a squat all the way down, onto our heels, her and I were the only ones that could do it; She laughed and said it’s an “Asian thing” - her children and her husband are Asian; she joked and said next class “I’ll bring bowls of rice and Natasha and I will teach you how to squat.” I’m a different kind of Asian through my father. I squatted and polished with almond oil thinking of all the women who have squatted: with brooms, squatted in rice paddies, squatted with heavy wombs. I switched over to a kneepad to do the rest of my floor and went over it again with cloth attached to handle; All the while thinking of my mother, my grandmothers, All the women on their hands and knees, all the women that clean. I used an environmentally friendly almond oil, now my kitchen smells of Amandine it looks like polished old wood. Wood is the element of the spring season in the Five Elements of Traditional Chinese Medicine Wood reminds us to be patient Reminds us of the trees waiting for the leaves to come back Holding still through the winter – not dead, not dormant, just patient, Harsh as it may be, growth in life happens in the roots, underground, unseen; My mother used to polish the hardwood floors; the floor leading to the front door was laminate – she would strip it, clean it, then wax it again, I don’t think many cleaners were environmentally friendly back then, We knew floor-cleaning day was happening when there was a note taped to the front door ‘Use garage door.’ It was all unseen. In a poem I wrote several years ago I wondered: “Is that why so many people are stressed out these days, no one cleans their own homes anymore? They outsource the dirty work. I'm reminded of a movie where the cop cleans her weapon, saying it relaxes her.” It’s good to get down on your hands and knees and clean, Be up close with the dust and the dirt, see some of the unseen particles that dance in the air when the light is right; Polish floors once in a while, for while polishing the floors We polish a piece of our hearts - if we do it like our foremothers did - no music, no podcast, no TV, Simply the sound of the clock ticking and our cloth sweeping back and forth across the floor – sweeping out the debris from our minds. There’s nothing like polishing the floor on our hands and knees to reminds us of the value of hard work As we get closer to the floor we are humbled We get closer to the elements, to the earth, Closer to our grandmothers, our ancestors, We’ve forgotten what it was like for them, modern conveniences keep us so removed Elbow grease gets us back to our roots; My grandmothers wouldn’t have had hardwood floors, or almond oil or an ergonomic handle they would have had a cement floor and a broom to sweep; knee aching, back breaking, soul changing, medicine-making. Liberating?

~ Natasha Kureshi

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Freedom to Ride I like riding my bike when I can Feeling the breeze on my face Pumping my legs instead of a gas pedal The exhilaration of going downhill The consternation of going up To ride is to feel freedom It’s elementary, You never forget. The only straps are the ones around your chin, Not boxed in to a seat I like driving when I want to go faster and further Biking when I want to go slower, to meander, to explore, to remember who and where I am The rush of pushing myself off the seat for a boost. Feeling the strength of my thighs that have stood by me and helped me up from dark places It’s important not to carry a big load when you’re on a bike, Travel light, don’t take a lot of baggage with you It’s more freeing, As is letting go of the weight of others’ expectations Once in a coaching group conversation we were discussing expectations, Whether to have them or not, Should we ever expect anything from anyone? Is life easier if we don’t? It’s not human if we do. I go about the world thinking I’ll be treated respectfully and compassionately, Of course, this is not always the case; Values like honesty, authenticity and empathy are my own, Not necessarily what others hold dear, And yet, the world does only go around because of expectations; take driving for example – it’s a trust with people we will never meet or know: when you get a red light, you will stop and I will go, then the situation will reverse, I will stop so you can go. Reciprocal give and take. Not everyone yields to a metaphorical red light. Some plow right on through, leaving shattered pieces in their wake. “No” falls on deaf ears for them. No stop signs. No boundaries. I’ve been looking back through old photos of when I was a child; I marveled at the fact that I didn’t always smile. Even when there was the expectation by outside “authority” figures like a professional photographer, I held my own and only smiled when I wanted to. Expectations? Exceptions. Exhortation? Exploitation. Even as a child I knew I had agency over myself, even in circumstances I couldn’t control – We can’t control the world around us, especially as a child, We can choose how to respond, Sometimes it’s innate; The nervous system’s way of keeping itself safe In its own agency. Choice. Carving out our own sense of safety can be choosing not to smile when it doesn’t feel genuine. Riding a bike has that sense of agency. I feel safe on my bike. Helmet, mirror, bell, basket. I am set. Know and use all the hand signals. I share the road kindly. Stay in my lane. Stop at the reds; yield at the yellows. There’s a freedom on my bike, Wind at my back; I can choose go off the road I can follow my own path Pick another trail. Choice is fundamental. I choose to bike. Bell. Basket. Exploration.

~ Natasha Kureshi

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Another Kind of Lockdown by Natasha Kureshi

It started off like any other day, I think I worked the morning shift, but I don’t quite remember; the events of the rest of the day sort of blurred out what must have been an uneventful morning. I used to work the 7-9AM and then the 3-6PM shifts, excepts Thursdays, early dismissal days, we worked 2-6PM. Thursday afternoons were a coveted shift because of the more hours; yes, more pay but also more time to connect with the children in our care. I worked at an out of school care centre that was housed in the portables of a local school. This particular day, as I drove in for the afternoon shift, I noticed that the streets were quiet and there wasn’t a lot of activity around the school. I was the type of person that got to places early, especially work, and I headed for my doors only to find they were locked. Perplexed, I walked over the front door and was surprised to find them locked as well. Peering in I could see the secretarial staff in the office, but they didn’t look at me. Wondering what was going on, I headed back towards my car. This was around 2005 and I didn’t have a cell phone – they weren’t as ubiquitous as they are now – so I couldn’t call the centre or the front office to find out what was happening. As I walked around the school, the custodian, Jo-Jo*, called out to me, motioning me to come inside quick.

I’m going to digress for a moment to tell you about school custodians. I think they have one of the most thankless jobs (society-wise) – but they get paid back in a lot of love from students. If you were lucky, you had a chance to see inside the supply closet that was full of toilet paper, those rolly mop-bucket contraptions and smelled like pine-sol, a scent I loved as a kid. I think sometimes school custodians know students more than a homeroom teacher might: they see the kids that linger a little bit longer in the hallways, you know the ones that take the longer route back to their class, they hear the kids that throw up in the bathroom and the ones that cry there alone too. Custodians know which kids sit in the hall and eat their lunches alone. They are celebrated for lobbing back the balls that end up on the roof and the wayward equipment that gets stuck in the gym ceiling. Custodians also have the grim task of picking dried gum off of the undersides of desks and cleaning up puke. When I was in junior high, I used to get terribly sick when I was menstruating, and one time I threw up on the classroom carpet; I remember feeling really bad for our custodian who had to clean it up. I’ve had extended family members who worked cleaning jobs and I know the people that clean up after us largely go unnoticed, so I make it a point to look at and say thank you to custodians in public places. I share this as a reminder to please thank them next time you encounter them, for all the work they’ve always done, and most especially their essential work in the past year or so.

Back to Jo-Jo: he told me that there was an active situation in which an armed man was roaming around the neighborhood. I remember stiffening as he led me to the hallway towards our portable and unlocked all the doors that would have usually been wide open. I knocked on our centre door, identifying myself and the site manager, Dave*, opened it for me. The older grade school students were still in their homeroom classrooms, but the kinders, the kindergarten children who were done school by 11:30AM, were there, huddled in a corner behind a room divider. Dave ushered me in and I quickly put down my things and rushed into the corner; the lights were all off and he said we had to stay quiet and away from the view of the windows. I remember I didn’t even get a chance to swipe my time card that day. The police helicopters outside could be heard loud and clear in the eerily quiet classroom. The kids looked afraid, mirroring my own fear and a couple were crying. Maggie* looked at me and I held her on my lap. She had buried her head into my shoulder and was shaking and kept asking if the bad guy was gone yet. She stayed there until we got the all clear signal a couple of hours later. I don’t remember too much about that day except Jo-Jo’s kind face, Dave’s worry, and Maggie’s fear. Even after the all clear we had to continue the day – many kids didn’t get picked up until right at 6PM; some of the kinders came promptly at 7AM and stayed all day, until just before closing time. I remember thinking what a long day for them and their parents, who got an earful of the dramatic story as soon as they came in.

 Being in pandemic lockdown, reminded me of this other kind of lockdown – the really awful and scary kind that too many young children, especially in the US have sadly faced. I wrote about it briefly my pandemic writings and remembered the incident again on Mother’s Day when a friend mentioned happy greetings to caregivers too; prompting me to pen the whole story here. And as memory often works, another thought came along with this traumatic memory: I’m not a parent, but having worked in preschool and child care settings for many years, I have accidentally been called Mom many times. I’m sure teachers are familiar with this too and I don’t think it’s an accident either. For most people (though sadly not all,) the word Mom comes with feelings of warmth and safety, and a mother-figure is who you turn to when you have something exciting to share. My experiences of being called Mom were usually of the latter variety: look at the puzzle/LEGO/toy I made, look at the new Pokemon card I traded, I drew this in class, I got an A on my test!

I don’t have some grand message to share with this story, one I had forgotten until the trauma of the pandemic lockdown niggled it out of the recesses of my memory. I don’t think I ever told anyone except my husband about this. Peter Levine, who developed somatic experiencing, says that “trauma is not happens to us, but what we hold inside in the absence of an empathetic witness.” I’m hearing that many have been re-experiencing past trauma and grief in past year and I wish them healing and compassionate witnesses to hold their stories. I hope that when Maggie or any of the other children at school that day remember not only “how scary” it was, but that they had kind teachers, caregivers and support staff around them that helped them through the experience.

 *Names have been changed to protect identities.

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Grief is Welcome Here.

“My grief is worthy of a safe home – just as I am.” @natasha_writestuff

Grief is isolating. We feel we are the only one that feels this way. Grieving alone is even more isolating. Getting the message that our grief isn’t valid, further isolates us. Society tells us we need to get over things, to move on, to forgive, to get back to “real” life. Our culture, one that is obsessed with youth and anti-aging, does not grieve well. Grief is a reminder of growing old and ultimately death. For a culture that is appearances-based, this is an uncomfortable feeling, so grief is swept under the rug.

At the end of March, a friend gathered us together for an informal memorial to remember the Asian women murdered in Atlanta. We stood outside in and around a gazebo in a park on what turned out to be a cold evening, physically distanced, emotionally standing together. We were a diverse group of people who came to remember, sharing a Cree blessing, an Islamic prayer and a Buddhist song. We went around the circle sharing our thoughts, or prayers or wishes. When it came to my turn, I spoke of the beauty of coming together to share our grief. I remarked that grief is an emotion that needs to be witnessed; grief is a communal feeling, it needs to be seen, to be heard, to be acknowledged in community.

I’ve been thinking about that ever since; and how sometimes our grief isn’t seen for what it is nor given its due place. It isn’t allowed a funeral because it’s a different kind of grief, one that is not recognized nor condoned, or it was a loss so long ago that we couldn’t possibly still be grieving it.  In a webinar on Coping with Special Days for the Grieving, Dr. Patti Anewalt, Director of the Pathways Center for Grief & Loss, describes grief as the reactions you have after a loss and mourning as the experiencing of it, what you do with your grief reactions. Until we acknowledge the validity of our grief, we cannot get on with the task of mourning, and some of us get stuck in that first step if we aren’t given the space to grieve.

Society hardly recognizes death grief, let alone any other flavors. Yet if we stop to think about it more, our grief and our associated rituals of mourning can bring us so much peace with the loss we are experiencing and in coming to terms with our own mortality. Platitudes like don’t cry, be strong, forgive, move on, are bandied about in an attempt to separate us from our grief/trauma/pain so as not to make others uncomfortable. We all need to sit with discomfort a bit more, our own first, so we can sit with others’. What I’d like to say to people who try to separate me from my grief is: “I’m comfortable with my grief so let me sit with it. Please take some time to work on your own grief before advising me or inserting yourself into mine.” Those that don’t acknowledge or even deny us of our chance to grieve, are those that have not faced their own. They’ve buried it so far down that it often comes out on the other side in the form of anger at others, for having the gall to share theirs. It’s too tender, too vulnerable, too much; another casualty of a society that is more about show than feel.

Everyone does grief and mourning in their own way – some cry, some laugh, some sing, dance, paint, write, walk, run…many simply run away. I do and have done all of these at some point in my grief journey. I’d recommend them all, especially crying - crying is always good. Doula, coach and author, Jessie Harrold says, instead of telling people not to cry, we ought to be asking them, have you cried enough? She says that “untended grief will find other ways to get tended.” Grief must be acknowledged and given space. Grief doesn’t want to be relegated to the corner of the equivalent of the Sears bargain basement bin. It wants to be given a prime spot at the end of a grocery store aisle, where you can’t miss it – where you will be more likely to pick it up.

We can’t begin to accept what we don’t acknowledge. So pick up the grief and tell the truth about it. You must tell the truth about - and more importantly to – your grief. Grief brings us to our knees, because grief needs to be heard and seen. Grief is waiting for us to invite it in for a cup of tea. And a cookie. It wants you to see all the crumbs. Grief wants to be told, you are welcome here. It’s painful, it’s hard, it sucks. And it is necessary. Acknowledging it and working with it, instead of against it, helps us integrate it. Grief fades in and out as we go through life, more gets added to it, and even when we can’t see it, it’s there – it’s part of who we are. Welcome it in, give it a home, share it in safe spaces, a safe community and ultimately it’ll show you how to become who you want to be.

~ Natasha Kureshi

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The first poem I had published as an adult was about 7 years ago for a cultural magazine. I shared the poem pictured above; I used a pseudonym. I didn’t want to get the “reputation” of someone who writes about race and culture. The pseudonym I used was my parents’ first names: my mum’s initial and my dad’s name, passable as a last name in his country. There was a part of me that needed to be hidden, the tender parts, parts that needed to be held, to be wrapped around the arms of both parents at the same time. A feeling I will never again experience in this life.

Now I sign my name to everything I write. I sign with the name I was born with. I stand rooted in my words. I’ve touched the land of my mitochondrial DNA, I’ve looked into eyes like mine, ones I’ve been searching a lifetime for. Now I want to be known as someone that dissents and questions. I want to make others think, deepen their perspectives. I want them to point to me and whisper, “she’s the cycle-breaker, that poem-maker, don’t underestimate her.” I’ve since stepping into my own power, over and over again, and I hold myself upright, spine tall, crown towards the sky, heart facing out. The world probably hasn’t done all it can to me, but I hold my faith in my hand, pressing it to my heart in moments of despair, it reminds me to come home to this body, this heart, this soul. Life can toss all it wants at me, even though I appear to stand alone, I have my ancestors beside me. To the right my father’s people, to the left my mother’s clan – warriors and survivors all. They are smiling at me, telling me it’s okay to wear my heart on my sleeve.

The first time I read my poetry out loud was at an organization called the Green Room. It was 6 ½ years ago as part of their Freestyle Fridays series. In the audience were other artists, writers and also in attendance was my Mum and a dear friend. I read the poem and afterwards my Mum remarked, “there’s probably a lot more where that came from.” She was right, as mothers often are, I’ve been writing steadily since then, on the path of uncovering who I am and how best to serve God.

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When the Germs are Gone

A few months ago, on a regular porch exchange with a friend, trading baking or soup or books or gifts as we’ve been doing, her little one came out and declared, “When the germs are gone, you can come inside our house again!” These words were said with so much conviction and earnest emotion, that I wanted these “germs” to be gone as soon as possible.

I think of that phrase a lot, “When the germs are gone;” it brings with it hope and possibility, the way a child’s mind does.

When the germs are gone I will still be smiling, and others will see it. And others will be smiling and I’ll see it. I’ll smile back at them. They’ll smile at me too.

When the germs are gone I’ll give a big hug with all the people I checked in with regularly. And they are ones that checked in on me too. Some days a simple “How are you?” meant more to me than anything.

I’ll sob on the shoulders of those who truthfully showed their pain, it told me “I trust you.” My own sobs will tell them, “I love you too.” When the germs are gone.

When the germs are gone I’ll go see the people I’ve been meeting on google and zoom; the ones that I haven’t yet met in real life. You know who you are. We’ll paint and play soon.

When the germs are gone I’ll ask friends to go for a walk that doesn’t involve distance of any kind. Some of the closest people are the ones that live the farthest away. I’ll visit you too.

I’ll sit a local café with a book and a cup of tea; laugh with the barista, wave at a baby and nod a smile at everyone I make eye contact with. When the germs are gone.

When the germs are gone I’ll have dinner at a restaurant with my love; we’ll laugh, we’ll eat and talk at length to the server.

When the germs are gone I’ll linger…in book stores, in libraries, in the woods, in laughter…I miss the lingering…

I won’t rush off the sidewalk at the first sign of another form in the distance. Human hearts are contagious in another way. When the germs are gone.

When the germs are gone. I’ll pet big dogs that curiously look at me on my walks.

When the germs are gone I’ll sit with the people who listened to my grief; in silence; the best moments are those where you know without speaking a word.

I’ll dance around full of joy with the people that told me “Call me next time you have a panic attack; I’ll talk you through.” We’ll celebrate making it through. When the germs are gone

When the germs are gone I’ll visit the people that told me “I have panic attacks too.” We’ll talk about how it feels when your heart is racing and you can’t catch a breath and when fright grips a tight hold of your whole body.

When the germs are gone I’ll go back to talking at length to the cashiers; asking them about their day and when their shift will end. When they germs are gone, I’ll still keep thanking them.

I will hold the hands of the unhoused, instead of only saying a hello. I’ll ask them for their story too. When the germs are gone.

When the germs are gone. I’ll visit my little friend IN their house. We’ll laugh and play and make believe; part with a hug and promises to see you again soon. When the germs are gone.

~ Natasha Kureshi

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No One Knows Why In a park, I passed by a bench dedicated to the memory of a man that died when he was 26. I thought about him and his family. My thoughts drifted to my life at 26. It takes 26 moves or less to solve a Rubik’s cube. Sometimes our bodies move in less than ideal ways. I twisted my ankle really badly at 26. There are 26 bones in the human foot. I jumped off the last step of the basement stairs – I landed all wrong. I knew right away. All wrong. The sympathetic nervous system has 26 ganglions. Being hurt gets you empathy from most people. There are 26 red cards and 26 black cards in a suite. When we injure ourselves, in the aftermath, we aren’t always playing with a full deck. A 26-sided shape is known as a rhombicuboctahedron. Similar to that sorting toy you had as a toddler. I still have the same face I did when I was 26, I haven’t altered it – its older, wiser, softer in some places, angular in others. Same as when I was a child. Precipitevolissimevolmente has 26 letters, it means ASAP in Italian. I went to the ER right away. I got an X-ray, but didn’t end up seeing a doctor; tired of waiting in pain, so I left. People leave places where they are tired of waiting to feel better; leave places that cause more pain. In a letter to an orthopedic surgeon, the sports medicine doctor described me as a pleasant 26-year-old; I still have that letter. And the pleasantness. The atomic number of iron is 26. My ankle took a long time to heal. Does anything ever really heal? Broken ankles, broken hearts…It’ll never be as strong as it once was. Maybe it wasn’t strong to begin with. Born to a woman of 26, I was breech; they broke my ankle to pull me out. I don’t jump feet first into anything; my heart has to skip the right beat. Cleveland Clinic has a list of 26 amazing things about the heart. Did you know that December 26 is one of the peak days for heart attacks? Christmas and New Year’s Days are the other two. For my dad ‘was a fortnight of spring equinox. An elephant’s heart rate is closest to 26 beats per minute. They live a long time. And remember even more. It takes the average person 13 seconds to count from 1-26. Try it yourself if you don’t believe it. At 13 I threw up in class in a reading circle. I was mortified; somehow it felt worse because I had a male teacher. Sensitive stomach, sensitive heart, sensitive soul. At 26 we’re less embarrassed by the things we were embarrassed by at 13. At 52 I suspect most people are not embarrassed by much. At 104? Hallelujah! According to the Gospel of Luke, there were 26 generations from David to Jesus, as well as from Moses to Adam. Shu’ara’, the poets, Surah 26; read it. Then you will know. We can make everything about ourselves if we try. But it never is. The world has been made in the most Perfect Design. We are not the center - we are the servants. If you change it around, 26 yields infinity. No, I’m not crazy; use a little imagination – you’ll see. And the earth pulsates every 26 seconds. No one knows why. . ~ Natasha Kureshi

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I Know - Now You Know If you’ve never lost a parent, you don’t know. It’s an exclusive club that no one wishes to be a part of, if you’ve never lost a parent, you don’t know. For membership you pay the highest price. You don’t know. If it was sudden or it happened at an early age. You don’t know. You never got to say goodbye, you never got to wonder how, why? I know. If you’ve never lost a parent, you don’t know how it feels to be left behind – whether it was death or abandonment – it feels the same in the end. You don’t know that every time you’ve felt abandoned since, pulls you to that moment you realized they are never coming back. You don’t know. Grief shapes who we are and who we want to be. It softens us, we care about everything. A dead rabbit on the road makes us cry. She was a parent too. You don’t know. An ant on the sidewalk, dragging a little dragonfly has us stopping in wonder at the cycle of life. I know. If you’ve never lost a parent. You don’t know. Helpless to do anything about it - ‘this is the way of the world,’ doesn’t make it any easier. It makes us more vulnerable to all losses. You don’t know. Every hurt, every betrayal, brings forth that penultimate wound that’s always just beneath the surface. When you preach to me your advice, I don’t need it. You don’t know. I need heart, not heralding. I know. If you’ve never lost a parent. You don’t know what it’s like to have done grief groups, to pray every day, to walk and walk and write and write… you don’t know; grief is a part of life. You don’t know, you can’t pray away the pain. Praying connects you closer to it. Praying connects you to your heart. You don’t know. You don’t know we stay away from spaces that deny us our grief. Tell us to get over it, not to grieve - shun our sensitivity. You don’t know. We prostrate in places that welcome our tears. I know. They say grief is the price of love, those that deny our pain are those that deny our love. They are the ones that break our heart. You don’t know. Grief and love come from the same place, the same Source. Once our hearts have been broken open, they break more easily, don’t you know. I know. Don’t you know, those of us who have touched our own grief, can touch our own love. Who grieves wholeheartedly, loves wholeheartedly. When you belittle our grief, you belittle our love. Don’t you know. Grief is a part of life, a part of love. Don’t you know. Touching the heart of grief is like touching the heart of love; it feels big because it is. Don’t you know, I grieve for you. Yes, you. No, you don’t know. I know. ~ Natasha Kureshi

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. . The other day I walked around an area of my city with a different purpose: to find street art. . When you look for something, chances are you’ll find it! I discovered beautiful and impactful pieces all around me. . . I took myself out on what #juliacameron calls an Artist Date: a solo journey or activity to inspire you. Playing with colours, going to a cafe or museum, try something new, popping into a used bookstore or walking around a neighborhood and photographing art. . My usual #artistdate is walking outside and taking photos of art by ‘The’ Artist, photos of nature, to inspire my writing and this time I found a different kind of inspiration in art from a different angle. Around the corners, in the alleys, on the sides of buildings, on boarded up stores and art in architecture too. . Do you do artist dates? What sorts of activities do you like to do? . . . . . #solodate #discoverydate #playingtoursist #whyteave #oldstrathcona #theartistsway #poetryinpaint #streetart #muralart #graffiti #amazing #talent #poetry #poemsonwalls #photography #walking #stopandseetheart #creativity #creativityfound #inspiration #explore #wander #explorewandercollect #art #artisit https://www.instagram.com/p/CEuoj1KgIel/?igshid=b2enrn88yhwb