happy am i. holy am i. healthy am i.

Happy am i. Holy am i. Healthy am i. by Sadiqua Hamdan

Copyright 2013, Sadiqua Hamdan Published by Sharp Thinking Communications All Rights Reserved.

Table of Contents Introduction Background Happy am i Hello, My Name is Not Sangria, Sequita or Sadiqwa Changing the Circumstances You Are Born With Loving The Beautiful One Self-Acceptance, Donkey’s Point of View Holy am i A Love Story Self-Acceptance: Step Into The Light Donkey Power Versus Natural Power Don’t Believe Everything You See Fighting For Peace is Like Fucking for Virginity Emergency Coffee Date with God Born Precious, If God Wills It God and Toaster Righteousness One Shot. One Life Tale of Two Prayers Healthy am i What Does Healthy Mean to You? Don’t Waste Time on Negative Thinking Peace in the Middle East Change is its Own Reward Because of Me, I Now Have Grandkids Self-Empowerment: You Are More Powerful Than You Think You Are Livin’ La Vida with Purpose What Women Ought to Think Cooking and Lemon Trees in Exchange for Love and Lemon Custard First World Problems Please Don’t Waste Your Suffering What Does Self Worth Look Like to You? Creating Time for Ourselves Ode to Chocolate Cancer’s Blessing Lessons Learned Drunk with Love

The soul is dyed the color of its thoughts. Think only those things that are in line with your principles and can bear the light of day. The content of your character is your choice. Day by day, what you do is who you become. Your integrity is your destiny. It is the light that guides your way. ~Heraclitus

The two most important days of your life are the day you are born and the day you figure out why. ~ Mark Twain Introduction Walk on your own yellow brick road. If you can’t find one, spray paint your way into happiness. If that doesn’t work, buy yellow shoes. It sounds simple, but it’s not the case for many people, myself included. I learn the hard way that life doesn’t have to be so hard or difficult. I now know that it’s very easy to attract love, happiness, prosperity and health. The question is, why do so many of us attract fear, pain and hurt in our lives? How do we attract more of what we want and less of what we don’t want? This e-book is an inspirational, thoughtful, funny, sarcastic straightforward, kick-inthe butt look at life. It's full of personal experiences, thoughts and rants about topics such as personal identity, sex, love, God, the Universe and life after war and cancer. I also write about how to let go of crap and embrace gratitude, forgiveness, prosperity, self-love and acceptance. What makes my struggles different than anyone else’s and why did I write this book? I believe that if I can overcome my challenges, ANYONE can. I’m not here to brag about my suffering or pleasurable experiences. I simply believe my story can bring enlightenment to your journey. By putting ourselves in other people’s shoes, it can inspire us to rise above our own challenges. Sharing stories keep us connected as human beings and bring us closer to ourselves. If you’re like me, you find that there is no distinction between healthy, holy or happy. How can one be happy without health or inner peace? How can one be healthy without spiritual fulfillment and happiness? How can your soul be satisfied without a healthy and happy outlook on life? This is a good time to clarify my interpretation of happy, holy and healthy. Happy. Happiness is commonly defined as a mental or emotional state of well being characterized by positive or pleasant emotions ranging from contentment to

intense joy. I agree. It doesn’t mean the goal is to literally be happy every moment of our lives. It means flowing with life, not attempting to control it. It’s taken me awhile to realize this – in the absence of not feeling happy, I am frustrated with not being happy! I spend a lot of time in my twenties and early thirties searching for happiness, believing it’s the right combination of location, individuals and zeros in my bank account. The belief is that happiness is outside of my self and not within reach. I say to myself, “If I travel enough, I can eventually find the right happiness concoction.” While I become incredibly happy traveling to countries such as Brazil, Ireland and Italy, it’s because I enjoy traveling, meeting new people, and learning about cultures, not because a Brazilian is holding up a sign at Sao Paulo airport that reads, “Welcome to Happiness, Sadiqua. You finally found it!” Although, I am very happy to discover that Brazilian cheese bread balls at the airport make a great first impression of what’s in store for the remainder of the trip. One day I realize, “There are unhappy Brazilians and Italians, too. People are unhappy all over the world – what makes me think I’m going to be happier in someone else’s country than where I am currently living?” However, I can’t deny that where I am now is better than life in a Brazilian favela, or shantytown. I also can’t deny that Brazilians living in favelas view happiness differently than I do- a simple home with sanitary conditions and daily meals may be all they yearn for to be happy. I’m not sure. What I do know is that true happiness is not a two-week vacation to be had once a year. We can be happy every day of our lives once we tap into our inner happiness. This is the type of happiness we do have control of and can experience on a daily basis. Holy. In this book, I use the word God and Universe interchangeably. God is male and female, and go back and forth between He and She. In my opinion, holy is a synonym for soul fulfillment. I am raised in a progressive Muslim household with a reserved Palestinian cultural structure. In the past, my parents do not pray five times a day but participate in Ramadan and attend mosque on holidays, as do I. My four brothers and me are raised in America, and we also live in my parent’s homeland for three years. In these three years, I learned about Islam’s connection to the other Abrahamic faiths, Christianity and Judaism. As a young adult, I lose faith in God, but still seek to fill my spiritual cup in some way, shape or form. I visit religious sites in Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Rome, Vatican City, and several

French towns – all of which symbolize history, art and spirituality to me. I sense peace in Buddhism, chants and meditations. My heart feels at home when reading Rumi, Hafiz, Gibran and other soul-filled poetry. I explore what Oneness feels like, simply by connecting to the Universe, with no middleman or book to negotiate my soul’s worth. Healthy. Healthy is a state of mind, body and soul. Healthy goes beyond eating nourishing foods and physical activity. How do we see others and ourselves? Are we thinking healthy or trashy thoughts? Do we take a pill for all our ills? Are we taking time out for ourselves? Are we consciously dealing with our problems, taking responsibility for our own lives, or holding on to resentment, anger, hurt and fear? Do we often think about escaping our present situation due to stress from a job, relationship or living arrangement? How can we integrate peace into our lives on a daily basis, not on specific days of the week or parts of the year? Only when we acknowledge ourselves as we really are can we begin to take inventory of the physical, mental, and emotional clutter that no longer serves us. Then we can choose to no longer judge ourselves for what we’ve become and focus on who we’d like to be. According to Rumer Godden, author of A House with Four Rooms, “There is an Indian proverb that says that everyone is a house with four rooms, a physical, a mental, an emotional and a spiritual. Most of us tend to live in one room most of the time - but, unless we go into every room every day, even if only to keep it aired, we are not a complete person.” Although this book has three sections, it is up to you to define what is happy, holy, and healthy. I purposely left out introductions in each section. The above words offer sufficient explanation. It is my hope that this book inspires you to stand in your truth and to be happy, holy and healthy.

If you don’t design your own life plan, chances are you will fall into someone else’s plan. And guess what they have planned for you? Not much. ~Jim Rohn My Background I am born to Palestinian immigrants who come to the United States in the early 1970s. I come into the world with pre-determined expectations of what my life is supposed to be – a cultural blueprint which states I am to finish college, marry a Muslim man of Palestinian descent, have kids and live happily ever after as a Palestinian-American wife and mother. By the time I graduate high school and am old enough to understand my pre-determined destiny, I think this plan sucks balls. Why would I want to get married after college AND have kids? Where is the reset button on my life? Why can’t I marry whomever I want? Why can’t I live on my own before marriage? There are so many unanswered questions that my parents could not, or would not fully explain to me. The problem is at this time is that I truly don’t understand my parent’s history. Until I can fully understand their upbringing, I see them as a threat to my happiness. I do not comprehend they are simply protecting me as best they can and attempting to make my life easier. All they are looking for is a way to bring happiness into their lives and children’s lives, while preserving the cultural heritage. It sounds simple now. It doesn’t back then. As a kid I have no choice but to live in inner city Milwaukee, where crime is rampant, but do not understand I am living in the hood until years later. When I turn nine years old, my four brothers and me spend three years in our newly built home in Beitin, a Palestinian village in the West Bank. It is a life of awesomeness. It is a very positive experience for me, except the last six months. I believe my parents intend for us to stay in Beitin indefinitely, but six months into the 1987 Palestinian Intfidah, or uprising, force my parents to move the family back to the United States. There is too much social, political and economical instability, when Palestinians collectively revolt against the Israeli occupation through boycotts, refusal to pay taxes, civil disobedience and other acts of this nature. It escalates to Palestinians throwing stones and Molotov cocktails at soldiers. Palestinians do not have the right to bear arms. I am too young to understand the meaning of apartheid, oppression or warfare. I only know I have a nine p.m. curfew. I am not

allowed to be in front of my house or on the veranda. I am not allowed to ride my dirt bike in the driveway or play dodge ball with my brothers and cousins. I have to be inside by nine p.m. or I have the right to be shot or arrested for disobeying this order. I talk more about what war tastes like later in the book. In the United States, I have my own mental civil war to fight. I do not know how to be Palestinian enough or American enough. I do not know how to live as a Palestinian-American or an American born with Palestinian roots. This is common to all immigrants, but it affects me in ways I do not fully comprehend until my thirties. To top it off, I am diagnosed with stage two Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in April 1996, three weeks shy of completing my second semester in college. Two stages away from dying a virgin, I am. Cancer and virginity are two subjects I discuss later in the book as well. I feel as though the Universe is conspiring against me. The American dream can happen to someone else, but it can’t happen to me. These words no longer have meaning: Walk on your own yellow brick road. If you can’t find one, spray paint your way into happiness. If that doesn’t work, buy yellow shoes. In my mind, there are great things I can do with my life. I’m not sure exactly what these great things are at this time, but they conflict with my parent’s values. I cannot go away for college. I cannot live by myself as an adult before marriage. I go from believing in a happier indescribable future to being fed chemotherapy drugs and a thousand lies. How do I break a thousand lies? A thousand lies I have told myself, and those who gave me my name have told a thousand more lies to me. My parents have also fed a thousand lies. They all told me, us, who to be in life. A thousand lies I have removed from my soul. I take the first step towards freedom only to realize there are chains around my feet.

I break these chains with determination only to learn that I cannot walk on my own. I take a few steps forward and fall. I get back up again. One step. Two steps. Ten steps. I fall again. I rise up and move forward, looking for a way out the four walls that hold me in. Where are the keys to the door? A thousand lies I do not know about myself. I can live by myself. I am healthy. I can make my own decisions in life. I can marry whomever I want. When will I stop feeding myself lies? I am a writer. I am beautiful. I am worthy. I am good enough. But more lies still reach my ears. I am just a woman. I am dishonoring my family. I am healthy with cancer. I am sick with love, hopes and dreams. I am not alone in believing A thousand lies. We all have a story to tell but may not be fully aware of how all the pieces fit together or how to create a better story for ourselves. Regardless of your story, there are three things to remember. First, challenges affect us all. The color of our skin, socio-economic background or any other label that sounds good here is irrelevant. Seeing issues as challenges rather than threats offers us the opportunity to overcome, rather than fear them. Second, our life is only as good as our perception of it. Third, we are all more similar than different. It sounds too simple

to be true. Our egos want us to believe that this is not possible, but it’s true in my eyes.

Nothing breaks a lie as the truth. ~ Proverb Hello, my name is not Sangria, Sequita or Sadiqwa I am born in Kenosha, Wisconsin at St. Catherine’s hospital. Legally, my name is spelled Sadiqua Hamdan. Sadiqua means friend in Arabic. A male friend is referred to as Sadiq. I am named after my father’s mom, grandma Sadiqa. At the time, my parents believe they are doing the right thing by following an English spelling law that states, “Thou shalt use a u after every q.” And so it is written, without a second opinion. They transcribe the Arabic letters into English, add a u, and voila, the spelling is now set in stone. Why am I making a big deal about u in my name? The correct way to pronounce it is without the u, Sah-dee-ka. Unfortunately, I am going to be called Sadiqwa the first day of school, every year I attend school in the U.S. This mishap follows me into adulthood. The only great part of this story is seeing the look on teacher’s faces when I raise my hand when my name is called. I can see the surprise in their eyes and hear their thoughts, “Sadiqua is not African-American or American Indian?” On some occasions, I’m called Saduko, Sasquatch, C-3PO, Sequoia, Sangria, Sequita or Somalia. This typically happens when someone turns my name into a funny game called Things or Places that Start with the Letter S. I remember someone calling my work line one day and asking to speak with Sangria Hamdan. On another occasion, a woman requests to speak to Sequita Hamdan. Sometimes, people are so tripped up on the first name that they assume the last name is just as tricky. “Miss Hum-dun-daan?” The first time some of my youngest brother’s friends hear my name (mind you, he’s eight years younger than me), they instantly turn it into a dirty joke. It is at a high school award ceremony, where my brother is receiving acknowledgement for doing something smart. We meet after the function is over. “This is my sister, Sadiqua,” my brother says as he introduces me to his friends.

There are smiles all around and his friends are as polite as high school students can be. I think nothing of it. An hour later, my brother calls to tell me his friends tease him about my name. “Deeks, do you know what my friends are saying about you?” “No, what?” I ask. By then, my nickname from college has stuck with me. A friend shortens my name from Sadiqua to Sadeeks, and then Deeks. Joe says, “Why didn’t you tell us you have a hot sister named Suck-a-dick-a?” As you can see, my attempt at being incognito usually backfires because my name is not Samantha, Sarah or Betty Sue. It’s Sadiqua.

Changing the Circumstances You Are Born With Where my dad comes from everything has meaning and value, including a person’s name. You are not born without meaning, but living up to your name can only be earned with time. In this village, the value of something depends on how well you do in negotiating its worth, including your own self worth. My dad is born and raised in Beitin, a Palestinian village where it was customary to name your first-born son after your father. My dad is not the first son to be born, nor is he the last. He grows up in a house with seven siblings – five sisters and two brothers. Living quarters are tight – two rooms, kitchen, patio and an outhouse. The home would be later expanded to include an in-house toilet and a room off the patio where guests could be more comfortable to enjoy mint tea or strong Turkish coffee. If society deems you to be credible and respectful, you receive high praises and the streets beneath your feet are magically lined with gold. If you have a bad reputation, the community secretly curses you behind your back. Not only are you labeled a donkey, but your parents are thought of as bigger asses for not teaching you manners. Beitin, like other Palestinian villages, is shy but full of pride. It clings to its main road like an artery that flows to the heart, unable to survive without it. Like other villages, it has its own story. Beitin has seen more development than one can imagine. As the story goes, Beitin is undeveloped land 180 years ago. Nothing existed here except a natural spring, wild pine trees, thorn bushes, and layers of rock that covered reddish-brown dirt. Long ago the original inhabitants of Beitin live in a nearby village called Burqa but relocate to Beitin due to an ongoing tribal feud between two families. The lives of my grandparents’ hamula (extended family) and other hamulas are threatened by this power struggle and move in the name of peace. Beitin is now known for its olive, fig, almond and plum trees. Beitin dates back four thousand years ago and is referred to as “Luz” in the Bible. It is the place where Jacob slept and dreamt of angels ascending and descending a ladder. The followers of Moses call the area Bet El. This is where both my parents are born and raised.

My dad’s mom, grandma Sadiqa, is a very kind woman whose presence is like crazy glue – she is the bond that keeps the extended families seeing each other on a regular basis. Her spirit also attracts the spirit of the village, as the house is constantly flowing with visitors. She often asks my four brothers and me to gather around her so she could tell us stories about the ghoul, a mythical creature with powers. I am nine years old at the time. More importantly, I remember finding out my grandmother is very sick. I do not know her exact diagnosis, but enough to know she has two big bags full of medications to alleviate her ailments. Despite this she does not allow her condition to affect her spirit. As much as it is worth talking about the treasure chest full of goodness, or khair, God brings through grandma Sadiqa, this part of the story belongs to her husband, grandpa Mahmoud. Grandpa Mahmoud is known to be stingy with his money and direct with his thoughts. He is a visionary man who wants everyone else around him to create his future for him. This is neither good nor bad. He aspires his sons to study medicine, law or architecture. He wants to set a new standard in the village by having his daughters become as educated as possible. His eldest daughter, Fatimeh, is one of the first girls in the village to finish tenth grade. She is the oldest of all eight children, and is born during a time when American females are not known to complete high school either. His other four daughters finish college or trade school. His eldest son graduates with college degree in Business and the youngest son becomes an architect, or muhandis. You can imagine grandpa Mahmoud’s dismay when my dad dismisses the idea of going to college and opens a coffee shop. It is a small dukaan that accommodates up to fifteen people. His menu is simple. There are no falafel sandwiches or ice cream, but you can have your pick of tea, coffee or soda for three qirsh. This is a form of currency that has been passed down from the days under Ottoman Empire rule, but the word qirsh originates from the Italian phrase denaro grosso, a silver coin worth twelve denari. When this coffee shop in Beitin is open, three qirsh is the equivalence to three American cents. My dad’s establishment quickly turns into a late night gathering to include cardplaying smokers. It is considered a nighttime lounge of sorts, a qahwa. The word qahwa literally means coffee. He is also the first person in Beitin to buy a color

television. Since non-family members of the opposite sex are discouraged from mingling, my dad is also the first person to host ladies night every Wednesday evening. But my grandfather does not care about my dad’s entrepreneurial spirit. One day he asks my dad, “How far will coffee and tea take you? What kind of future can be found in tea bags and hot water?” Grandmother Sadiqa, on the other hand, is always supportive of my dad’s ideas. “Allah wafqaq,” she often says to him. This is a phrase of good will and fortune. She is channeling God’s desire to provide her son with prosperity, which is what originally motivates my dad to borrow the equivalent of three dollars from his uncle and seven dollars from his older sister to pursue his first entrepreneurial idea. With good earnings the loan can be paid back in little time. The villagers call my dad’s business, Hamdan’s dukaan or Hamdan’s qawha – my dad does not approve or disapprove these names; he accepts what is given to him. This is often the case with how life flows for someone born in Beitin. Society, God and family elders give what they feel is best for someone else. Within five months, grandpa Mahmoud forces my dad to close down his operation. He does not like my dad staying out late at night, smoking and having fun. He wants him to work harder for his future. A few months later, my dad finds work on a construction site ten kilometers from the village, and wakes up at five thirty in the morning to walk two kilometers to catch the proper bus route. From 7:30am to 3:30pm he is responsible for moving a wheelbarrow full of dry cement from one location to another site. He dislikes this job because it only pays forty-three cents a day and he has to walk two kilometers to take the bus. “This is a respectable way of earning a living,” grandpa says. My dad is laid off seven months later due to lack of work.

The day comes when life offers my dad a new opportunity in another country. He comes to the United States when he is was twenty-five years old and hopes he can build more for himself in America than the village he grew up in. He arrives in New York on September 9, 1971 with two packed suitcases and one hundred dollars in his pocket. He has no car, no driver’s license and no English. Unlike Beitin, this place does not allow my dad to feel God everywhere. He is accustomed to hearing it on the tip of everyone's tongue. The word insh’Allah is spoken by anyone who wants God to will something to happen. Where he comes from, dentists, doctors, policemen, grandparents and shopkeepers all stop in unison to thank God five times a day. They pause whatever they are doing for ten minutes, pull out a prayer rug and pray. “Stop. Drop. Pray.” would make a great advertisement on behalf of God. And while my dad has never been considered a man of religious actions, he is used to seeing others act in the name of God. The order of things in the United States is different. From New York he takes another flight to Wisconsin, where his older sister Fatimeh has laid roots with her husband. He soon finds a job working in Department 813 at the Chrysler auto plant in the city of Kenosha. At this time, Kenosha is an automaking hub for American Motors. It experiences the height of its manufacturing success in 1960 after a post war boom. Auto making in Kenosha starts to suffer a slow decline and 1988 would mark the last year the plant produces cars. It continues to manufacture engines until October 29, 2010, taking with it the last remnant of big-time auto-making in Wisconsin. However, my dad is laid off from Chrysler long before 1988, and remembers the days when he can listen to Um Kalthoum and Fareed Al-Atrash cassette tapes at work. Um Kalthoum is a renowned Egyptian singer, songwriter and actress. She passes away in 1975 and leaves behind a legacy of being known as Kawkab Al Sharq, or star of the East. Her songs deal mostly with the universal themes of love, longing and loss. They are nothing short of epic in scale, with durations measuring in hours rather than minutes. A typical Um Kalthoum concert consists of the performance of two or three songs over a period of three to four hours. As the story goes, her father is an Imam, an Islamic leader who teaches others to recite the Qur’an. Um Kalthoum is said to have memorized the entire book. When she becomes twelve years of age, her father disguises her as a young boy and enters her in a small performing troupe that he directs. By the age of sixteen, she is discovered by a moderately famous singer and develops her signature style of

music - infusing classical Arabic, poetry and religion. Fareed al-Atrash, on the other hand, is a Syrian-Egyptian composer, singer, actor and oud player – an instrument similar to the lute. He has a very successful career as a recording artist, with five hundred songs to his name, and starring in thirty-one movies. After the layoff from Chrysler, my dad put his skills into a series of entrepreneurial endeavors: independently owned grocery stores, mini-plaza shopping center, and gas station. The first grocery store is situated on the corner of Palmer and Locust streets in inner city Milwaukee. It is a small weathered brick-and-mortar building with beer neon signs and posters. Next door is a white wood sided home and colorful garden. Directly across the street is the neighborhood fire station, fully equipped with dangerous alligators to deter my brothers and me from doing anything selfish, like sliding down the pole as firemen do during emergencies. It takes me awhile to realize that not a single fire station in America has pet alligators, not even in Louisiana. For as long as I can remember, my mom delivers food to my dad’s business once or twice a day. She takes over cash register duties until he finishes eating and takes his daily twenty-five minute bathroom break. Every day, my mom soaks rice a number of hours before lunch. Sometimes she says Uncle ruz instead of Uncle Ben’s rice, causing us to think both these words are part of the same language. It is easy to remember my dad’s favorite meal: small saucers with green Arab-style olives, pickles, sliced tomatoes, cucumbers, two slices of toast, and olive oil to dip into za’tar, a heavenly mix of dried oregano, other herbs and sesame seeds. It is most likely to be accompanied with roasted chicken, kufta (baked ground beef), koosa mahshi (stuffed squash), majaddarra (brown lentils and rice), fasoolia (beef stew with green beans in tomato soup), maklooba, (rice baked with vegetables and chicken) or waraq inib (stuffed grape leaves). In an effort to help with recycling before recycling becomes popular and common sense, my brothers and I drink lots of soda. We recycle the cans but don’t bother with paper or plastic. My dad’s contribution to the well-being of the environment is reminding my mom that cars don’t run on air whenever she feels going to the mall, visiting friends or running non-business related errands. This piece of advice

is passed on to the rest of us when we are old enough to drive.

Loving The Beautiful One My mother Lamia, the beautiful one, has her own story but she refuses to speak it out loud; I would have to learn it from someone else. When I do, I have to figure out how to relate to a mother whose father is, for the most part, absent from her childhood because financial security could only be found outside the country. It is the only way my grandfather could provide for the family. How do I understand my mother’s psyche when she has to walk daily to the communal village well and back home, carrying jugs of water on her shoulders, because it is the only source of drinking, cooking and bathing water? What does responsibility feel like at ten years old – when at that age, life commands you to milk cows every morning before going to school, as my mother has to do? How important is education in the grand scheme of things when your two sisters, brother, mother and extended family are waiting for breakfast (a glass of milk, homemade bread and a slice of tomato) before carrying on with work and daily chores? How does my mother make me understand that she marries into the Hamdan family and moves to America with the hope of passing on Palestine’s culture, and those life lessons Palestine did not have a chance to pass on to her, on to my four brothers and me? My dad and mom celebrate their union on May 18, 1973. They have known of each other for many years. My mom and dad’s sisters are long time friends, but as far as anyone is concerned, my parents do not hangout out before the engagement. During their single years, my dad occasionally asks one of his sisters to send falafel to my mom’s parent’s house. Within two years of living in the United States my dad is ready to be married. His parents ask my mom’s parents for my mom’s hand in marriage on behalf of their son. However, the timing is not right. It is not part of his naseeb, or destiny, to be granted such a request the first time. But it is their destiny to be together. He asks a second time before my mom’s family says yes. This is when my dad’s family is invited over to drink coffee, a sign of acceptance and a way of sealing the deal. He is twenty-seven years old. She is twenty-two years old. My mom was, and still is beautiful. She is a naturally pleasant woman to be around, but constantly stuffs her emotions like a tightly wound up cabbage roll. My mom has never tasted alcohol, smoked a cigarette or been inside a nightclub. Unlike my dad, she rarely curses. She is used

to working hard, just like her mother. She is accustomed to doing chores without drawing any unwanted attention. This absurdity is like seeing a white peacock with its feathers spread out, pecking outside looking for wheat grains to eat. She has stunning features, and lives up to her name, Lamia. It means the beautiful one. She grows up with long black hair that flows like a gently moving stream all the way down her back. After she marries, it is perhaps a sign of independence and adulthood that makes her cut her hair above the neckline. It is very stylish but very short compared to what she has known all her life. She keeps up with her physical appearance – a kind of pleasing look that matches her personality. She has a small collection of perfumes that hints of sweet smelling and sexy at the same time. She wears a medium bronze colored lipstick and applies kohl, black eyeliner made from crushed ithmid stone, to bring out her dark chocolate, almond shaped eyes. She had a round face, button shaped nose and hourglass figure – motherly, nurturing and attractive at the same time. For whatever reason, my mother can only take in the parts that feel bitter and sour, which chip away at her self-esteem. She receives many compliments from her social circle, but cares most about hearing terms of endearment from my dad. My mom struggles with seeing her own beauty and intellect, but she can easily pick out the most beautiful bouquet of flowers or purchase a simple, feminine and elegant blouse to wear with the perfect shade of lipstick that draws your attention to her full lips. She is a great listener and well liked by her friends, and makes the most delicious meals and sweets. Who can resist her rice-krispie treats with dates? She takes advantage of sunny days with my dad and soaks in his affection like the sun. But like the arctic, my mom’s true emotions do not come out many months out of the year. My dad says, “I loved your mother when I married her. She is still a nice woman. He is quick to admit that his love tank has been empty on many occasions. He doesn’t believe that one person can give him all the love he needs – it has to come from the inside out, not the other way around. My father also believes love is like religion, based on predetermined conditions as to what constitutes a good lover. “People want the highest kind of love, which means digging deep- but some dig deep with their hearts and others inside their pockets. Most likely you’ll meet

someone who wants you to conform to their own beliefs instead of accepting you just the way you are,” he says. That is why he can say with one hundred percent certainty that he loves barbeque chicken. It doesn’t have to love him back. He doesn’t feel my mom is able to love him all the time because, “a woman has hormones, which can also lead to sharmoota-mones.” Sharmoota is an Arabic word that has several meanings, including bitch. He continues with his list, “Mean-mones, bored-mones, shoppingmones, not today-mones, angry-mones and sad-mones.” My mom’s take on love: it changes. Men change. Women change. You have to learn not to buy into the fairy tale that another person will fulfill all your dreams. You have to be fulfilled and have support along the way.

Self-Acceptance, Donkey’s Point of View One day someone asks the mule, “Who is your father?” He replies, “The horse is my uncle.” This is a common Arab proverb that illustrates how we tend to feel shameful or avoid accepting who we really are. We would rather say something to make ourselves look better due to fear, judgment, and rejection. It’s important to dig deeper about the future I hope to have versus what my parents hope for me. Most of the time I believe I can walk on my own yellow brick road. However, my subconscious is in the driver’s seat, which follows my parent's belief system. It's best to get married after college. A degree is going to make me look better on paper, as if a mate is going to love me more because this piece of paper symbolizes a degree of smartness. My parents also believe a college degree is a backup plan in case something doesn’t go right in the relationship. This causes me a great deal of confusion regarding how I am supposed to act, behave, feel, and think as a teenager and adult. Therefore I hide. I’m not sure what I am hiding from, but I know I’m not old enough to be me, even when the law says I am old enough to make wise decisions about who would be President of the United States. But the law of the country is not as strong as the laws of the Hamdan household. “It is simple it is,” my dad says. “If you live under my roof, you live under my rules.” There is nothing simple about my dad’s rules or his English. Like my parents, I am in favor of college at this time. This is not the issue. The problem is not having the freedom to make other choices about my life. My search for my identity turns into a constant struggle for power. I find strength by walking around in a pair of tight jeans with holes while listening to 1980s hair bands, rock, and hip-hop and applying as much hairspray as the maximum parts-per-air-I-ambreathing-in would allow. I answer my parents’ requests with “Why?” and “Why not?” I’d ask them, “Why do I have to attend the fifth henna party this month?” or “Why can’t I wear a tank top in public?” Their response is the same—“Because.” This signals the end of the discussion, a final decree delivered in one word—a word rarely used to start or end a sentence in any language.

When the fog lifts and I eventually find myself, I decide to fully understand Palestinian women’s history and do something meaningful to fully understand my heritage. I decide to accept myself and realize that my dual upbringing is a blessing. It isn’t that I don’t fit in; in fact quite the opposite is true. I fit in with many cultures and different social settings. I remember having the following types of conversations with my parents, which now make me laugh. One day my mom asks me, “Are you a gay?” She asks the question as if gay is an ethnicity, like a Palestinian or an American. I'm so amazed she is asking me this question. I need a minute to process it. It's like she is asking me, "Are you a tomato?" I want to laugh and be defensive at the same time - not because she questions my sexual orientation, but because my vagina is on lock down 24/7 AND concerned about how much time I spend with friends. “No, mom, I’m not gay.” “But why do you hang out with Ann all the time? Are you sure you’re not a gay? Do you know what I mean?” she asks again. “First of all, mom, I’m not allowed to bring guys home. Second, Ann is my best friend!” “But you see her too much,” she says. “Mom, I’m not gay, from Gayland or a gay. I’m not gay! I know what gay means. That’s what best friends do, see each other too much.” “OK, then what was wrong with the last guy who asked for you?” By this she means the last person who comes to the house to get to know me, which would potentially lead to a marriage proposal. His family comes over to visit us. We sit in the family living room for twenty minutes and the magic marriage fairy signals that it’s time for the two of us to have some talk time in the next room. Some time passes and then we join our families in the living room. “We had a nice conversation. But I don’t want to marry him,” I say to her.

“Why not? He’s nice.” “I think we have very different values and I can’t make this kind of decision after one meeting. There’s no chemistry,” I say. “Shu chemistry? What do you mean?” she asks. By this stage of our lives, we often mix Arabic and English words in the same sentence. We are now speaking Arabish. “I mean he’s a nice guy but I don’t love him. I just met him!” I declared. “Besides, this whole arrangement makes me feel uncomfortable. It’s too much pressure to sit in a room with the idea that I’m going to base my life with someone after one or two meetings. Isn’t it your job to be like a TSA agent, pre-screen these folks and give them a full body cavity search? Did you do a background check on him and make sure the spelling on his visitation papers matches the entry ticket to the Hamdan Household ride? He’s fresh off the boat!” “Shu fresh off the boat? He’s a nice guy. Love comes later,” she says. It takes her a minute to fully understand my Vince Vaughn rants, but my dad has no trouble with my logic. He laughs because I call my mom a TSA agent, but doesn’t like the phrase fresh off the boat. “That’s great to know. Did love come later for you and dad?” she doesn’t respond. A smile crosses my dad’s face. I hear crickets in the background. My dad and mom have known each other since childhood. “You can’t be too picky, Sadiqua. You can’t keep saying no,” she tells me. A scene from the movie Old School pops into my head. Mitch Martin, played by Luke Wilson says to Vince Vaughn, “I’m not looking for a girl like that.” Vince Vaughn replies, “Columbus wasn’t looking for America, my man, but that seemed to work out perfectly, didn’t it?”

Then I snap out of it. “OK, thank you. Have a good night.” That is the end of this conversation I think to myself. I realize we’re both saying the man is nice for difference reasons. She likes nice and I use it as a generic term for not interested. There are other offers of interest, but deep down, I have no interest of getting married in my twenties. I want to explore other options, but there are no other choices with my parents. I am so stuck mentally that I turn down the opportunity to work in Belgium for two years. I am holding myself back in life more than I am fully able to comprehend at this time. “But you have your own bedroom. You come and go as you please. Why do you want your own place? You are not a branch. You are part of a tree.” My dad pleads with me. Then he goes on to tell me how strong seven branches can be together, whereas one branch can easily snap on it’s own. By the time I finally have my own bedroom, I am in my early twenties. Before this, our family of seven is living in a small three-bedroom apartment. There is absolutely no privacy. I have to share a room with my older brother. We have six drivers in the house with three cars. I have no idea how we survive our teenage years. Meanwhile, we have a home worth half five hundred thousand dollars in Beitin, West Bank, sitting there empty because of the Israeli-Palestinian occupation. I come and go as I please until the sun sets. After that, my mom becomes a fulltime Hamdan Household telemarketing employee, calling every half hour after my set curfew, which is not really stated out loud – they just don’t like me being out after dark. This is an example of a common exchange between my mom and me: “Sadiqua, where are you?” she asks. “I’m hanging out with friends.” I tell her. “When are you coming home?” she asks. “I don’t know. Whenever I’m done.” I say. “How long does it take you to eat? Three hours?” she says. “Mom, we’re talking and catching up. Bye.” I hang up.

Imagine the follow-up conversation every twenty minutes thereafter: “Sadiqua, where are you?” my mom asks. “I’m still out,” I say. “Where’s out?” she asks. “Hanging out with co-workers,” I say. “I thought you were eating with friends,” she replies. “I am. Mom, I just said that. Ana ma’ is-haabi. Khallasna food. Bidna hangout ishwayya.” I reiterated in Arabish that I’m with friends. We’re done eating. We’re going to hangout a little bit. “When are you coming home?” she asks again. Like a Hamdan telemarketer, she is asking me to commit to a time. She is going to call to remind me of my scheduled appointment, followed by “I accidentally dialed the wrong number” phone call, and then do a post-follow-up, follow-up call. “Sadiqua, I forgot to tell you that some mail came in the bareed for you today. I didn’t open it, but I held it up to the light because I couldn’t read the name on the envelope. Did you get a speeding ticket?” Wow. My mom is sneaky. It’s like all the times she cleans my room rather than letting me do it, secretly investigating for Hamdan household contraband stuff. Usually things are in order, but every once in a while, things go missing. It’s like the time my jeans with holes are thrown away without my approval or knowledge. “Mom, have you seen my wanna-be rock star jeans?” “Shu wanna-be? You mean the jeans with the holes?” she asks. “Yes, those jeans,” I say.

“Oh, don’t worry. I throw away those ugly jeans in the garbage. You don’t have to wear jeans with holes in them, Sadiqua.” She makes it sound as if she is doing me a favor. “Mom, do you know how long it has taken me to make those jeans look cool? After finding the right hole-spots, I washed them three times to make them look like a faded pair of jeans that magically developed holes.” I can feel my anger building up. “You are the one who put holes in the jeans? Why would you do that?” She asks. “You should be helping me in the kitchen, not putting holes in your clothes.” Sometimes my dad calls if I do not answer my mom’s tenth call within an hour. His approach is different. He’s direct and loves to leave angry and funny messages. “Hello, this is your father, Hamdan. Call me. What are you doing? Get your ass home.” Most of the time he also makes sure to leave his complete number, including area code, which I already have implanted in my mind. After leaving his name, Hamdan, he sometimes spells it. “Etch (that’s how he pronounces the letter H), A-M-D-A-N. That’s M like ‘your mother’ and N like ‘never again are you leaving the house.’” Eventually, curfew is optional, at least in my mind. I am twenty-three years traveling to France for work and I come home to a curfew. My parents are a little bit more lenient on my brothers, but my dad dislikes any of us hanging out with friends late at night. He wants us to focus on our studies, work and save money. When he becomes upset, my dad cannot help but dilute, rearrange and recreate the English language. “Mothur-bitch-fucker. Son-um-a-bitch. Why are my kids menthol? Friends make you lose money. They take up your time,” he says to us. But this is exactly how he spends a majority of his time – talking to his friends on the phone, passing the time in the family grocery store. He makes us laugh with the way he says curse words, and I make a habit of correcting him.

“Dad, the word you mean to use is mental, not menthol. You’re asking why you have mentally challenged kids?” I ask. I am more concerned with his sentence structure and choice of words. I want to make sure his message is conveyed correctly, and don’t think much about the message itself. “It’s OK,” he replies, “I meant to say assholes. Why are my kids assholes?” “You don’t really mean that,” I say. “You’re right, Sadiqua. You’re my favorite. One out of five [kids] is not bad.” We, the kids, eventually find out my dad uses this line with all of us. One may find these statements upsetting, but it often made us laugh. My dad is quick to anger and quick to calm down. We come to understand he’s under a lot of stress. We do not know he has nine lives. We do not know that he is going to be held up at gunpoint six times in his life. We do not know that he walks away with minor scratches after his car flips off an interstate ramp. We do not know he needs more support to guide him through life so he does not lose himself in it. It is not until later in life that we begin to understand a lot of things about our family. My dad is not like this all the time. He generally loves to talk, tell jokes, do the chicken dance at weddings, and be social. He loves wedding cake and cake of all kinds - homemade zucchini cake, yellow cake and carrot cake. He dislikes frosting and likes all his food cooked very well done. When it comes to disciplining us, I can only recall one time in my life being slapped by him, and it is on the wrists, as a young child. My brothers, on the other hand, are a different story. They are where wild meets trouble, free-roaming animals that belong in a zoo. The only way to tame the beasts is for my dad to threaten them and spank them as needed. My mom disciplines me as she does my brothers, by giving us all the evil eye in public when we act up, grabbing and pinching our arms, and throwing slippers, sandals or shoes at us every once in a while. This is part of Arab culture, and worthy of a story. When we’re all sitting at home as a family, we’re often watching sports. My mom is usually in the kitchen listening in the background, because she cares more about daytime soap operas than sports. What upsets my dad the most is that we do not

miss viewing a single Chicago Bulls game. We’re talking about a nine year stretch of supremeness on television, and my dad only has one question for my brothers and me regarding this obsession, “Are you getting paid to watch Michael Jordan?” “No. What does that mean, anyway?” I ask. “It means you sit and do nothing and all you do is watch Chicago Bullshit on tv,” he says. “What do you want us to do? We can’t go out and we can’t relax when we’re at home?” I say. Eventually, he starts watching and liking basketball. He looks forward to the games, but does not have a chance to watch all of them like we do. “How many points did Jordan Air score last night?” he asks one morning. “Dad, his name is Michael Air Jordan,” I say. “That’s what I said. You know what I mean,” he replies. “OK, how many points did Mr. Michael score?” he asks again. “Enough to beat the New York Knicks. That’s all that matters.” Michael Jordan becomes someone I begin to idealize early in his career, because of the energy, intensity and discipline he brings to each game. Of course, we all know Jordan begins receiving endorsements, including Hanes, which is my dad’s favorite brand of undergarments. We all know this in the household. We also know my dad rarely shops for himself. We all know exactly what he likes because he buys the same brands and style of clothing. He weight, height and sizes are fixed for many years. One day, he asks me to pick up a pair of briefs from the mall. He becomes very upset because he sees Michael Jordan’s face on the package, and thinks I overpaid for a pair of briefs and aren’t going to fit him well.

“Ya gaddammit ya kids,” he says. “I send you to college for four years and you don’t know how to buy underwear? This is not what I asked for. A donkey understands more than you do.” Even if he is only talking to one of us, he sometimes talks as though he’s addressing all of us at the same time. The word ya accentuates a message, good or bad. There is no way to translate it in English. The message is clear to begin with but ya makes us pay more attention. It’s like someone yelling and then having a shoe thrown at you for no reason. When someone throws a shoe, we listen. I immediately become defensive, “You haven’t tried them yet. Besides, we can return them. They cost the same as the other briefs you always buy.” He ends up loving them. I don’t argue the fact that I put myself financially through college, and I am the ‘go to’ person in my family to completing emergency contact cards and all other administrative forms for my brothers and me since elementary school. That’s just how life works out sometimes. We become the ‘go to’ person for everyone else’s needs and don’t realize our needs aren’t being met until we wake up one day and think, “How the fuck did I attract becoming the emergency contact card go-to person in my life?” I’ll tell you how we become who we are. How we’re brought in to this world determines where we begin on life’s starting line. Are we born on the first row or in the back of the line? Do we have to stand in the back because of our gender, race or color? Do we have enough food in the house to eat breakfast this morning? Do we own a pair of running shoes? Do we wake up with a view of the mountains or with metal bars on your door? Do we need permission before leaving the house? How long is it going to take us to realize the structure we’re born into? We’re all born into a structure, whether we choose to believe it or not. We may think we’re more empowered and better in some ways than the generations before us, but everything we learn is hardwired into us by the time we’re five years old. For the longest time, I think I have absolutely nothing in common with my parents. One day, a light bulb goes off that reminds me that I am everything like my parents. The similarities are outstanding.

The good news is that we can change. The not-so-good news is that we must be aware of who we are before we know what to change. This sounds simple, and can be simple, but it’s taken me awhile to find all the pieces to the puzzle. After college, all I can think about is moving out of the house and having my own place. This upsets my mom and makes her cry, and my dad goes into the treebranch story, emphasizing it in a different way each time the subject is brought up. “You see this, Sadiqua?” He holds out his hand with seven branches. He actually picked up seven branches and saved them for a time like this. “Feel this. Feel how strong this is.” Then he takes one branch and snaps it in half. “This is what one branch feels like in life.” He does have a point. By this time, however, I am ready to leave and experience privacy. We argue too much as it is, and coming home to an angry dad and crying mother “late at night” is no way to live. “Ten thirty at night is more than enough time to have fun. It is simple it is,” my dad says, “If you live under my house you live under my rules.” “Fine!” I yell, “I’ll move out.” “Mah fish moving out!” There is no moving out, my mom says. When I tell them the truth and say I’m hanging out with friends, they do not believe me. When I lie to them and tell them I’m working over the weekend, out of town somewhere, they magically leave me alone. They believe me because I legitimately have been traveling for the company to Ft. Lauderdale, Miami, Brazil, and Europe. This became my life until I really do move out of the house, two days before my twenty-seventh birthday. All I’m really doing is hanging out with friends. To resolve my dad’s unshakeable branch-tree belief system, and my own will and desire to be a branch and sprout my own seeds, I imagine us both standing in front of a Holy Judge. This judge is more like a Holy Solutions and Truth Specialist – someone with more insight and wisdom on life than the Hamdan household. Since this is my imagination, things are obviously going to go my way.

“Your Holy Honor,” I begin to say. A Holy voice cuts me off. “Sadiqua,” the voice says, pronouncing my name correctly. “Let me understand what’s going on here. You are holding yourself back from life because your parents are telling you not to move out. You’re not moving out because of a branch-tree story?” “With all due respect, they are my parents. It’s more than a story. It’s my life. Why don’t understand they my position? “Sadiqua, positions are not understood until you stand firmly in them. People are a lot of talk and no action. Pack your bags. Show them they have nothing to fear. Change is good.” “Thanks Holy Solutions and Truth Specialist.” My dad does not have a chance to speak his side. My mind is made up. Life is made for everyone to fit in. What is the point of thinking and being the same as those who came before us? We’d still be living in the era where it is unsanitary to wash one’s hands before delivering a child. How boring would life be if we all look the same and followed the same dogma? I love and respect my parents, but I can’t help but feel their way of life is not suited for my future. We are born to innovate, integrate, evolve and learn to co-exist. There is always a place for you. Accepting this fact allows you to find your place and be at peace with this world. It has taken me many years to realize it’s ok to be different. Self-acceptance means living the life you choose to live without worrying what others think about you. It doesn’t matter what someone else thinks about you. What matters is what you think about yourself. Life is about choices—your life choices, not someone else’s choice about how you should live. Of course, in any

relationship, it’s best to work through issues as much as possible. If there’s a great deal of toxicity, then choose to lovingly remove yourself from that situation. Don’t allow yourself to be in an abusive situation. If possible, work through problems with some distance. Here’s another original story that illustrates one reason why we need to see our behaviors for what they really are. Often times we aren’t aware or conscious of who we are, or what we’ve become. We are creatures of habit. There are better ways of doing, seeing, and being – but we are stubborn and do things the way we see fit best for ourselves. The Healer and the Donkey The donkey wants to make himself better. He works harder. He does not tire of working. The Healer asks, "Why do you work so hard, donkey?" The donkey replies, "To create a better future for myself.” "What does that future look like?" asks the Healer. "More food and a larger barn to sleep in," the donkey says. The Healer thinks for a moment and answers, "You truly are a donkey." Life is about choices. Are you able to live with your choices in full light, or hide who you are? It’s taken me a long time to realize that suppressing my feelings and hiding who I am is in no-way shape or form contributing to my happiness, health and soul. As Paulo Coelho writes in his latest book, Manuscript Found in Accra, “Don’t let others say ‘that road is better’ or ‘that route is easier.’ The greatest gift God gave us is the power to make decisions.” How much are you willing to accept who you are?

With passion pray With passion make love With passion eat and drink and dance and play Why look like a dead fish in this ocean of God? ~Rumi

A Love Story The mouth of love beckons us to taste the sweet and divine Like fresh honey that sticks to an intense sun, Felt from a million miles away under a shaded fig tree. From God we come from and to God we return To eat His Love. The eyes of love guide us on holy beige colored rocks and sandy stones Beneath the layers of black roads, restrictions and disappointment Where we can find our true seeds Protected by the soul of our heart And the hand of Fatimeh [1]. The feet of love support us when we walk through Jinn’s forest [2] And a thousand lies Where is the One and only God that can move me? I can only know when I become comfortable in silence and stand in my truth. [1] The hand of Fatimeh is the hamsa, also khamsa, which means five in Arabic. Christians refer to it as the Hand of Mary while Jews call it the hand of Miriam. It wards off the evil eye, or evil spirits. [2] According to Muslims, jinn are spiritual creatures who inhabit an unseen world in dimensions beyond the visible universe of humans. The jinn, humans and angels make up the three sapient creations of God.

Not everyone is supposed to understand your journey. That’s fine. It’s not their journey to make sense of. It’s yours. ~Zero Dean

Self-Acceptance: Step into the Light The lack of self-acceptance brings up major issues in our lives. It makes us believe we’re not good enough or valuable enough. It makes us search outside of ourselves for validation, love and self-worth. It makes us co-dependent or attached to another human being, food, alcohol, drugs or a number of other unhealthy things. It causes all kinds of negative feelings to come to the surface, such as jealousy, anger, hate, and competition. It makes us feel that someone else has more than we do, and than we need to do more to experience happiness and success. Don’t buy into this crap. Having more and having the best is not happiness – it drives us to seek perfection. Are you balanced on the inside or feel you have to be packaged up for others to value you? Have you heard the saying that jealousy comes from counting others blessings instead of your own? I believe this is true. Rather than counting other peoples’ blessings, bless them. Be happy you’re around someone who is happy and doesn’t complain about working long hours, especially if they are passionate about their job. Bless them. Be happy you know someone who cares enough about their health to read ingredients on the back of a label. Bless them. Be happy you’ve met a person committed to their physical health. Bless them. Be happy you know someone who is following his or her passion. Bless them. Better yet, why aren’t you following yours? Because if you’re not blessing them, you’re jealous, insecure, angry that they aren’t doing what you’d like for them to do—which means you’re not allowing them to pursue their lives, whatever and wherever their journey is supposed to take them. Don’t hold them back and don’t hold yourself back by focusing on what others have or don’t have. Too often we expect others to make time for us because it makes us feel good, but what are we doing to make ourselves feel good? Why don’t we have a more positive outlook on our situations and relationships, thinking that someone else going through change will have an adverse affect on our lives?

I believe this has to do with how events turned out for us in the past – they probably did not turn out well for us. But the past doesn’t matter. What matters is now. This is where I go off on a tangent regarding our value system. If you have time to talk countless hours on the phone but have only seen your kids for a half hour today, then our priorities are screwed up. If you have more money to spend on vacations but balk at pesticide and hormone free food prices, then please re-evaluate our value system. Although I will say that it is unfortunate that it costs more to buy an organic orange than an order of french fries from a fast food joint. What’s more disturbing is that certain fast food french fries do not consist of potatoes, oil and salt, but have up to seventeen ingredients! If you spend more time at parties, events and gatherings and very little time working on our emotional, mental and physical well-being, then is it any wonder why your life is a series of cluster-fuck time bombs waiting to go off? The day I put myself first and stopped feeling bad for saying no to others is the day my life changed. I can easily go to twenty functions a month, but how is this adding to my overall wellbeing? I love supporting and encouraging people with their projects. I also love catching up with friends but when balance becomes unbalanced, relaxation and productivity turns into stress and scatteredness. It takes more time for me to get back on track than staying on track. One more thing, if you have no time to recycle or use fewer products with chemicals, then lie to me. You can’t be that selfish. Just lie to me and tell me you care about the one thing that supports you the most, the planet. This is God’s gift to us. Just lie to me until this issue is resolved. Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter. Please sort through plastics, paper, glass and aluminum and start the habit of taking them to the nearest recycling center.

Donkey Power Versus Natural Power This brings us to the subject of power. Power is like a knife. It can be used to cut bread to share with your neighbor or stab you in the back. If you step on other people’s toes, rather than stand on your two feet, then you are applying the Demanding Donkey Power Strategy. Demanding Donkey Power strategists are taught that the way to achieve success is through manipulation and coercion. Examples of such individuals can be found in history and all over the world today. They include politicians, so-called leaders and family members. Natural power is about applying our own unique gifts to supporting others and ourselves. We all have a way of seeing the world in a way that no one else can. This is not made up. Yes, we (humans) are all born the same way, right? We’re most similar in how we’re structured, but our blueprint is unique. Identical twins are genetically the same, but the laws of genetics don’t completely determine physical appearance and thought processes. This means you can do something no one else can. It may appear to be the same as someone else in your line of work, but it’s not the same, because your individuality is what makes it different. Although we all have unique gifts we’re taught to believe we’re in constant competition with everyone else, and that the road to prosperity is how much money we have in our bank account, looking a certain way and making sure others see us doing as good, if not better, than we make ourselves out to be. The amount of money a person has is not reflective of his or her character. A person who has a lot of money may not be rich inside their hearts. I know millionaires who have golden hearts and middle class folks who can’t point out a heart out of a line-up. I know people with little money, willing to donate their time to better their communities. Then there are millionaires and not so wealthy people who spend money on momentary highs. We all do, I suppose. It doesn’t matter how much money you have. What matters is what you do with it. Otherwise, there would be tales of rich celebrities, rock stars, businessmen and businesswomen who have perfect lives. There would be no stories of celebrity overdoses, broken relationships and scandals to compensate for the feeling of lack: lack of attention, love, belonging, appreciation and worthiness.

I don’t know who to give credit for this line, but may your life be as awesome as you post it to be on your Facebook page. Constant images of perfection keep us in a constant state of lack because we’re constantly looking for more to fill our hearts and souls. Life will never feel enough unless we accept who we are and follow our own path. Life doesn’t have to be perfect. It’s not supposed to be perfect. You are perfect just the way you are. The highest form of enlightenment is not about perfection but of complete and total acceptance of self in the present. The desire to improve is human nature, and that is what motivates us to treat ourselves with more dignity, respect, and gratitude. It is humanity’s grace to improve, learn and be more enlightened than past generations. Honoring one’s self by living a meaningful and purposeful life is the new sexy. It means not exploiting others and believing your way is the right way of doing things for all of humankind. In other words, do not treat me like a nine-year old girl in Saudi Arabia and marry me to an older man before I am old enough to make that choice for myself. I have a voice and I choose how I wish to live my life. I am not a territory that can be fought over. I am open to all who wish to learn something new of my culture. I am not a religion that says to a non-follower you are not a child of God. God’s love is above any one religion. The Universe is inclusive, not exclusive. I am not a tree trunk in the Amazon rainforest, to be cut down to repay an international debt. I cannot tell those who have lived off God’s love for generations before me, “This abundant growth of life, this rainforest, has to be deforested in order for us to survive.” What is left of ourselves if we are constantly chipping away at it? I am not a diamond mine in South Africa. My jewels cannot be exploited for the sake of making someone rich and another person feeling beautiful. You cannot tell me, “But you know you are about to be raped because of the way you are dressed, and you do nothing to protect yourself. You deserve it.” That’s where you are wrong. I am born from diamond soil. It is part of my heritage. What I do with my fertile ground is for me to decide. Pretending to admire me or forcing yourself on me to support your lack of self-love or abusive belief system does not mean I should be punished for it.

Do not live like others if it doesn’t bring you life. If you feel bad, there’s a lesson to be learned. If you feel good, there’s a lesson there as well. Do more of what makes you naturally feel good and less of what doesn’t feel fulfilling. We are humans capable of thoughts and evolving beyond the basic Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. We aspire to ascend and transcend the barriers of our own minds – these self-imposed human limitations do not serve us at all.

Don’t Believe Everything You See One day as I am walking in the park on a warm day in August, I notice the most beautiful green leaf hanging in mid air. I stop to have a closer look and see a large spider’s web holding the leaf in place. I start seeing other ones suspended along my path and can’t help but wonder, “How often do we see beautiful lives that are not attached by any strings?” The story of the leaf is a reminder that we are as free as our subconscious strings, or spider web(s) attachments. We often believe we’re free thinkers in this world, but that’s not often the case. What good is human intelligence if it’s not used to free us from cookie cutter smartness and success? We all have a signature spider’s web that defines us before we are able to define ourselves. We can be supported with no strings attached, but it’s up to us to want to be free. We can’t allow ourselves to live up to the spider’s web model of happiness, health and soul fulfillment. How do we learn about life if we’re taught to memorize textbook answers? And how are these answers supporting us to live meaningful lives that include unlimited prosperity? Don’t get me wrong – I love education. In fact, it’s my belief that education has single handedly upgraded women’s status all over the world, but it hasn’t changed our lives completely. It obviously hasn’t changed men’s lives either. Earlier this year I publish a book documenting the evolution of Palestinian women’s lives, from 1940 until now. For three weeks in September 2011, I have the opportunity to conduct interviews with fifty-five Palestinian women in the West Bank, ages 18-90, about their lives, perceptions of the societies they live in, education, relationships, religion and the West. It results in a proud moment when I am able to publish a book called, Palestinian Women: Rising Above Limitations, Expectations & Conditions. The biggest lesson I learn about women all over the world is that we are taught to raise men to be presidents, but not run for president ourselves. We don’t have to run for president if we don’t want to, but know we need to understand our worth. It’s not just women who feel a lack of value in society. Men are also part of the equation. There are lots of wonderful men in this world who are willingly and able to love and cherish women. All I know is that we can all lose our way sometimes, and do things that do not serve our best interest at heart. Life is an educational

lesson, so start living and learning. Ask your own questions. Do your own research. If you want to be a mom, be the best mom you can be. Show your children love by teaching them to be healthy in all ways, physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. If you want to be a classroom teacher then follow your passion. But know that learning lessons doesn’t end in a school, because life’s biggest success depends on how well we connect with ourselves, other people, and all other forms of life living in this Universe. Our environment is our bed – we best start taking care of it. Be a follower. Be a leader. Learn what it means to be both. Don’t follow a follower. Follow your heart. Be careful of frauds. They are all around us. I’d like to now turn the discussion to a very holy subject: vaginas.

Sunlight is a bright disinfectant. ~Unknown Fighting for Peace is like Fucking for Virginity The vagina has been the source of major conflict for as long as I can remember. Historically, all over the world, the vagina has had to fight for freedom. The vagina still fights for her freedom today. This affects me personally as well. If my vagina could talk, it would have a lot to say. It would probably have its own talk show. But finding its voice and getting it to talk is the problem. Without saying it out loud, I gather from my parents and their social group is that vaginas are the key to reputation and honor. How well my vagina is defended from outside visitors determines my chance of attracting a loving partner. Let me get this straight: the mighty vagina that gives birth to mightier men is not given control over her personal vagina? She is asked to raise presidents but not run for president? That’s right. The vagina is supposed to be protected by the male life she co-creates. Protection, in this sense of the word, means no fun. Do not pass go, unless it’s a green traffic light. I know this applies to many females all over the world, even though all vaginas are created equal, or should be treated as such to the male counterpart. Furthermore, each vagina thinks differently has different needs. Yet this knowledge is irrelevant when you’re a young adult with raging hormones. For me, there isn’t a Palestinian-American 3.0 vagina guidebook that’s been passed down from one generation to the next. It takes me far too long to understand I have to create my own manual. What do you do when hormones are driving you to act a certain way? Answer: if you are me, there is nothing to do for a long time. I take that back, you become moody and go through bouts of anger and withdrawal. It’s bad enough looking like a loose girl let alone actually getting away with any kind of experimentation. But again, what do you do in your early adulthood when you think like a guy who feels he can shampoo a sorority house full of girls with his built up energy? Or in my case, a baker’s dozen cream pies to feed a fraternity house? Please don’t take me literally, guys. One partner is enough, but what do you do when you live in a small three-bedroom apartment with six other family members and have zero privacy? What do you do when your vagina is on lock down 24/7?

You have to be patient. There would be a place and a time when I could share myself with a worthy partner, and only those on my personal vagina advisory board are blessed with the knowledge and power to vote on this matter. But I don’t want to discuss anything with my board members. I don’t want a board, period. What do I do with my vagina in the meantime? How do I build a strong vagina if I don’t exercise it? If I don’t use it, am I going to lose my sexual drive? At a certain age, I come to understand all roads led to my vagina. I have no idea why this is the case. It’s subconsciously, telepathically, and consciously added to my diet as a chastity pill. The energy of the chastity pill follows me wherever I go, like an invisible dog fence. I suppose in Arabic this would be known as the antisharmoota pill, which seeks to protect you from natural urges of prostituting yourself. Remember, sharmoota has several meanings – it’s a one-stop shop term that aims to degrade a female or male, but mainly a woman. The wonderful science behind taking the chastity pill is to preserve honor, respect, purity and worth. Again, the value of a woman’s future is dependent on how well she blocks any advances, foul balls, interceptions or explorations. It’s no surprise I question everything. What does going to the movies have to do with my vagina? What does going to the grocery store at ten pm at night to pick up a package of brownie mix have to do with my vagina? Why is ok for me not to go to a high school football game? Does wearing a tank top instead of a short sleeve shirt compromise my vagina shield? Do I have an Anti-Vagina Defense security chip installed on me that I’m not aware of, one that only works with loose clothing? Needless to say, the door to my vagina is closed for business until marriage. Luckily for them, there is no one knockin’ on my door. My main focus is school, work, and hanging out at the house between sunset and sunrise. This changes when I’m diagnosed with stage two Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. I talk about this later in the book, but it turns out cancer is one of the biggest blessings of my life. I do not think this way in the beginning, but eventually, it is one of the driving forces towards my pursuit of health, happiness and soul fulfillment. When I first receive this diagnosis, I do not understand why God is allowing me to die a

virgin. All these years of preserving myself for a future full of vagina-filled activities is about to go down the drain. This means no time to train for sex-a-thons or reminiscing about steamy love scenes during work meetings. Like I said, no one is knocking on my door but I’m still figuring out how to defend my vagina when and if that time comes. I picture myself standing in front of a Holy Judge, aka Holy Solutions and Trust Specialist, dressed in pink lacey top and long white flowery skirt. “Holy Judge,” I begin to say, “Isn’t my vagina carried by legs, and a heart and mind? Am I not wise enough to make decisions on my own? My mind is not led by my vagina but by what’s in my heart, and if my heart is foolish enough to make a mistake, then it is I who suffers, not my family. It is I who must protect myself by experiencing situations, not by letting it collect dust.” The Holy Judge responds, pronouncing my name correctly again, “Sadiqua, there are times when the human heart needs more than the old ways can give it. Walk on your own yellow brick road. If you can’t find one, spray paint your way into happiness. If that doesn’t work, buy yellow shoes.” That’s it. That’s all he says to me. Then I think to myself, “Well, if it’s good enough for the Holy Solutions and Trust Specialist in my imagination, it’s good enough to be my reality.” In reality, the vagina is not a game of soccer to be kicked around like a ball. Its goal is to love and not keep score of how many times it’s beaten the competition. Having a vagina is a beautiful thing and shouldn’t be locked up or controlled by those who do not have one. In reality, this is easier saying than following a new belief system. Subconsciously, I am already programmed to believe sex before marriage is forbidden, so this brings up thoughts of shame, disapproval, wrongness, and worry. I am also programmed to believe sex sells. Magazine and television advertisements have me subconsciously believing that a sexy airbrushed image can sell a lot more canned tomatoes than without this image. Who’s to say that a dolled up vagina can’t buy me love? Yet this is what we teach our daughters through these images. It’s the makeup, manicures, pedicures, closet full of clothes, the size of our boobs, the

perfection of our skin and shininess of our hair – this is what secures us love. We teach our sons to love women who look a certain way. We teach our men to support this belief system, and it’s constantly reinforced by false advertisements. It’s like that one cheesy but lovable song we can’t stop playing. We may forget about it for a while, but the minute we hear it again, it’s on repeat a few hundred times. “How can we be lovers if we can’t be friends?” you may ask. This is a question for Michael Bolton and whoever wrote the lyrics to it. The frosting on top does not taste good because of outwardly appearances, but what the center is made of. There is only one vagina story worth sharing. I’ll do my best to explain it that makes sense to anyone who has not experienced a heightened soul release in the realm of tantric. Partner not necessary. Every living human has the potential to experience this, but the story comes at the very end of the book. I have more important thoughts to express first. Don’t lead a photo-shopped or airbrushed life. In America, there are stories of women opting for surgery to re-virginize themselves I don’t believe re-virginization is a real term, but I don’t know what else to call it. Women have their hymens sewn up before marriage to make it appear as though they are virgins. This leads me to another expression I love saying, “Fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity.” In matters of war and the heart, there are some things that cannot be undone once they have been set in motion. I bring up the story of re-virginization to an American friend one day. Mind you, this conversation takes place in the early 2000s. “Do you know women in Houston, Texas are having their hymens sewn up before marriage?” I say one day. “Oh, you mean to be tighter?” my friend asks. “The goal is not to be tighter but more virgin-like,” I clarify. Five minutes of laughter follows. She can’t believe her ears.

“Deeks, if a man doesn’t accept your past, then he is not the right one to begin with. If he is that judgmental, then he should not be having sex either before marriage. It’s like marrying a Catholic and thinking one hundred Hail Mary’s is going to forgive you of your sins. If you can’t be truthful going into the relationship, how do you think this is going to play out over time?” She has a point. This sounds like a boring, judgmental guy, I say to myself. On the flip side, one hundred Hail Mary’s is a lot cheaper than surgery. Then the light goes off in my head - being valued does not involve money. After that I think, “Why are Catholics so attracted to me?” “I get it,” I say to her, “I’m just simply telling you that women actually contemplate this procedure prior to marriage, and after having all their holes probed by penises or women with long fingers, or both. That’s all I’m saying.” Then she asks, “Deeks, I thought you are just into guys? Are you into girls?” I think to myself, “That’s like asking me if I enjoy a bar of soap over liquid body wash, or if I like protein from almonds or protein from chocolate chip cookies.” Seriously though, I already know I’m wired to like guys but do not mind liquid body wash. This conversation in my head takes about fifteen seconds. Then I answer her, “You know me, guy protein ninety-percent of the way.” Despite all these conversations, I am more concerned with writing, traveling, experiencing new things, meeting people from other cultures and taking care of a cat. This later expands into having a dog, planting a garden and eating chocolate every day without gaining weight. The truth is, I go through a back-and-forth state of mind of thinking my life has already fucked me (therefore, it doesn’t matter what I do or do not do in life – how can I be happy?) and wanting to re-virginize myself by orgasming my way into Oneness and accepting that all is as its supposed to be. In other words, who care what others think as long as I am at peace with myself? This has nothing to do with abstaining from sex but dealing with the inner conflict of not being allowed to fully

be me. I dream of the day my older female cousins move out on their own before marriage, paving the way for my own courage to do the same. But this never happens. They’d rather hide from their own light, too. I am left to pave the way for myself. It is easier if God would just allow me to pick out my own tribe. This, too, becomes part of my skewed thinking. When I change, change begins to happen.

Emergency Coffee Date with God Sometimes life feels like a soccer match, where people watch and applaud or boo from the sidelines. They don’t actually do anything except tell you how to score points or how to make yourself feel better. On their way home, they may call someone else to tell them the unbelievable news they just heard, or reflect on how much better or worse they feel about themselves. This is typical human nature. This is why I feel it’s best to talk to a professional, like God, aka Holy Solution and Trust Specialist, or a trustworthy life coach that doubles as a spiritual teacher. On this particular day, however, I wake up realizing it’s been way too long since I have had a conversation with God. I lose faith in God after receiving the cancer diagnosis, but that’s behind me now. Like I say throughout the book, cancer is a blessing – I just don’t know it at the time. And let’s be honest, how much have I been in touch with God beforehand? Not as much as cheese popcorn and chocolate peanut butter nutty bars, that’s for sure. It has been so long since I’ve had an honest talk with God, without resentment and anger. This is one of those times. I keep thinking censored thoughts: There are things I should not tell. There are things I should not write. There are things I should not speak. There are things I should not forget. And now is the time to create healthier thought patterns. There are things to let go of and live in the moment. I just spent the last year trying to analyze what it was about me, in a specific relationship, that didn’t work. I leave and come back only to realize that I returned from an unwanted absence – not from the relationship but from myself. I call for an emergency coffee meeting with God that afternoon, after running errands, of course. Until this point in life, there is always something to do before tending to

my own needs. This time, I could no longer put me off. When I finally sit down to reconnect with God, it’s been God knows how long since we have had this kind of conversation. For a moment I think to myself, which connection is quicker to God? Telepathically or by email? Maybe there’s a quicker turnaround time if I email my problems. I should probably start by apologizing and doing something spiritual to make up for my long absence. Would an Angel with poor customer service etiquette respond to my email? Is there an 800 holy number to dial? If so, which manual would the Angel be reading from? The Bible or the Qur’an? Does it matter? Would the Angel have Sister Mary sitting next to her, watching and coaching her on how to talk to people with issues? And how do you handle four billion calls a day? I suppose I would have to wait my turn in line, just like everyone else. I am side tracked already. The great thing about God, though, is that She doesn’t think linearly. One application of love and light resolves a lot of issues. She is God. She can be everywhere at all times. It doesn’t make it any less of a surprise to feel God answering me directly and is happy to hear from me. “You’re twenty minutes late,” She says. In God years this can be perceived as twenty light years of time, or twenty thousand years of time. I translate the tone as, “I’m glad to see you now but what took you so long? Where have you been?” Sorry, God. I have no excuses. I’ve been, umm, busy, figuring out life. For a moment I think of the time I check in with God in a roundabout way. I don’t want to bother Her. I have the ability to talk about my destiny by having a fat-hah, or opening, of the future. I am in my early twenties and visiting my parent’s homeland. A person’s future can be revealed through a coffee reading by one of village female elders. All I have to do is drink from an espresso size cup of freshly prepared Turkish coffee, turn the cup upside down for eight minutes, long enough for the coffee grinds to settle along the sides of the cup and its bottom.

There are all the other times when I take a rosary, or misbaha, with thirty-three beads. God has nine-nine names, and if I go around the misbaha three times, God recycles Himself three times. It’s a reminder that He shows up in our lives over and over again. He is One with many names, just as we are all One on earth. The difference is God accepts difference and diversity, while we’re here trying to walk around like a fluffy holy cloud, each one claiming to know what God knows is best for us. I ask you again, in a different way, wouldn’t life be boring if we all walk around like a holy fluffy cloud, saying we are God’s mouth? Or perhaps we don’t believe in a God, in which case, we simply call ourselves Taylor Swift? Yet again, I digress. Back to this emergency coffee date with God. She’s on hold, waiting for me to be present again. Hi God, how are you? I need some advice. Let me tell you what’s happening right now. The Holy Judge’s voice from my virginity trial starts talking to me, without letting me explain anything. I hear, “Waiting to live life is not worth it. Waiting for someone to figure out how to live with you is not worth waiting for. When you start living your own life, life brings you someone worth being with.” Well done, Universe. Well done.

“If you’re going to overcome shadows in your own life, they might as well be your own, and no one else’s.” ~ Grandma Aziza Born Precious, if God Wills It This story about my grandmother Aziza is very touching to me, especially because I do not fully understand her life until recently. In 2011, my mom’s mother turns eighty-five years old. I am thirty-four years old. It is the first time she opens up about the early years of her life and reveals parts of my mother’s story. It is a time when I realize how much of who we are is passed on from generations past. Pam Grout, author of E-Squared: 9 Do-It-Yourself Energy Experiments That Prove Your Thoughts Create Your Reality, says it so well: Most of us, in fact are still operating out of the mental architecture of our ancestors. We think we’re running our lives on brilliant ideas and thoughts. We think we’re affirming new attentions and possibilities, but in reality we’re simply recycling old tapes, knee-jerk conditioning, and automatic behaviors, most of which we picked up before we were five. We’re like Pavlov’s dogs, simply reacting to patterns we picked up before we had the intelligence to wisely choose. Most of the thoughts we assume are our own are really the invisible and largely questioned beliefs we downloaded from others. So we pit our positive thoughts against our old, disempowering programming. In other words, our consciousness, that force that always affects physical reality, has been hijacked. When I listen to my grandmother talk about her life, I begin to understand that I’m still battling the same cultural patterns as she is. The realization that my grandmother, mother and I are one in the same awakens something mysterious inside of me. The person I am, someone I believe has more opportunities than my mom and grandmother in matters of work, relationships and love is true, yet I am still acting out old belief patterns. I am no better or smarter than either one of them. Our basic needs and emotions in life are the similar. Our experiences differ, but we are one and the same. This conscious awakening is surreal.

The name Aziza is of Arabic origin and means precious. I call her Sitti, the Arabic village word for my grandmother. Although Sitti stands true to her name, someone is always telling her she isn’t precious. As she grows into womanhood, Sitti hides from her thoughts, her voice, and her own shadow. She doesn’t want to draw attention to herself, not even from the rays of sun that bless the entire land. But no one looks at an olive tree and asks it why it hides its fruit. It blossoms when it’s ready and under the right conditions. As Sitti grows up, it did not occur to her that this could be the case for herself. Sitti knows that modern-day wars are fought over simple things, like the length and fit of a shirt—the shorter the sleeve, the greater the misfortune. Many times she wants to ask the one-hundred-year-old fig tree in the village center what it is like to be born from nothing and grow into something. She wants to know what it is like to bear fruit every year and not expect anything in return. She wants to know what it is like to be respected for what she could give—no more and no less. Sitti grows up believing that it is better to live in the shadow of a man and not the shadow of a wall. This proverb circles around the village since the land is overrun with weeds and ruble. It encourages a girl to get married rather than be alone. “It is better to be educated and stand on your own two feet,” she tells me in confidence. “If you are going to overcome shadows in your life, they might as well be your own and no one else’s. You can live your own life with or without a husband.” At the age of eighteen, Sitti becomes a bride out of obligation, not love. Her brother Mustafa is interested in marrying a young woman, and this woman’s parents agree on one condition—that their son would marry Mustafa’s sister, Aziza. In their eyes this is a better deal than the initial offer. And so it is written. Sitti’s fate is sealed by her brother, uncle, and future father-in-law. Sadly I learn that my grandpa, Seedi, was not the generous, caring, and loving man I grow up knowing—at least not when it comes to Sitti’s welfare. Seedi and Sitti’s hearts are not set on marrying each other, but they cannot go against their parents’ wishes. Seedi and Sitti marry and live in Seedi’s parents’ house. From that day forward, and for many years, Sitti’s in-laws and husband told her what time to leave the house, what time to be back, what to wear, and what she is worth. As long as Sitti obeys her new family, properly rolls grape leaves filled with rice and spices, and works harder than an animal, her position in society is

safe. Sitti isn’t asked if she would like to go out for fun, nor does her husband shower her with gifts. No one asks her about her opinions of the war or compliments her on her wonderful ability to take ordinary ingredients and turn them into delightful meals. Eventually Sitti gains respect in her household by standing up for herself. She allows kindness and forgiveness to guide her through life, rather than retribution and bitterness. Sitti does not tolerate a poorly prepared meal nor does she allow bitterness to lead her heart. There are stories from her early life that are hard for her to speak out loud; she also believes they are no longer of importance. Instead she wants to share stories no one hears in the news, such as the day the villagers came into contact with a forbidden animal. She tells me that in March of the previous year, twenty wild pigs are covertly released into the fields during the middle of the night. When the villagers wake up the next morning, they find the leaves on their trees shaved off and their land trampled. No one in the area ever has come into contact with a wild pig—dead or alive. The Israeli soldiers or settlers must have been put them there. It isn’t easy for the villagers to figure out how to get rid of them. Sitti, however, does whatever it takes to protect the fruit trees and doesn’t wait for a community decision. Instead she goes to the local market and buys enough rat poison to kill an elephant. She places bowls of poisoned water outside, thinking the pigs will be thirsty after their midnight run of the land. The next morning she finds two dead pigs in the backyard. The pigs are incredibly heavy. Sitti attempts to lift one, but it doesn’t budge. She tries to push it, but it doesn’t move. Finally she thinks, “Well, I’ll just burn you here.” She doesn’t know, however, the length of time it take to cremate a pig and believes it can be no different than burning trash or leaves. She hopes the pigs quickly go up in flames, but instead she ends up with two barbecued pigs! She unintentionally makes a forbidden meal, and it has taken her all day to prepare it. Finally two young men come by to transport the carcasses to the local landfill. We are all born precious. From God we come and to God we return. Regardless of what family we’re born into, we all come into this world the same. Each culture has specific traditions in place, but new generations bring new thoughts and ways of living. We believe our sons and daughters can have a better life, yet we often

restrict them to learning the way we grow up. Our children may be sent to better schools or live in better homes, but what matters most are the values and emotional, mental, spiritual and physical culture they inevitably inherit as young children.

God and Toaster Righteousness As a child I learn there is One Manufacturer of Faith. This Manufacturer has many loyal fans, clients and customers. I also learn certain brands are created before the ultimate brand is delivered to the last wholesaler, or messenger. While I don’t have any reason not to believe this is untrue, I do not fully understand spirituality, religion, or God until my early thirties, when I’ve had enough time to experience and explore these aspects of life. It’s becomes logical for me to question everything until I feel it true in my heart as well as my mind. These days, I use the word God and Universe interchangeably. I believe these are both referring to the same source. To some people, this is a contradiction - how can we believe in God, Science, and Oneness Consciousness, at the same time? God is within Science and Science is part of God. If you have faith, you can find God in everything and everywhere. However, the absence of faith does not necessarily mean absence of heart, compassion or love. This isn’t about convincing you whether or not there is a God. I believe God and the Universe exists. If you don’t believe there is a greater force, then surely you believe that something inside of us that's in the driver’s seat. In other words, you believe something is driving us towards figuring out how to master happiness, peace, love, and understanding psychopaths, murderers and Taylor Swift fans. I believe people in societies all of the world have gotten away from holy textbook guidance and moved into toaster righteousness belief systems. Before religion came along, we surely must have had good non-believing people roaming the earth? The scales may tip in the favor of aggressors, manipulators and power hoarders, but there are still lots of decent people back then. Besides, don’t we have many aggressors, manipulators and power hoarders today, in the year 2013? To illustrate toaster righteousness, let’s say God decides to use toasters to spread His messages. He incorporates his love into an LLC called God’s Toasters, LLC. Toasters are now the legal and spiritual messengers of God. Different toaster brands are made all over the world. It doesn’t matter where the toasters are introduced in the world, some people support them and others oppose them. It is God’s will to have different toasters made in different countries. Toaster righteousness comes into play when people start believing that if we do not eat a specific bread recipe and shaped bread, we cannot receive authentic holy toast. Exceptions are made with pita lovers, but everyone else in the world is doomed to live in eternal burnt-toast hell, not golden-brown toast heaven. Throughout history, bread is a staple of peoples’ diets. The introduction of toasters

is supposed to show us how to eat bread better, be grateful for the bread we are given, share toast with one’s neighbor, and not kill in the name of bread. What starts to happen? People begin telling us that holy toasters can only come in one color. Others become disgruntled and create their own brand of toasters and colors. These new toasters have added faith features, such as a four-slots rather than two-slots. We begin to hear stories that one group of bread makers are not makers of bread but bakers of terror – and that the ingredients in their bread recipe are ingredients of war, not peace. Now what? Uh oh, we have a grain war on our hands. Processed wheat grain goes against self-proclaimed one hundred percent stoneground-seven-grain-faith. What the toaster and his Maker stands for is no longer relevant. Mankind disrupts faith. Claims such as these begin to surface: “Our bread recipe keeps you regular! Yours oppresses digestion!" "Our bread has all the right ingredients, yours does not!” A holy grain war begins in the effort to limit what kind of bread can be turned into holy toast. This is Righteous Toaster consciousness. Sigh. We are all made from the same seeds. It makes sense to say that compassion, love sunshine, water and nourishing seeds will grow into healthy, happy, fulfilled plants. You don’t have to like a certain kind of bread or be a bread maker to have faith. God invented more than brand of toasters to spread the seeds of faith. Those who become self-righteous bread makers shall have self-righteous toaster thoughts and judgments. If our belief system excludes us from sharing bread with those who do not believe the exact same manner as we do, it’s time to re-evaluate our belief systems.

“True mastery of self is a journey that has no ending.” ~ Jon Braeley One Shot. One Life. I recently watched a movie by Empty Mind Films called One Shot. One Life. I learn that in Japanese archery or Kyudo, hitting the target by itself is not enough. In order to shoot correctly, we are told to shoot from the heart. Yet teachers of Kyudo tell us that only through technique will we be able to hit the target correctly. For the Kyudo practitioner, however, there is a clear distinction between hitting the target and shooting correctly and one cannot progress until he or she learns to resolve the conflict arising from this. For the sincere practitioner there is no separation between Kyudo training and every day life. Each arrow is shot as a single ultimate moment. Without an opponent, it is a path of self-discovery where the target is a mirror – a reflection of the self. In the movie Takeuchi Masakuni, 7th dan Kyoshi observes, “Ultimately no technique is left. No form is left. Nothing but the archer’s humanity remains.” Whatever path you follow, the common ground is that true mastery of Kyudo (and your life), is a journey that has no ending. http://www.emptymindfilms.com

Tale of Two Prayers Shortly after entering the village of Beitin, one can head east and find the cemetery. It is a short walk from the boundary line that marks the beginning or the end of the village, depending on where you are standing. A crooked path is etched in gravel, creating a path to the other side of cemetery. On either side of the path one finds tombstones and graves nestled amongst sharp shoke (thorns), dry branches, wild wheat stalks and tall pine trees. I remember this site very well as a child and eventually understand relatives from generations past and present are buried here. The fear of crossing the cemetery subsides quickly. It is quite peaceful. People are respectful of this path, dutifully reading the Fatiha, the opening verse in the Qur’an, to pay homage to everyone who has passed on. The first time I walk this path, I am able to speak the Fatiha, but do not understand the full meaning of the words. Bismillah Al-Rahmaan Al-Raheem. In the name of God, most Gracious, most Compassionate. I walk across the cemetery to reach my grandparents house, the same house my mom grows up in. Grandpa Fahed does not live in this house very often. A financial opportunity awaits him the United States and he must leave behind the family in order to create a better future right now. He works as a traveling salesman in the Carolinas and Midwest before landing a job at Abbott Laboratories in Waukegan, Illinois. He works on the assembly line for twenty years before making the decision to cash out funds and retire in the homeland. Unlike grandpa Mahmoud, grandpa Fahed cannot help but enjoy each moment as a thirsty man who has just taken his first sip of clear natural spring water. For all his wisdom, he still sees himself as a drop in the sea. He is a piece of rock gifted from God’s essence. He believes rich possessions that sweeten the soul cannot be bought, with the exception of owning a piece of land to grow God’s fruits and vegetables. Walking across the cemetery is the first time I become conscious of existence. There are simple tombstones without engravings or memorable words. Other tombstones are fancier but the surfaces are washed away by the elements. Recently added tombstones are easier to read and remind us that our time to pass on shall come sooner or later.

As I grow older, I see grandpa Fahed dedicating his whole being to blessing himself, the land and everyone around him. He tells me to appreciate the little things and remember that every day is a blessing. He is grateful to have five children. He is happy to wake up and go to sleep with life every day. He cherishes conversations. He becomes one with God five times a day, praying and connecting with Himself. For as long as I can remember, a cat is always nearby my grandpa. They appreciate my grandpa’s generosity and look forward to seeing him every day. A few years ago, he begins to develop Alzheimer’s, but remembers most of his children most of the time. He remembers a face-to-face conversation we have two years ago, a promise to see each other once again. He reminds me of this promise whenever we talk on the phone. As you may guess from the title, this story is about two different kinds of believers. Grandpa Mahmoud, my dad’s dad, is the father of eight living children, including two sets of twin daughters. He develops “the old man’s syndrome” long before he qualifies to be considered old. Growing up, I receive the impression that he is a strict man who has intolerance for noise, mediocre thoughts and disobedience. He likes to sit on the veranda and smoke his pipe, which is filled with dry tobacco leaves he personally plants in the front yard, behind the citrus trees and beside the green beans. For as long as I can remember, grandpa Mahmoud wears a three-piece suit and tie every day, regardless of the occasion or temperature outside. He does not own a pair of shorts, jeans or khaki pants. He does not wear t-shirts or tennis shoes. He is a man in a suit at all times, except in the evening and early morning hours, when he feels more comfortable in pajamas. Grandpa Mahmoud is a speed prayer. He prays very fast all the time. Prayer is his backup security blanket to seal the deal with God, to make sure he secures a spot in heaven. Prior to praying he puts his trust in agricultural crops and raising children who can support his needs as he grows older. Grandpa Mahmoud’s faith asks that he pray five times a day, which he is able to do in record time. He does not pray out loud but one can hear him moving his lips and whispering the words of Allah. His words blend together as if he is simultaneously sucking words and air

through a straw. No sooner is he done praying than something upsets him. “A donkey understands more than you” is his usual response to most situations. He is a man of a few words, but very direct with his message. He can tell you everything you need to know in less than one hundred forty characters, the maximum length of a tweet. Most of the time, one can usually find him listening and observing conversations. At the age of ninety-six years old, he is one of the oldest males in the village. This means all his friends have passed away already, and he knows his time will come, too. However, he does everything in his power to hold on to this lifetime. His ability to give to himself and others without using his own resources is remarkable. He convinces the local butcher to give him scraps three days a week to feed stray the cats that come around the house. He convinces others to donate money to specific causes. But there is a limit to his generosity. One day, I find my grandpa yelling at my dad for picking two buckets full of grapes from the backyard. “Why are you picking so many grapes? Pick what you can eat and leave the rest. Don’t waste them,” says grandpa Mahmoud to my dad in Arabic. “There are at least thirty more buckets of grapes we can pick, but they are too ripe. Let the birds eat them. I’m picking grapes to share with three of my sisters tomorrow. Why does it matter how many grapes I pick?” responds my dad. “Allah isamhak! May God forgive you! A donkey understands more than you do,” replies grandpa Mahmoud. I lose track of the rest of the exchange between them, but suffice to say that the fight about grapes lasts another twenty-five minutes and spills into the morning after. If my dad can find a way to magically reattach the grapes back to the vines, he would do so in a heartbeat. This fight brings up hurt for my dad, like the time he tells grandpa Mahmoud how tired he is from working that day. Grandpa Mahmoud responds, “What is there to be tired about? You stand on your feet all day and all you do is put money into a cash register and take money out of it.” Grandpa Mahmoud sums up my dad’s business with these words. Grandpa Mahmoud marries a total of three times in his life, once out of obligation and twice out of wanting to feel young again. He becomes a widow after grandma

Sadiqa passes away on March 3, 2003. He then marries a thirty-two year old woman. This marriage lasts no more than a year, as the family finds out she repeatedly tries to send grandpa Mahmoud to his Maker by putting heavy doses of sleeping pills in his tea different times of the day. “How am I to know the old man has been drinking from my tea cup? These sleeping pills are to help me sleep,” she says. This is the closest admittance of a confession she provides after being confronted about the matter. Earlier in the day, grandpa goes to Ramallah to visit local merchants. He passes out while sitting in a jewelry store, he passes out. The shop owner immediately arranges transportation to the hospital. Blood work reveals high doses of munowwamaat, or things that make you sleep. To make matters worse, a rumor in the village has been spreading that younger men have been coming and going into the house on several occasions, without grandpa Mahmoud having any recollection of these visits. Although he is in his nineties, grandpa’s tongue and mind are still very sharp, and cannot believe his house is being used for indecent behavior. He cannot believe she is trying to poison him. He divorces her right away. Grandpa Mahmoud then marries a lady in her fifties. She takes very good care of him, but he feels he’s doing her a favor by being her husband. Before his second marriage, grandpa visits family in Kenosha, Wisconsin. He hopes the experience is as good as all the Baywatch reruns he sees back home. We tell him Pamela Anderson, the shakra, or blondie, does not live in Wisconsin. He shakes his head with disappointment. During his stay, he loves to visit Starbucks. He cares less about the coffee and more about people who are coming and going. In the coffee shops, he loves to practice his English with women, repeating the same opening line to each of them, “Hello. How are you? Only two months I study English when I am young.” I apologize to the women, but they think it’s cute. They haven’t seen a man like my grandpa, dressed like a Saudi Sheikh. He wants to make sure these ladies have my personal telephone number and our home address so they can call and visit us anytime.

“You come visit me?” he asks one lady in her forties. In Arabic, I quickly tell him, “We don’t know this lady!” He nods his head and smiles. Then he says in Arabic “Give her the home address so she knows where to go.” I will do no such thing, I think to myself. I apologize to the lady and tell her he’s not used to being around Americans. When he says good-bye to her, he shakes her hand for one minute before letting it go. A week later, the family takes grandpa to a nearby tourist area called Lake Geneva. People are intrigued by my grandpa and ask if they can have a picture with him. They want to know if he is a sheik! I translate this into Arabic to my grandpa. He slowly takes a puff of his pipe and says, “This will be a good memory for them. They will remember this moment the rest of their lives. Tell them I am indeed a sheikh.”
  What’s the moral of these stories? It’s easy to say that a person who prays has a different viewpoint on how to live life, and what is appropriate for one person may not be appropriate for someone else. I believe we all have a direct connection with the Universe. There are many times in the past when I feel a disconnect with the world because of the challenges in front of me. The problem is seeing challenges as a threat, which makes me go into fight or flight status. As I grow into my power, I know that the Universe is far more powerful than any one religion or faith. I am more powerful than I think I am. I do not have to live the way someone else expects me to live. I now feel connected to God in a very deep way, but do not believe in organized religious institutions. I have had too many negative experiences to continue practicing faith in this way. I associate with a lot of positive people who do believe

in organized religion, and love them for being bright lights. There’s just too much toaster righteousness going around these days, and I’d like to eat my bread however I choose. It’s not just on specific days or times to be conscious of God’s presence, but all the time. I can feel holiness inside a mosque, church, synagogue, or temple, yet I can equally sense God in nature or a chocolate shop. I am a wonderful human being because the content of my heart is wonderful, not because I belong to a specific religion or follow society’s “wonderful human being person” recipe. The thought of holy comes before holy is built. So focusing on thinking healthy, positive thoughts is a precursor to the Universe channeling divine energy through us. We see, feel, touch, and smell holy once we think it. As we think, so we become. “Sadiqua, this sounds great. How do I stay positive with all the crap going on this world?” That’s an excellent question. The duality of life is part of the holy ride, not every day is supposed to be sunshine and double rainbows. Soul fulfillment is a point of appreciation for rising above the crap with compassion and love. Can we accept life totally and completely or will we continue to see our differences as a reason to separate ourselves from each other? We don’t have to worry about making someone else change – all we can do is brighten the corners of our own rooms, and pass that light on to our children. The rest will fall into place. We need more light, love and compassion and less force and brutality.

“Everyone thinks about changing the world, but no one thinks about changing himself.”

~ Leo Tolstoy

What Does Healthy Mean to You? Healthy means a lot of things to different people. For me, the word healthy means thinking nourishing thoughts, eating healthy foods, and incorporating positive habits in my daily life. This does not mean every thought, food choice or habit is healthy – but I know my outlook on life is more positive today than yesterday. Believe it or not, thinking, eating and living healthy is like a physical workout. It may feel like work in the beginning – especially when we truly monitor every thought, word and action, we may surprisingly find ourselves to be more negative than we realize. This simply means it’s time to change our habits. Consciously analyzing my thoughts is not something that comes naturally to me. It is something I work on every day. My mind is programmed to talk myself into doing something or talk myself out of doing something, but analyzing why I am thinking these thoughts in the first place is a different kind of research. Let’s say you’re in a grocery store and you see a cupcake in front of you. What do you do? Nowadays, I will simply buy one or not buy one. The only time I begin a Vince Vaughn rant in my head about indecisiveness is deciding which cupcake to buy, if I am going through with my decision. In the past, the conversation in my head may go something like this: Mmmm, that looks like a great cupcake. But is it a really good cupcake or does it just look like that. I hate when these cupcakes don’t taste as good as they look. It probably doesn’t taste good. I wonder if it tastes good. How much sugar have I had today? Not much. This means I can eat the cupcake but not have sugar later. What am I going to eat later? I can’t stand here all day. What do I want to do? Imagine doing this type of analyzing over and over. It’s like a back-and-forth pingpong match about whether to move forward or not. What changes? I begin to meditate, practice Kundalini yoga, do positive affirmations and energy work as much as possible.

Many people discount the power of positive affirmations, or positive self-talk. However, I highly recommend Louise Hay’s book, Heal Your Body, You Can Heal Your Life. In the past, repeating positive affirmations feels like work to me and quickly lose interest. I just don’t take them seriously. Eventually, I begin working with them every single day. I begin to see where my own negative thoughts become self-sabotage, and why friends and I focus on complaining rather than supporting each other with positive solutions. I start observing which friends are self-jabbers and complainers. I begin to take inventory of these characteristics within me. I no longer want to be a selfjabber, complainer or hold on to past pains. I want to transform my inner turmoil. I begin to let go of thoughts that no longer serve me. All I know is that I am a deep person who, for whatever reason, can find depth in solitude. I find meaning in meaningful conversations. I sense passion in discovery. I develop a sense of what healthy really means and begin to treat my mind, body and soul as the perfect threesome. I am a temple. I do myself to give myself the best. Kundalini yoga is referred to as the yoga of awareness and focuses on the expansion of sensory awareness and intuition in order to raise individual consciousness. For a type A personality like myself, this type of yoga is amazing. It allows me to let go of any stress. Life feels amazing after doing yoga. I feel completely relaxed and at peace with myself. Meditation is equally amazing. When I first start meditating, I can only quiet the mind for five minutes. Can you imagine not having five minutes of silence without thinking any thoughts? I look forward to meditating. It allows me to be more focused, productive and peaceful. People may discount meditation because it’s not a forty-five physical activity, but in today’s fast moving world, I don’t know how people function without meditation, working out and doing energy work. I would probably complain a lot too without these tools in my life. Meditation can be a five-minute or three-hour activity, it’s up to you. There are so many benefits to clearing one’s mind, de-cluttering our thoughts and being in the moment. This is a powerful practice.

I first learned about energy healing in 2008, when I book my first appointment with a Spiritual teacher named Ataana Badilli. During my first session, I realize Ataana KNOWS me without me having to say much. He is not an outsider trying to understand my life, but an insider who is simply acknowledging how I perceive the world, through my eyes. I am also amazed with the immediate results. I have never had a traditional therapy session, but this feels like five years of therapy condensed in one session. This means there is nothing to hide because there is someone who doesn’t care about what you’ve done in the past – this someone sees your full potential, the best of you. A cloud of heaviness around me lifts and I feel incredibly light. Eventually I begin to practice energy work on a daily basis on my own, and with Ataana’s support, major and minor limiting belief patterns are transformed. I begin to see how my past is driven by ego, fear and lack consciousness and it is easy now to see it in others. What is energy work? It’s about feeling and seeing the energy around us. Just as we have a spiritual, mental, emotion and physical side to who we are, we also have an energetic side. One way of explaining energy is like the difference between walking into a strip club versus a sanctuary. You can easily feel the different energies in each place. We all have an energetic blue print that attracts things to us. Is your energetic blue print vibrating with happy, healthy, prosperity or do you send out the signals depressed, angry, struggling, chaotic, stressed? Clearing our energy field allows us to raise our vibration and the quality of our thoughts, gives us more energy and supports us to attract more of what we want in our lives, effortlessly and easily. Looking back at my life, there is nothing physically holding me back from moving forward. The energy, my environment and my default programming is holding me back. Most of us pick up energetic, mental, spiritual, emotional and physical clutter every day, and it’s important to remind ourselves of love, compassion, forgiveness and movement. Just as there is junk food, there are people with junky thoughts and energy fields. Just because a person is physically fit does not equate to mental or emotional fitness. Just because a person is President of a holy institution and leads prayer a hundred times does not mean this person is holy. We hear about holy scandals every day. Energy work allows us to bring all our

negative programming to the surface and allows us to transform these thought patterns.

Don’t Waste Time on Negative Thinking Louise Hay is one of my favorite authors. She tells us that we don’t have time to waste of negative thinking because it only creates more of what we say we don’t want. She reminds us that fear is becoming rampant on the planet. We can see it every day in the news. Fear is a lack of trust in ourselves, and because of this, we don’t trust Life. We don’t trust that we’re being taken care of on a higher level, so we feel we must control everything from the physical level. Obviously, we’re going to feel fear because we can’t control everything in our lives. We’re one with all of Life. The more we love ourselves and trust Life, the more that Life will love us, support us, and guide us. We can trust in that which is invisible, instead of trusting only in the physical, material world. She’s not saying that we do nothing, yet if we have trust, we can go through life much easier. We need to trust that we’re being taken care of, even though we’re not physically in control of everything that’s happening around us.
  Fear limits our minds. People have so much fear about getting sick or becoming homeless or so many other things. Anger is fear that has become a defense mechanism. It protects us, yet it would be so much more powerful if we stop reevaluating fearful situations in our minds and love ourselves through the fear.

Peace in the Middle East I would like to share a story that involves violence, something my family experiences in the late 1980s. I’m putting politics aside because this word divides us into less than human beings. Treating others as sub-human is the only way I can justify violence in my mind. I understand that people believe violence is the only way to restore peace, but it is not true. We believe that we must protect ourselves against the same violence we instill in our children, in ourselves. How else is violence created? Violence is part of the human conditioning. I accept it for what it is, a tool used to survive. However, it does not allow us to thrive. As I mention earlier, fighting for peace is like fucking for virginity. This is not healthy thinking. As a reminder, I live in a Palestinian village between the ages of nine and twelve. The first time I write down the details of this experience is at age fifteen, to fulfill a writing assignment in a ninth grade American English course. This is the original story as it is written in ninth grade, but add minor self-reflective comments. I am standing in a small, overcrowded shop and thinking, “What’s going to happen next?” There are easily twenty people in here, including my friend and me. Everyone is talking loudly and trying to get a glance of the frenzy outside. The sounds of bullets are ringing in my ears. Everyone in the room covers their heads. This is one of the first days that the “no shooting bullets or throwing rocks” rule is broken by both parties. I have been living here without any worry of such a thing happening for two and a half years. In this moment, all I want to do is shut out the noises and think back to the days when I first arrived here. I am nine years old when my dad tells my brothers and me that we are going back home for a vacation. We all know that ‘back home’ is Beitin, even though we have never been there before. “But dad, do we really have to go?” I inquire passively. “Of course, why wouldn’t you want to?” he asks. “How about we go next year?” my older brother says with more confidence. “No. You’re going and it’s as simple at is!” my dad says.

We now fast forward to life in Beitin. It doesn’t take us long to get used to this vacation. “Mom, we’re going to play soccer,” my older brother says. “With whose balls are you playing?” she asks. We all laugh at my mom’s English. “The neighbor and some boys from the haara.” Haara is slang for neighborhood. My mom’s face shows no worry. Two weeks into our trip and my mom is already comfortable with the new living situation. She wakes up to sweep the veranda and hangs the laundry on the wired clothesline on the rooftop of our newly built home. I learn to do both chores as well, but don’t do them as often as my mom. Although we have a dryer, it is common for everyone to dry clothes outside in the summer months. The summer passes by faster than I imagine and what I think is a three-month vacation turns into three years of living with Arabs. My brothers and me are too young to understand the meaning of being Arab or Palestinian. We act like tourists, taking in everything as if it is foreign. My dad believes we can be more Palestinian by immersing us in all things Middle Eastern, away from cheese and beer lifestyle. As an adult I come to understand the Arab region is quite diverse. As a kid, however, everyone looks and sounds the same to me. My older brother and me are sent to private schools in Ramallah, the main city nearby where people speak an urban Arabic dialect. At school, I make many new friends with families in a similar situation as ours. I am happy they speak English and understand the same lingo. Arab kids who grow up in the area also speak English, but do not pronounce them like I do. “Who is your mother and father?” is pronounced, “Whoo is yourrr mudtharrr and fadtharrr?” I have a disadvantage of not knowing much about the culture. Like anyone else, eating pita bread, hummus and baklava does not make me an expert on Arab or Palestinian culture. I am used to eating Fruit Loops and Raisin bran and here it is all about condiments and appetizer type foods like hummus, olive oil, pickles, pickled beets and cheese pita bread sandwiches. I am used to waking up to the

sound of an alarm clock. In Beitin, I have to get used to a rooster’s cucka-doodledoo waking me right before the Imam calls adthaan, or prayer before the sunrise. At the age of nine, I do not quite understand there is a conflict between Palestinians and Israelis. I quickly learn what’s going on from Katya, a blue-eyed European who usually wears her thick, wavy blond hair in a ponytail. She becomes one of my best friends. She whispers to me, “Stay away from the soldiers, especially the ones that have the red hats. They are the most wicked and can do a lot of bad things to you.” I can see her excitement build up. It’s as if she is giving out secret information and will be great danger if she gets caught. “Why? What kind of things”? I whisper back. I finally wonder why I am whispering when there are no Israeli soldiers standing around. “If they catch you, they’ll put you in a basement and tie you up. They’ll rip your clothes off and torture you with cigarettes. The only thing they’ll feed you is moldy bread. If you’re lucky, they’ll let you go. Otherwise, they’ll lie to your parents and tell them they don’t know where you are.” I find it hard to believe that anyone can be that cruel, but her voice is so convincing that I become cautious from that day forward. Every day since then, I see Israeli soldiers everywhere – mainly because it’s their job to patrol the streets. I become used to seeing their military green uniforms and heavy black army boots. They wear tiny military hats, each with different color emblem to identify their rank. They walk the streets and sit on top of Palestinian commercial buildings and homes, which allows them to view most of the area. The next time I have a conversation with my dad, I am able to speak a few Arabic words with him. He is back in the U.S. working when we have this conversation. “Salaam dad, how are you? “Hi habibti, I’m doing good. How are you doing? How is everyone? How’s school? Do you need anything?” I immediately recognized the word dear in Arabic.

“Ana imneeha. Everyone says hi. Umm, do you think mom can give me extra masaree for lunch from now on? How come she has to give fat-boy, I mean Moe, more money than me?” The words I’m fine and money came easily to me in Arabic. “Yes, let me talk to her. Give me your brother first. I miss you a lot. Love you. See you soon sweetie.” My dad wants to talk to my older brother first because of the news he recently hears about him. Moe is getting bored and wants to move back to the U.S. He makes up stories and tells people in the village that my mom is starving us. Personally, I think he looks like the Pillsbury doughboy and is simply starving to have Twinkies and Mountain Dew. We now fast forward to year three, which leads to more instability in the region. It is the year when Palestinians begin the first Intifadah, or uprising, in protest of apartheid, oppression and occupation they have endured since 1948. It is hard to tell what days we’ll be going to school from now. Roads are constantly blocked by huge rocks, and older students ditch school to plan for their next encounter with Israeli soldiers. It becomes part of normal life. Nonetheless, my mom makes sure that we have a plan if something happens to happen while we’re in school. She keeps telling us to stay away from trouble and we can choose not to physically get involved with protests. I am twelve years old now. My older brother is fifteen, my twin brothers are eleven and my youngest brother is four years old. Every morning she asks us the same question, and every morning, we give her the same response. “Do you have everything ready?” she asks. “Yes mom.” We all mutter at the same time while patting our book bags. But my older brother and I have more to worry about because we go to school in the city, where most of the conflict starts during the day, before moving into the villages at night. My younger brothers attend school in a nearby village and have less to worry about during sunlight hours.

We pack an onion to school to help us overcome the toxicity of a potential tear gas attack, which the soldiers implement to break up protesters and rock throwers. We understand which shops can provide us protection. In truth, they are all willing to help but our first plan is to seek shelter at my uncle’s pharmacy. Plan B is to trust specific shop owners who have known our extended family for many years. If transportation is cut off from the city to the village, this makes it easier for us to be transported to our aunt’s house in nearby El-Bireh or Ramallah. One never knows when a protest will take place. It simply becomes a part of life and we adjust to it thinking these protests will not last long. One day, while walking to the bus stop after school, my friend and me notice how crowded the streets are with men. We walk another five minutes before realizing what is about to happen. The signs are all there. College students and adults begin taunting Israeli soldiers. I can hear the men whistling loudly as they walk past the soldiers. I feel my feet moving faster. The soldiers are like fixed statues; right now, they refuse to move from stance, already accustomed to this type of provocation. If it bothers them enough, the soldiers will attempt to scare the demonstrators by pointing rifles at them. I feel my legs aren’t moving fast enough. Suddenly it happens. It’s like the stuff I see in the movie theater or on television, except there aren’t going to be any hero’s left in this one by the time it’s over. The taunting becomes louder and stronger, with shouts in Arabic, “By soul, by blood, we will redeem you Palestine” and rocks start flying at the soldiers. This is when an older man pushes us in a crowded shop. Tear gas is immediately released into the crowd with hopes of disrupting the protest. The sky filled with yellowish-green smoke. When tear gas doesn’t work, soldiers begin firing shots above the crowd. I cover my head. I can’t believe anyone is capable of killing someone and not feeling like the worst human being ever. The fighting continues when the Palestinians fired back with their own ammunition - Molotov cocktails. These are gasoline filled glass bottles stuffed with a piece of cloth. They can be quickly lit and tossed. It is illegal for Palestinians to carry any type of weapon.

The older man who pushes us in the shop also provides safe passage for us to make it safely home. I do not pay attention to who he is, but when my senses come back to me, I recognize him as a resident who also lives in Beitin. A few weeks later, five Israeli soldiers knocked on our door at 10:30pm. It is a Sunday night. Our house was on the main road and frequently regarded as the ‘look out’ home. Soldiers would hang out on our roof during the day. Although we own the property, it’s hard to say no to armed soldiers. The rooftop of our house gives them a clear view of everyone coming in and going out of the village, which is one of the closest villages to Ramallah. On this particular Sunday night, like previous nights, a group of shabaab or young men show their defiance of the occupation by breaking the government’s nine pm curfew. The shabaab light a tire on fire and leave it in front of our house – apparently, this is the best location to watch a tire burn. Within an hour, Israeli soldiers come to our house in search of protestors that may be hiding inside. Grandpa Mahmoud answers the door. He is the only adult male in the house. Grandpa tells them no we have no protestors inside the home. They do not believe him. They demand to see everyone who is living inside. My mom, aunt, brothers and me step out to the living room. Two soldiers immediately zone in on my older brother, who is fifteen years old at the time, and start harassing him with questions. The other three soldiers start searching the house for clues that contradict any of our answers. After removing every article of clothing in our closets and canvassing the house, they find nothing suspicious. They want to take my older brother in to their station for questioning, but my grandfather stands in front of my brother and says in Arabic, “This boy is an American citizen. You have no right to take him from this house. He has done anything wrong. You will take me dead before you take him alive. Leave.” And by the grace of God, they leave the house after checking his American passport. The soldiers camp outside our home until the next morning and then round up men from the village to remove the tire from the road. We move back to the U.S. shortly after this incident. Our hearts are with our loved ones, but it will be eight years before I am able to visit them again. I am glad our relatives are physically unharmed by the ongoing conflict, but the guilt of separating ourselves remains with us long after our departure. Hearing stories of

our cousins sleeping with gas masks underneath their beds in case of a chemical attack is no way to live life, not for them or anyone else in this world. This is a small taste of war and nothing compared with what others live with on a daily basis. I share this story as a reminder of how precious life is. Everybody deserves to live in peace in this world.

Between stimulus and response there is space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies growth and freedom. ~Victor E. Frankl Change is its Own Reward Once you change, change happens. This is a big lesson. Expecting someone else to change is like pleading with a manufacturer to turn Twinkies into a green smoothie. It makes no sense, right? Often times we feel people are purposely doing or not doing things for us in a relationship – we want to make them better, not for their personal development, but how to make this person fit our image of the perfect partner. We want them to dress, act and say things at certain times. It becomes a conditioned relationship. For example, it’s hard for me to be around clutter all the time. When your dining room table becomes a twenty-four hour U.S. postal sorting facility, then it’s time to discuss our future. If we are unable to get past this type of problem, how are we to overcome other challenges? In the grand scheme of things, this challenge is not the downfall of a relationship, but it can feed into the overall challenges when left unresolved – when we cannot accept or change a part of our relationship, we become resentful, angry, hurt or withdrawn. This is what happens with my in dealing with my parents. Growing up, I secretly wish they are able to see things differently. The irony is that I am not making an effort to see their point of view. Over time, I start to see them in a different light. I begin to understand them better. I then realize: I cannot control what others choose to do or say. I have control over what I do and say. I have control over my feelings. Change may be difficult in the beginning but it gets easier with time. Some of us feel we’re not the ones who need to change. Some of us need motivation and a reason to change. Some of us need a major something to happen before we are ready to dance to a different tune. Yet, many of us would rather live our lives kind-of-happy. It’s easier to complain or suppress our feelings. We keep complainers or people willing to listen to us

complain on stand-by. We feel better in the moment. This, however, signals to God or the Universe that we like to complain, which generates more reasons in our life to complain. This becomes a habit. This, in turn, feeds into victim mentality. The victim mentality allows us to take little or no responsibility for our own happiness. It’s easier to blame someone else why we’re not happy, healthy or happy enough. We like to win arguments rather than work through them. We would rather be smart than compassionate and understanding. We’d rather fulfill our own agendas than our higher good. In other words, we’d rather do what we want in the moment to fill the void rather than make decisions that support our long-term wellbeing. We would rather hold on to the thought of abuse rather than release it. Why can’t we forgive the past? Why can’t we replace someone else’s hurt with our own self-love? It comes down to our outlook on life. Are you looking for change? Are you changing? Looking for change implies searching for something different from what it would be if left alone. You are changing if you are doing something differently than before. Looking for change means you’re waiting to lose twenty pounds before exercising. Or it means looking for a diet pill or waiting to be operated on to fix obesity. Changing means you set a goal of losing twenty pounds in the next six months and commit to working out five times a week. You create habits and restructure your lifestyle to support you to follow through with change. Distractions, emergencies and last minute interferences happen, but setting your vision on the long-term goal

is what is important. Your mission is to be kind to yourself during the process, do the best you can to enjoy the process of meeting your goals. Do you know the shelf life of New Year’s resolutions? According to a study by University of Scranton, 45% of Americans usually make New Year’s Resolutions and only 8% of people are successful in achieving them. 75% maintain their resolution through the first week. 71% maintain their resolution past two weeks. 64% maintain their resolution past one month. 46% maintain their resolution past six months. Do you know what this means? It means you have to set aside your ego and create a support system for yourself. It’s easier to tell someone you’re going to lose weight than actually losing weight. Connect with a trainer, mentor, or counselor to support you and hold you accountable until your training wheels come off. It also means being proud that you’ve taken the first steps on your journey to discovering a better you. Remember, once you change, change happens.

Because of Me, I Now Have Grandkids One year, when three of my brothers marry and have children, my dad says out of the blue, “Because of me, I now have grandkids. Without me, my sons could not have children.” Wow. Who takes credit for having grandkids? Then my dad says something more amazing. He humbly condenses his life experiences in two sentences, “God knows I made a lot of mistakes in my life, but I made a lot of good things happen, too. Let’s call it even.” It makes me wonder, isn’t this what life is about? Nothing lost or gained but a series of experiences – a constant flow of exchange that reflects our perception of pain, love, hurt, suffering, happiness and love. We choose to construct our own stories. We choose whether we let break-ups hurt us, or can think like Dr. Seuss, “Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.” Yes, this is what life is all about. Regardless of what we do or allow flow into our lives, we’re able to change our circumstances, even if it feels like a change of circumstance is being forced on us. Change is positive. In order to create more of what we want in our lives, and see the fruits we want to see, we have to start somewhere. The time to start is now. Take the first steps in creating your passion, even if the situation or timing isn’t perfect.

Self-Empowerment: You Are More Powerful Than You Think You Are Self-Empowerment refers to increasing the spiritual, political, social, educational, gender, or economic strength of individuals and communities. How do you associate with this term? Many people believe self-empowerment has to do with overcoming challenges, limitations and expectations. This can take on many meanings and scenarios. It could be about young lady who learns worthiness by saying no to a physically or mentally abusive relationship. It can be a child who grows up with an absent father, or an alcoholic mother, or living in a ghetto and witnessed the hardships of inner city survival. However, self-empowerment embodies more than absorbing suffering and rising above it. It’s about pursuing your passions and dreams. It could be a sweet seven year-old boy or girl who takes the initiative to sell lemonade for two dollars. With today’s cost of air to fill up bicycle tires, increased price of petroleum that leads to higher plastic cup prices, coupled with 2013 inflation and wanting to be ahead of the game by using filtered water, organic lemons and unprocessed cane sugar, this smart empowered child is now selling us five ounces of freshly squeezed organic lemonade for three dollars and twenty-five cents. Self-empowerment is committing to your passion. Self-empowerment is about learning to be your own person and following your own status quo. Self-empowerment is a way of thinking and believing that rather than wait for someone to change your life, you proactively make positive contributions to your life and those around you. Learn what love means to you, not how love works in society. In the United States, you have a fifty-fifty chance of making your first marriage work, so if you believe the benchmark and longevity of a relationship is dependent on how much you do to keep Hallmark in business by way of Valentine’s Day cards, chocolates and teddy bears, then you my friend, don’t understand the meaning of love. Empower

yourself to learn who you are and go deeper into why these things mean love to you. Right now, I would like for you to stand up, put your hands up in the air and repeat after me. Me: I am more powerful than I think I am. Now you say it: I am more powerful than I think I am. Me: I am more powerful than I think I am. You: I am more powerful than I think I am. This week, when someone is feeling low, motivate them by saying, “You are more powerful than you think you are.” When you believe you are powerful, the natural power from within you, the deep well of knowing can emerge to the surface and support your highest goals.

Livin’ La Vida with Purpose This next section is a list of rants that tie in with living a purposeful life. Some of them sound familiar. It’s good to hear things more than once. Flow with it as best as you can. How do we develop our values? How do we learn love, compassion, prosperity, trust, suffering, anger, jealousy, hatred, judgment, forgiveness, gratitude and every other emotion on the spectrum? From a young age, we innately learn how the world runs, even if we are unable to articulate it. We’re told we have to go to college to be more educated (because God knows the best way to have life tools is by reading books, sitting in classes all day, taking tests and receiving high grades. God knows that the smarter we appear to be on paper, the more we’ll be rewarded in the after-life, post graduation). Airbrushed advertisements and snappy media campaigns with sexy images, along with our parents and community, feed us with more information as to how to live a fulfilling life. We don’t work twelve-hour days on projects we love but to be able to afford more stuff. Men grow up believing that to receive a woman’s love, he has to shower her with gifts, and go above and beyond what any other man has done for her in the past. As women we’re taught to believe that the more physically appealing we look, the more love we’ll receive in return. If we can just be the perfect cook, cleaner, lover, CEO hottie – well heck, if you don’t value yourself with all those attributes, then what’s it going to take to get your low blueberry muffin self-esteem recipe to rise every morning? You might be thinking, “Sadiqua, I completely disagree with you. I am taught to believe in education and self-empowerment.” This is great. However, the majority of advertisements sell sex and the idea of perfection. Unless we tune out these types of advertisements and commercials, then our smart brains are going to believe we need to be a certain kind of sexy, too.

There is nothing wrong with being sexy, but is sexy the only way you feel love? Do you pay attention to your flaws rather than your attributes? Do you have to wear certain clothes, have your hair and make-up done all the time to feel worthy of feeling important, or maintain a relationship? Women mistake great sex for blossoming love. Women believe we can be the best a man’s ever had, but we haven’t given the best to ourselves. Women believe it’s a man’s place to respect us, but isn’t it our place to give him something to respect? If the package looks good on the outside, it has to be good on the inside as well. Five years into the relationship, a mid life crisis hits one or both partners. Omar is upset because his dad doesn’t allow him to pursue his passion of being a drummer, and resentful he hasn’t had the chance to play in Venezuela yet. Dan is pissed because he never had a chance to see how far he could have taken it with Maria. His parents don’t approve of her name and dislikes the days she prays to God. Ann is angry that Matt chooses an evening of booze and his buddies over counseling and supporting her with the children. To offset her anger, she usually eats a box of cookies and drinks two glasses of wine after the kiddos are in bed. Let’s not forget Tom’s secret desire that his significant other loses the fifteen pounds she gains in four months due to stress and emotional eating. We’re resentful that Jonny doesn’t ask us out to prom twenty years ago and Jennifer chooses to spend her time with a famous eighties drummer instead of a die-hard Star Wars comic strip lover.

We allow small cluster-fucks traumatize us for life, or until the right person comes along to take that all away – because nothing can undo twenty plus years of personal baggage like our one true love. These days, people can’t sit still long enough to hear the moonlight, let alone observe their thoughts. It takes an act of divine intervention, like a Seven-Eleven buy-one-get-one free Slim Jim digital coupon special to get our kids to hit the pause button on the video game they’ve been playing for the last ten hours. I’m sorry, I know I’m getting old when I can’t think of a modern day reference other than a seven-eleven and slim jims. What do kids do for fun outside of home these days? We need a reason to support card companies from going out of business, which is why they come up with every conceivable occasion to celebrate. If we don’t participate in these commercialized moments, it makes us appear that we don’t care about our loved ones. Before I continue with this rant, I would like to say, I love cards and celebrating with others – I just don’t like everything being so commercialized. Let’s take Valentine’s Day as example. You can show love every day of the year but a card company’s annual all-out love marketing campaign sells the message “Fuck you and your attempt at showing love. We’ve teamed up with chocolate, wine, jewelry, roses, restaurants and teddy bear companies.” They are basically telling us we have crappy hearts unless we give more on this particular day. Furthermore, we have more and more events to think about each year, a reminder as to when it’s good to appreciate baby mamas and celebrate Eat All Your Greens Day, Sobriety Day, Freedom Day, Spend Time with your Kids at the Park Day, Me Day, Go Organic or Go Home Day, AND…AND…AND… I Stayed Up All Day without Needing a Nap Day. These companies are coming up with more days for us to celebrate, should we choose to accept the challenge of being a better human being. Hey, what about Better Human Being Day? We’re told when to eat, sleep, think and party. We need structure and directions on how to live our lives. This works if we’re making lasagna, but health, happiness and soul fulfillment have no baking instructions.

Wherever you go, go with all your heart. ~Confucius What Women Ought to Think To all women, I would like to say: have higher standards for yourself. Not the kind of standards that make it LOOK like you're doing well. It's not about how much money a man spends on you, or how much stuff is in your life, but seriously consider looking at the teachings we were raised with, is that really what constitutes a wonderful life? This is what I also believe in: 1. We are all looking for love (men and women) 2. Each person’s perception of love differs. Some people think it comes in the form of money, others would give it all up to simply feel the organicchemical high known as love. Which is better? It’s like asking whether an arm or leg is more important. Neither. Both. Balance is good in life. 3. What you look and have in a partner is different than what I seek in a partner. It just is. But culture dictates that a successful, loving marriage happens if x. y, z happens. Whether you’re an American, Arab, Hispanic, or a monkey, your culture has a norm as far as how things are supposed to go down. A monkey in the Amazon rainforest will have different rules as to what’s normal than a monkey in S. Africa. It just is. More bananas a happy partner does not make…. or does it? Love and live as if it’s the life you want to live, not based on the status quo. 4. For fifteen years I have lovingly listened to women’s stories about the gold and/or diamond rings they’ve received when being proposed to. Again, each person differs and it’s ok to have what you want to have, but the number of times I have thought about the kind or cost about the ring I’d receive is zero. I am no more excited for the recipient of the $8K ring than the one who received a $500 ring. I’m excited they found each other. I am weird, I know. It simply doesn’t matter to me. It never mattered to me. It’s probably a side effect of having a taste of war and living through cancer.

Are there any studies about the degree of happiness or longevity in a marriage based on the size of a ring? But there are other things that I find more important in a relationship that other women don’t find important at all. Accessories without super powers are one of the things I can live without. Do I want my man spending time away from me to pay off the purchase of a ring, or would we like to apply the money towards developing our life together? 5. Are you loved any less because you haven’t received a ring valued at xx amount of dollars? No, but often times we go into relationships with a “selfvalue deficit disorder” and believe the other person better be a SUPER person or have SUPER powers to fix all our problems, take care of all our needs, be in a good mood when we are not, etc. As I am writing this, a friend posts something on her Facebook page that is non-related but very relevant to this conversation, “The lady said to the hot dog vendor, make me one with everything.” That’s what it seems we want in life, one with everything.

Cooking and Lemon Trees in Exchange for Love and Lemon Custard I’d like to talk a bit more about women’s behaviors and expectations. I’m on a roll here with women’s issues. If you’re a woman who cooks, cleans and does laundry, then this is an indication that you A) like to cook, clean and do laundry, B) like organization and cleanliness C) Can’t get your significant other to do it and you have to do it to keep your sanity, D) Have an arrangement with your partner that you cook, clean and do laundry while he/she has other household responsibilities. Many women, however, cook, clean and do laundry in exchange for receiving love. A proper response to these activities is not I love you but more along the lines of, “Wow, the house is so clean. Thank you for cleaning the house.” Women all over the world do the majority of the chores, if not all household chores. This is a service. People get paid to clean houses. If you’re always cleaning your house, hopefully you will one day hear the line, “Thank you, here’s eighty-dollars for your services.” The other person living with you may feel a sense of relief or momentary happiness because the house is clean, but it does not produce a feeling of deep love from the other person. The person loves a clean house, and doesn’t necessarily love the person who cleans the house. Furthermore, if you believe your man loves you more because you’re the “3 in 1” woman - an attractive lady who cooks and cleans, then congratulations, you’re an idiot. The measure of a man’s love for a woman is no greater if she cooks and cleans his house than if she doesn’t, but this generally how a woman thinks, at least, this is somehow what I grow up thinking. This functionality in a woman could easily be replaced for the agreed price of ten to thirty dollars an hour. Think about it in another way. When you plant a lemon tree, you expect to pick lemons during the harvest. This sounds simple and straightforward. What does it take for a lemon tree to produce lemons? It takes sunlight, water and a fertile ground, right? You learn the roots of a lemon tree like to stay warm, usually around eighty degrees Fahrenheit. You plant the tree in a location where it’ll receive six hours of direct sunlight each day. You learn that citrus trees thrive in fast draining,

high acid soil and decide to test the pH level of the soil. You find out that the tree needs to be watered when the soil has become dry but not dust dry. You also learn that this lemon tree is what’s called a feeder, which means it needs high amounts of nitrogen and potassium. So you go out of your way to find fertilizer with a five to one ratio of nitrogen and potassium to phosphorous. At the very least, the lemon tree will grow in your presence and will be thankful for what you’ve given it. At best, however, it can produce lemons - no more, but sometimes less. During a good year, you can pick lemons, cut them in half, take out the seeds and squeeze the juice into a glass cup. You may add water and sweetener, but you cannot expect anything more from the lemon tree. You can’t expect the lemon tree to give you lemon custard this season and lemon-basil vinaigrette next season. It has the possibility of giving you lemons. No more, and sometimes less. The moral of the story is that we often do everything we can to source all the love in the world from one person. This person is one person, and can not give us all the love we want to feel any more than a lemon tree can provide us with more than lemons. Love is sourced from itself. It is a source in and of itself. In order to feel love we must tap into Love itself. Only then can we live in love, and see it all around us. We can then find a loving partner who knows how to love us.

First World Problems Anyone who knows me well knows I have an affinity for food. I’ve always had a thing for food. While I’m eating, I often think of when my next meal will be. I can’t tell you when this habit starts, but that’s generally what’s going on in my head if I’m not one hundred percent tuned into the conversation. I am one with the food, especially if it tastes exceptional. Most of the time, I am able to hide the fact that I am turned on by amazing tastes. If the tastes are not so amazing, but high quality, then the nature of the conversation is of equal caliber. Yes, the quality of a discussion can be measured by the quality of a meal. Quick side note: I am, however, learning to be in the present moment – being fully present when I’m talking to someone, rather than daydreaming about aphrodisiacs such as chocolate covered chocolate cupcakes. I can be quite picky about the quality of ingredients, but there are days when I’m more liberal with my food choices. I have the luxury of being picky. I have the luxury of going into a high quality bakery, stare at a glass case with eight different kinds of freshly made cupcakes and asking myself, “Which two do I want?” with no intention of sharing them with anyone. I have the added luxury of thinking to myself, “Which one shall I eat first, the pistachio chocolate cupcake or triple ganache cupcake?” I end up taking the middle road and eating half of each now, and the other halves later. Others don’t have this luxury. Global Issues reports that in 2008, over three billion people - almost half of the world - live on less than $2.50 a day. This does not cover the cost of a pistachio chocolate cupcake I mention above. What’s more disturbing is that at least 80% of humanity lives on less than $10 a day. (http://www.globalissues.org/article/26/poverty-facts-and-stats) That means that while I’m thinking about cupcakes, someone else is most likely wondering where their next meal is coming from. Someone is thinking, “How can I make rice taste differently today than the last seven years of my life?” Do third world children don’t think these thoughts at all?

These statistics immediately put me in a state of humbleness. It is in my nature to aspire for more in my life, but “more” is about taking care of myself so that I can support others to do the same. If I live the same way as today, for the rest of my life, I feel blessed that I have experienced more in my lifetime than 80% of the world. Yes, with all the mental blockages I’ve absorbed growing up, I have and continue to live a blessed life. Yet, it saddens me that others are suffering, and we’re worried about our first world problems. Do you believe your life is full of blessings or full of things missing?

Please Don’t Waste Your Suffering Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love, recently writes a prolific Facebook status update. Her thought of the day is NEVER WASTE YOUR SUFFERING. She shares a very touching story. Verbatim, she writes: “I woke up this morning thinking of my old friend Jim Maclaren, who was one of the most remarkable men I ever knew. I wrote a profile about Jim years ago for GQ magazine, documenting his extraordinary journey, and we remained friends after that story was published. Jim had been a handsome, young, athletic, Yale drama school-trained aspiring actor back in the 1980s, when he was hit by a bus one day and lost his leg. He courageously pulled his life back together after this trauma and went on to become the fastest amputee long-distance triathlete in the world, regularly finishing Iron Man races far ahead of his able-bodied competitors. He also became a motivational speaker, and, if anything, grew into a better and more successful man than he'd been before his accident. And then, unbelievably, in 1993 he was hit by a car AGAIN while competing in a triathlon...and this time he became a paraplegic. (As he himself said in response to such a horrible run of double-bad luck: "Jesus fuck, for fuck's sake, can you fucking believe it?!") After this disaster, he fell into despair and became a drug addict, until the moment of his catharsis — the moment that he decided not only to live, but to search tirelessly (almost mythically) for greatest benefit that he could possibly draw from his broken destiny. He stubbornly committed to asking himself, Who was the best person he could become, after such suffering? What could this anguish specifically teach him about compassion, about the randomness of our lives, about grace, about surrender? He told me, "For the longest time, my goal was only to be able to walk across the room. But then I remembered what my real goals in life have always been — to know God, to know myself, to know wisdom, to know my fellow man. And was I going to get there by walking across the room? Or did I need to change my focus, and expand it?" But what I will always remember about Jim most clearly is when he told me, "Never waste your suffering." This was in response to a question I'd asked him about whether he thought that suffering makes us into better people. He said, "Not necessarily. Not automatically. Suffering just happens, constantly and randomly,

and if you don't make anything out of it, then it happened to you for no reason. But suffering can also be the greatest possible invitation to transform — but only if you accept that invitation, and only if you go through a complete catharsis, and only if you actually change yourself because of what you've experienced. But that part is up to you. Only you can execute a catharsis in your own life. SUFFERING WITHOUT CATHARSIS IS NOTHING BUT WASTED PAIN. (caps mine.) And you should never waste your pain, never waste your suffering. It's powerful stuff, the most powerful stuff there is. Use it. Transform from it. Learn. Grow. Be better." Jim MacLaren died in 2010 (his injuries and infections finally defeated him) but I have never forgotten his words, his determination. And while I have never suffered nearly as deeply in life as Jim did, I have certainly suffered (we all do; it's the human universal) and I have tried as hard as possible to learn by his extraordinary example — to never waste my suffering, when it occurs. To use it — to tirelessly try to use it — to get closer to God, closer to myself, closer to my fellow man. To never skip the catharsis by focusing only on the pain. So that's what I woke up thinking about this morning, and I wanted to share it with all of you.”
 

A home made out of a gold cage is still a cage. ~Unknown What Does Self-Worth Look Like to You? A young attractive woman named Maria is a maid. She lives in a house with six other females who are also maids. Maria’s only dream is to be a wife so she no longer has to do this kind of work. She dates a series of men but all the relationships are short lived. One day she meets a man named Richard, who is the owner of a woman’s hair salon. Within a week of dating, she cuts her long black hair into a short bob. Within three weeks she dyes her hair blond. After six months, Richard proposes to her. Maria is thrilled. That evening after work, she tells her roommate the news. “Ladies, this is the finest day of my life. I’m getting married.” Everyone is very excited for her. They all tell her congratulations. “Are you moving out?” asks Teresa. “Yes, I’m through being a maid,” says Maria. “This means you can help manage the salon with your husband,” says Susanna. “I’ll probably start by shampooing the clients’ hair,” Teresa replies. She continues to say, “First, we’ll get married. Then I’ll move into his house. I’ll stay at home in the beginning. I’ll wake up in the morning to wash the floors, do laundry and iron his shirts. Then I’ll wash and iron my blouses.” The roommates look at each other without saying a word. This story speaks for itself. It illustrates perfectly that having more in one’s life does not equate to greater self-value.

Creating Time for Ourselves These days, time is to be treated as a priceless commodity. Everyone expects things to happen twenty-one seconds after the latest tweet or Facebook status update. People expect instant these days. Instant responses. Instant gratification. Instant service. Instant success. Instant love. Instant deals. Instant everything. Instant talk time. How do we create more time for ourselves? We choose what to do with our time, even if we have hectic work schedules and families. We may say we don’t have time but what we really mean is that we are choosing to apply towards one activity and less time doing something else. Don’t let anyone make you feel bad for choosing to spend time on yourself, regardless of what you’re doing. Sometimes we have to put our foot down. Instead of posting another cat video on Facebook, which makes it look like we have all the time in the world, post a note about your boundaries for the week. Or don’t post anything at all (and just watch the cute cat videos during your breaks without anyone knowing you’re on Facebook). We receive daily requests to support causes, attend concerts and meetup groups. This happens with me all the time. I receive so many requests each week to network, catch up, socialize, support someone on a project, give advice, etc. In the past, I put in endless hours of community work because I think it is the right thing to do. At one point, I am going to way too many meetings and not investing time in myself. I decide to take a leave of absence from group community work and continue supporting individual requests the best I can.

I begin to incorporate more positive qualities in my life and notice myself being more productive and happy. I begin working out and meditating more and instantly see an increase in mental clarity, focus and sixty percent less stress in my life. Two weeks before completing this book, I decide to post the following Facebook status update: Dear Everyone, I’m going to need a couple weeks to myself. Great things are happening and need a couple more weeks of “me” time. Therefore, unless you are an Angel investor, Jon Stewart from the Daily Show, George Clooney, Michael Jordan, my Spiritual Teacher, my yoga teacher, my Pilates teacher, a raw chocolate distributor wanting to send me free samples, the sun, the moon, God, the Universe, a co-worker, client, someone interested in hiring me for a project, a publisher, an agent, or a highly enlightened female who wants to contribute to my heterosexually natured programming (especially if you look like a certain actress who plays a princess in a few episodes of the Borgias series), I’m going to need some more time to myself. If you do not see your name on this list, I look forward to catching up with you eventually. Thank you for your support. Sincerely, Me P.S. – Living a meaningful, purposeful life is the new sexy. Sometimes our lives become so overwhelming we have to prioritize in order to stay sane. It has nothing to do with being anti-social. It means taking control of our life, and giving us time to be in a better position to supporting others. If we’re running on empty all the time, doing everything because we want to experience everything right now – are we really experiencing life?

Ode to Chocolate You may have guessed already that I love chocolate, specifically raw chocolate. However, all chocolate has the ability to give pleasure. The raw cacao bean can be processed into raw chocolate powder, which is not the same as conventional chocolate bought at a grocery store. Cacao is the highest antioxidant food in the world, containing fifteen times more antioxidants than blueberries. According to David Wolfe’s book, Naked Chocolate: The Astounding Truth About the World’s Greatest Food, chocolate is also the number one food for your heart. It is the highest source of magnesium, iron, manganese, and chromium of any major food group. It’s also a tremendous source of phosphorus, zinc and copper. Why am I telling you this? This is part of my healthy journey – discovering that healthy tastes better and is more beneficial to our well being than non-healthy food. Five years ago, I taste raw chocolate for the first time. It’s not the same as milk chocolate, dark chocolate or white chocolate because raw chocolate has legitimate benefits. Raw chocolate is naturally bitter, but tastes sweeter when combined with something less bitter. When I taste it, we begin having a love affair. I learn that raw chocolate is adventurous and likes to be combined with blueberries, nuts and smoothies. I fall in love with it and say, “I do.” This year, I make our anniversary date retroactive thirty years, hoping my parents’ wait until I am six years old to introduce me to chocolate. It sounds like the healthy thing to do. With that said, I love you, raw chocolate and apologize for cheating on you with Hershey’s, Reese’s peanut butter cups and Snickers bars a long time ago. I also admit to having several one-night stands over the course of a few years, give or take, on Halloween night. But my heart belongs to you, my love. Thank you for making my life so sweet. P.S. – Somewhere in this book I reference the desire to eat chocolate all the time without gaining weight. Raw cacao beans are very healthy and grateful to have found you. Thank you for being awesome.

Cancer’s Blessing I am nineteen years old, sitting in a waiting room, scheduled to see the doctor about the growth on the right side of my neck. I have no idea what’s going on with me other than I’m feeling very lethargic lately. I can easily sleep twelve hours on a Saturday and Sunday and still feel tired. Fifteen minutes pass by and I just finish reading an article that convinces me I have hypothyroidism. I should have come in sooner, I think to myself. “Why didn’t you come in sooner?” the doctor asks me after seeing the right side of my neck. “I thought the swelling would go away on its own,” I say. “We’re going to schedule you to do a biopsy right away. We’ll talk about the results afterwards,” he says. The next day the mini golf-sized swelling on my neck is removed. The day after I’m back in the doctor’s office. “Sadiqua, you have stage two Hodgkin’s Lymphoma.” “OK,” I say. “What does that mean?” I ask. “It’s a type of cancer that commonly affects young people in your age group. It has a very high recovery rate,” he responds. Great, I hit the jackpot! This is the best cancer to attract into my life. Oh wait, I have cancer, I haven’t hit the jackpot. I’m told I have to start chemotherapy, and a complete twenty-eight days of radiation afterwards. “Great,” I say, “Let’s start next month. I’ll be done with finals by then.” I am three weeks away from finishing my second semester of college. “You have to start right away. We can’t wait three weeks,” the doctor tells me.

The rest of the day is a blur. My life doesn’t flash in front of my eyes but a deep fear swells up inside of me. “Holy crap, he’s telling me I’m going to die a virgin unless I start treatments right away!” Why would God do this to me? I’m not a drinker or smoker and I work out a few days a week. It doesn’t occur to me that my internally stressed lifestyle and exposure to chemicals while living overseas has triggered this cancer. I’ve grown cancer seeds inside of me. I have full-blown cancer roses in bloom. For the life I wish to have, I fight Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. I fight not to be a statistic. I fight for things to be normal again. I fight because I don’t want to go out like this. I have every intention of telling my professors about my change in health, but just can’t do it myself. As I’m walking on the grassy field, soaking in the sun, making my way towards Greenquist Hall to talk to the Business Calculus professor – I have a melt down. I sit there and cry for a little bit, pull myself together and call my older brother for support. He ends up talking to my professors. I fail Business Calc for not being able to take the final. I receive incompletes in two other courses. The following year is also a bit of a blur, but I do remember basic details. I receive chemo treatments every other week for eight months. I’m fed four different drugs during each session. Afterwards, I am blasted with radiation every day for twenty-eight days. Four dots are tattooed on my skin, creating a square frame around my chest area, which allows the radiation to be “contained.” The visible eye cannot make out these tattoo markings on my body. They are faded by now. I come to realize the problem with drugs and radiation is that nothing can really be contained once it’s in the body. It affects your mental, physical and emotional well-being. A drug made to target your cholesterol, for example, will adversely affect your organs and shifts the way your body perceives normal functionality. The body becomes dependent on the very thing that is bad for your long-term health. On the first day of my chemo treatment, my body feels no different before or after the treatment. It’s not until the next day that it feels as though I have just been

slapped around by a baby seal for nine hours. A few days later nausea sets in and everything loses its entire flavor. “Mom, can you please add more salt to the food?” I ask her one day. “I added extra salt today for you. How can you not taste the milih?” She asks me. She tastes the food on my plate and says, “Wallah it tastes like you’re eating a bowl of a salt mine.” It’s not the most stable or structurally sound sentence, but I don’t correct her. It’s hard to taste the food’s essence. Every single thing tastes like unflavored mush. She adds other spices to offset the taste for me. My mom does everything in her power to keep my weight up through food, whether I feel like eating or not. She becomes a spice chemist, experimenting with her cabinet of spices to enhance the taste of meals and soups. I never understood before this experience why she has fifty plus herbs and spices on hand, and now I am able to appreciate her culinary skills. The problem is, there is no exact recipe to create fabulous meals. She makes it sound easy, but I realize that spices are merely an extension of her magical hands and taste buds. Eventually, when I’m out of the house and living on my own, I call my mom and ask these types of questions, “Why is this mujaddarra (lentil bean and rice dish) not coming out like yours?” “Sadiqua, it’s easy. You just soak the rice and beans in separate bowls of water for a few hours. Wash them. Let them boil in fresh water…you know, cook them in different pots. Add saffron to the ruz…you know, the yellow spice we add to the rice, sauté onions, add whatever spices you have and that’s it. It’s easy.” “I thought that’s what I did,” I say. “Wait, what other spices are you talking about?” She laughs, “I don’t know. Try again.” All of a sudden, she pulls out a top ten list from memory about the do’s and don’ts about cooking rice and lentil beans. “When you soak the Uncle ruz, add a pinch of salt,” she starts to say. I become defensive for no reason. “Mom, I know how to soak rice.” Then I ease up on her and allow her to finish her list.

“I love you, mama. I’ll give it a try.” After several tries, I come to realize that we can recreate recipes but we cannot recreate the same energy someone else puts into a meal. My rice and bean dish will have its unique touch, just like my mom’s dish has its own deliciousness. Again, I digress. This is a story about cancer and how it saves my life – not just literally, but allows me to expand my mind and explore true health, not diet health and falsely advertised nutrition. After the first round of chemotherapy, tests reveal my platelets are too low for round two. I have to go to the doctor’s office every day for two weeks to receive shots, or I have the option of sticking myself with needles. I dislike hospitals with a passion, so the nurse demonstrates the proper way to give myself a shot in my thigh. “I can do this,” I think to myself. The next morning, I fumble with the needle and unable to poke the tip beyond my skin’s first layer of protection. “This thing is defective,” I tell the nurse over the phone. “I’ve tried two needles, both of which can’t do their jobs properly.” She laughs and says, “Why don’t you come in and let’s check them out.” When she sees me and looks at the barely used needles, she politely gives me a reality check. “It’s ok, Sadiqua, we’re going to try this again. You can do it. The needles work.” And I do. After that day, it becomes a piece of cake. Now I can continue treatment. The next challenge is getting my veins to cooperate. They shut down after the first treatment, “Sorry, we’re closed for business, Sadiqua.” The nurse explains, “Basically, Sadiqua, this means you cannot be a drug addict. You can’t find a vein that will willingly receive drugs.”

“That’s good to know,” I reply. No drugs, no sex, no rock-and-roll. Got it. A small port is inserted underneath my skin in my chest area. I am fed chemotherapy drugs through this port from this day forward. I continue to work and finish college in four and a half years. I continue working part time, or parts of the time – I can’t tell you for sure how often I am well enough to work. I am determined not to change my lifestyle, which is foolish now that I look back at that part of my life. This shows me I am not flowing very well with change. After a few months of chemo, I shave off what’s left of my hair. All my life I am used to having a lot of hair. I am born with straight hair, but when puberty takes effect, my hair transforms into wavy-curly locks. Often times, I wake up in the morning and think to myself, “My hair had a party last night without me.” It is as if Gene Simmons from Kiss and all the 1980s hair bands have a reunion on top of my head in the middle of the night. But I digress. I wear two wigs throughout the process. It’s nice having your hair done all the time without doing anything to it. It’s a premade hairdo, except that I can’t pull it back in a ponytail without it looking like I have a wig on top of my head. In the summer, the scalp gets itchy and I prefer wearing a bandana. My brothers would love to take pictures of me without a wig but I don’t allow them to do so. “Pretend you’re in an alien movie,” one of my brothers says jokingly. “No. The answer is no,” I say non-jokingly. One of the best days of my life is received two months after radiation treatments are complete. The cancer is completely gone and I can now have the catheter removed. Other than my boobs, there is no longer anything else sticking out of my chest.

I become cancer-free. It takes me a few years to go from worrying about attracting another form of cancer in my life because I just pumped all these chemicals into my body) to thinking cancer is a blessing. Your first instinct might be to say, “it’s great Sadiqua’s telling herself something positive, bless her heart, I would never want someone to go through that.” But I stand here today, feeling younger and healthier than I ever been in my life. I look at many people who haven’t had a major illness in their life and they treat their bodies like shit. I don’t understand why. But it’s not for me to understand. If they like the way they live their life, then who am I to judge? We each learn our lessons in time. Do I have to learn such a hard lesson at a young age? No, there are easier ways to learn lessons, but this is something I am meant to experience. Sometimes it takes something serious to happen to us to open our lives to the beauty of life. Some people don’t realize our bodies are sending us signals all the time. These signals can be positive or negative. Yet we ignore them, or would rather rely on a pill to take care of the issue. We believe tired is the new normal and that stress is a part of life, not an exception to it. This keeps us in fight or flight mode all the time, and has a direct affect on our health. I begin to change my old ways of thinking – I let go of the days when I can catch up on rest over the weekends or two weeks out of the year. It is better to experience serenity every day, than want to escape to another place two weeks out of the year. As much as I love traveling and having new experiences, there is so much to experience where I live now. The things I do not think are important become the most important part of my daily routine. Meditation, for example, is amazing for my overall wellbeing. I say positive affirmations to myself throughout the day. I learn that working out actually support me to being more productive, focused and efficient. I mention some of

these earlier in the book: I love Energy Work, Kundalini Yoga, Pilates, running, kettlebell workout and nature hikes. I’m still adjusting to running, but I like it because it challenges me to go beyond my limits. Combined with nutritional food, I find myself with more energy than ever before. Activities that used to take me weeks now takes me days to complete. Projects that normally take months and years are now completed much more quickly. I’m able to tune out distractions more easily than before. I don’t worry as much as I used to (which is saying a lot because I worry a lot for no reason at all in my younger days). Cancer teaches me to let go of processed foods and soda. This takes longer than expected. I remember singlehandedly subsidizing Mexican restaurants and seemingly healthy fast food joints in my early twenties. I remember stuffing my face with chocolate muffins and soda for breakfast, and later needing to drink soda every day after lunch. One day, soda manufacturers come out with sixteen and twenty ounce bottles and I think to myself, “There is no way I can finish a twenty ounce bottle.” Within a month, I can easily finish guzzling a twenty-ounce bottle in a day. So I quit. Cold turkey. I stop drinking soda. It takes me a few times to completely let go of soda, and I’m happy to say it’s been at least ten years since I’ve had any kind of soda. Food-wise, there are many other lessons to learn. My brothers have watched me inhale a big bag of cheese popcorn quicker than you can say, “How’s it going?” They’ve also seen me experiment with different types of food, which are more mainstream now than back then. I remember sitting outside the house cracking open young baby coconuts with a screwdriver and hammer in order to make coconut kefir. I remember the first time I make fermented veggies with a friend. I remember the first time going to an all-organic and natural health convention in California. It is amazing. Organic food, natural health and beauty retailers cover thousands of square feet. Whether you’re shopping for vitamins, supplements, and eco-friendly bed covers or in search of the tastiest organic enchilada, this is the place to be. The most disgusting thing I try is fermented spirulina, which basically

smells and tastes like vomit. It may be reformulated by now, but there is so much awesome food to taste, there is no need to dine out to breakfast, lunch or dinner. I am open to trying new things, while others still have yet to know what a beet tastes like. This saddens me for some reason. I am content because I do my best to consciously live my life better each day, focusing on what I can do rather than changing others. Others have not walked in my shoes. Having had near death experiences, I begin not caring what others think about how I choose to live my life. After I get over the fear that I am going to burn in hell, I start enjoying my life. This may sound simple to many people, but it’s a HUGE leap of faith for me. Simple successes often lead to more meaningful ones. It becomes ok to stay out until three am in the morning because you win backstage passes while attending a Def Leppard show. You say yes to a roadie’s offer of pizza. I’m really hungry at this point and haven’t eaten in hours. You politely decline Adam’s attempt to make meaningful conversation because you have your eye on the prize. Waiting two hours is worth the two minute exchange with the lead singer, who autographs your thigh, gives you a kiss on the cheek, wishes you a Merry Christmas and is impressed that he has a fan named Sadiqua whose parents are Palestinian. “I’ve never met a Palestinian before,” he says. You don’t freak out when attending a U2 concert and smell smoke coming from a few rows ahead of you. You think to yourself, “Is this weed?” It’s your best educated guess because you’re twenty-three years old and haven’t tried it. You say ok to playing host and secure fourth row tickets so that your Belgian bosses flying into town the next day are able to see their first Prince concert. Are your parents pissed? Absolutely. Do they really know what you’re up to that evening? Not really. All they know is that you’re downtown Milwaukee at Lake Michigan’s annual music festival, Summerfest. You begin feeling what it feels like to be making decisions in your life. You’re fine having different experiences and discussing every topic under the sun. Why?

Because all of a sudden, you can – or you at least feel like you can. These are small but great steps towards freedom, or so I think. Eventually, I am doing what I want to do in life, and the only thing left is to allow myself to grow with time. For the time being, my growth is learning to create my own life manual. I decide to move out of my parents’ house two days before my twenty-seventh birthday. They don’t willingly support my move, so I decide to take matters into my own hands. I make all the arrangements and find a place twenty-five minutes away from home, closer to work. One night, I packed what I could in the back of my trunk. The next morning, I go to work. That evening, I don’t come home. I move into my new place. My parents kind of disown me for seven months or so. Seven months into my independence, I decide it’s time to move out of state. I attempt to talk to my dad face-to-face to let him know why I’m moving, but he doesn’t believe I’ll go through with it. “You don’t have the guts to do it,” he says, as we’re standing in the family business. The next day I leave. Two days later, he calls to see if I am doing OK. It’s takes some time for my family and me to adjust to this transition, but I look back and don’t regret moving out one bit. The cloud of unresolved conflict within me still looms after I move to the south. Worry, doubt and fear are my biggest nemeses. But these are all steps supporting me to move forward on my journey. I eventually go all out self-healing. As I have repeat several times, I connect with a Spiritual Teacher and start removing energetic blockages. I gravitate towards energy work, which becomes part of my daily practice. I add Kundalini yoga, kettlebell workouts, positive affirmations, running, Pilates, experimenting with different foods, removing things out of my diet and adding things back in. I start doing instead of analyzing and thinking. I start meditating. All of a sudden, I discover what it feels like when the Kundalini energy within me is released. I don’t know how to explain it. It happens when I’m alone. I’m not sure what to say.

Hypothetically, let’s say you’ve experienced a forty-eight hour sex-a-thon, or a version of it, which includes two parts female and one part male. And imagine taking that cumulative experience and condensing it in a few hours. Imagine adding twenty minutes of meditation into the mix. Now imagine yourself being everywhere and no-where at the same time. If you can imagine what all those flavors taste like at once, then that is what it feels like when the Kundalini energy within the body is released. It could possibly feel like raw chocolate being pumped into one’s self intravenously, without the all-out heart pumping and thumping. It’s a feeling of complete peace. Time slows down and you become One with all of existence. How many times have you been one hundred percent at peace with life? What I experience is something tantric-like, or tantric-self. It’s a life changing experience. Why? Because I realize I can go beyond the norm. All of a sudden, I can spend hours in nature and a natural state of being is higher than any other kind of experience before. But then I must ground myself, and come back to humbling moments, when I’m reconnected to reality. In this moment, I realize I’ve overcome a lot of crap in my life. This feels like home. This is the path I’m meant to be on. This is my journey. I can be more than I ever imagined myself to be. When you experience war, illness and grow up with inadequate mentorship, you have to find a way to break down unhealthy habits and rebuild yourself into YOU. You have to find the right kind of mentorship to guide you rather than running away from issues or leaning on others to fix your challenges. You accept yourself and others as they are, clear limited and old belief patterns and live a more balanced and abundant life. Life is not an arranged marriage or a fuck-fest. It’s about finding a balance with living happy, holy and healthy.

Lessons Learned Biggest lessons I have learned so far: 1. Self Worth. Know who you are. If you’re lost, find yourself. 2. Not dying a virgin is great, not dying a slut is even better. 3. Elevate. Don’t stagnate. Don’t stay in one place because it feels comfortable. Test the limits of your comfort zone and allow yourself to grow. 4. Don’t take life too seriously, but serious enough that you care about yourself and the wellbeing of those around you. 5. Forgive easily. 6. Speak up. 7. Express, don’t suppress your feelings. 8. Living a meaningful and purposeful life is the new sexy. 9. Walk on your own yellow brick road. If you can’t find one, spray paint your way into happiness. If that doesn’t work, buy yellow shoes. 10. We must be careful about what we pretend to be. (Kurt Vonnegut) 11. The best can’t find you until you put your worst behind you. (Miguel Pimentel) 12. Follow your heart, not your ego. 13. Learn to give your absence to those who don’t appreciate your presence. (Miguel Pimentel) 14. When you look at your awesome side, careful you must be, for the awesome side looks back (inspired by Yoda)

15. Be awesome. 16. Have courage to follow your heart. 17. You are good enough. 18. Let go of crap as quickly as possible. 19. Meditate every day, at least twenty minutes. 20. Connect with nature every day. 21. Do one thing differently every day. It makes life more interesting. 22. Do the best you can to incorporate the highest quality of foods, thoughts and the right kind of support into your life. 23. Don’t let someone else’s opinions of you define who you are. 24. We have a physical, mental, emotional, spiritual and energetic side to us. It’s important to connect with each part of us on a daily basis. 25. Be natural. We don’t need pills for all our ills.

Drunk with Love I am drunk with Love. My happy hour partners are Spirit and Soul. You both want to sleep with me every night but how can I love more than one at the same time? I dare not choose for I cannot live with one and not the other. Why don’t we invite Passion to the party and make it even? It seems fitting since she is known as the slut that doesn’t know when to say no. Will it be awkward in the morning? Not if we do it all over again.