Google Webmaster Tools
I feel blessed and deeply grateful to be raised bi-lingual. I feel especially privileged for having Farsi, the language of poetry and prose, as my mother tongue. Even though English was the first alphabet I creatively scattered on thirsty pieces of white paper, very early in life Farsi poetry stirred a fascination in me that was beyond mere language. Reciting Hafez, Rumi and Saadi, memorizing Bastaami, role playing Ferdowsi, competing in Moshaereh*, as if there was this sweet pleasure of living in a poetic dreamland, life was poetry in action: swimming in the ocean of emotions, riding along with heroes and heroines to prove that faith and hope are still human values, falling in love with every Spring blossom that was welcomed with passion for its resemblance to the beauty of the beloved and picking up pieces of a broken heart as Fall shattered pedestals of vows and promises that the poet had raised his beloved upon. Life was the stage, poetry was the script. Heroes were kind, villains were doomed. Love was gentle, love was sure, love was true, love was taught. And as unachievable as it was, love still redeemed itself as the Mecca of the passionate heart.
I watch my son playing mindcraft. Working a couple of hours with a hammer that doesn't exist, building spaces that never are, traversing worlds with no human touch, raising crops that never satisfy hunger, fighting zombies that explode without bleeding; building, destroying, creating, killing, connecting and abandoning …. without any consequences. Is that his poetry? Is that the stage he is acting his play of life on? What happens when he hits a concrete wall of rejection in a real world or falls off the terrifying cliff of disappointment? Will he be able to pick up his own pieces and put them back together? Will his heroes lead him the way? Would’t the zombies uproot all seeds of love?
I seek refuge to my social media world, my own shelter from all the concrete walls and nerve wrecking cliffs, my own denial of pain, my own excuse for avoiding connection or confrontation, my own quick remedy, available at my finger tips. I take comfort in all kinds of heroes and villains; from superman to a child fighting cancer, from Godzilla to bombs devouring lives in the name of democracy, from angles wearing wings in airbrushed pictures to humans being abused by media, from utube and vimoe to “ 4ways” and “ 5 reasons”. I am flooded. I am overwhelmed. I am drugged. Half alive, still looking for the hero. A vague delusion of being the hero myself. Did I live all those screen shots? Where did I draw the line between the reality of my story and the story I tell in my “ like”s ? What if the curtain comes down this minute? Will I get to know my hero and walk in his footsteps or will I be lost in the pull of all these consoling worlds? I ponder…
I miss poetry. I miss memorizing Hafez and reciting it for a grade. I miss getting lost in Rumi’s fluid yearning for “ haq”. I miss drinking from the grail of a love poem deep enough to bring tears to my eyes and take strength from my knees. I miss getting lost in a story well told. I miss a hero. I miss the sight of his footsteps on the pages of life story- true, gentle, strong, graceful. Sometimes I miss real life.
*Moshaereh is the art of spontaneous reciting poetry back and forth between two or more people. Each person should start a verse with the last letter in the last person's verse. Quite a mindful art!
**Haq is a spiritual reference to God, Unity, Universe, Allah