Ignorant Heart

As I sit at the Delta gate ready to board my flight "home" to Miami, my heart does not feel like it left the one bedroom apartment in NJ that it just cohabitated for seven days.
I can feel it throbbing under the thin reversible navy blue comforter aching for its body to come back and keep it alive.
An outer body experience, as my eyes see airplanes, Hudson News stands, and luggage, but my heart, nestled in the bed we shared, feels warm, familiar, and safe.
My heart resisted leaving the strong doorways that slammed shut behind my body forcing me step by step to my chosen life in Miami.
It hopped out stubbornly from my chest, and with each sequential heartbeat, it pumped and jumped from the front door to the bedroom...
lub-dup... lub dup...
Squirting a bit of blood with each beat, a trail of A- blood is unapologetically left over each cold speckled tile in the apartment.
My head feels faint from the lack of oxygen being pumped to it and I can feel my limps slowly losing functionality.
It takes only six minutes without blood for your body to begin deteriorating and your brain cells to begin to perish.
My body wants to go back and collect its stubborn heart - tell it that this is the path I must take, tell it that this is the choice I made, and tell it that this is not my time yet.
But then the engine starts and the car starts to drive away...
The rain outside is a serendipitous parallel to my inner body - empty, cold, and sorrowful.
As we reach the highway to the airport, I know there is no turning back.
My body will have to live sans heart for a bit...
The heart is an ignorant and illogical organ.
It does what it wants and thinks what it wants. My rational head cannot contain its independent nature.
One day I pray that my heart and head will finally agree and be at peace.
My head obliges as I walk onto the plane - "I will see you in July, my stubborn heart."
Enjoy the warm embraces, DJ music, curry chicken, GTA games, and all the laughs.
Please report all of your stories, adventures, and memories back to me in seven months.
I will be eagerly waiting.

The Wait

1268 miles.
One thousand two hundred sixty eight. Twelve sixty eight.
Eighteen hours and sixteen minutes.
Those last grueling sixteen minutes separate the normalcy and monotony of life with bliss.
Waiting patiently…
17 days – 408 hours – 24,480 minutes.

Secrets

In my head, I believe you are mine.
I'd be lying to you if I told you that I didn't think about you every morning and didn't want to hold you every night.
I want to lay on your couch holding you close watching Netflix and eating sandwiches from the bodega down the street (or corner store, as you call it.)
I want to watch rereuns of Grey's Anatomy and hear you talk about how when they killed George you were angry.
I want to have deep intellectual conversations with you -
Discuss science, race, religion, and what our future children will look like.
I yearn to tell you that I love you every time we hang up the phone.
I wish you understood that I would never knowingly hurt you nor wish any harm on you.
I want to give you the ripest fruit of my gardens and the richest honey of my ethers every day.
With every thought of my future and every major decision I make, I imagine what you would tell me and what your advice would be.
I secretly wish you would move to Florida or I would move back north.
Home to me is in your arms. No other location has ever felt so safe.
A man like you is a rarity.
I pray for you all the time.
Your future success is extremely important to me. What woman doesn't want to see the man she loves succeed?
I want to be your loudest cheerleader and most trusted wingwoman.
I want to see you happy. You've spent too many years unhappy and your time is coming. I can't wait.
I sometimes dial your number and then don't press send.
I usually wait for you to call me so that I know I'm not bothering you.
Listening to soca music makes me feel more connected to you and your culture.
I love Trini culture now.
My dance instructor calls me "Trini girl" and my heart smiles.
Never would I have imagined eating shark and I would have said no if anyone but you had asked me to try it.
I've tried for a year to move on without success.
I compare every man to you - your good heart, old school morals, your relationship with Christ, your intellect, and foresight.
I've prayed for a man with certain characteristics and qualities for years. You have all of them.
I have dreams of living the rest of my life with you.
I can't see myself ever not talking to you.
I always wonder what you think of me...
Every new experience I have I wish you could experience it with me.
I want to share my happines with you and always lift you up higher.
I want to cook you dinner and pack you lunch with a cute note inside your bag since I know how much you hate Subway sandwiches.
I wish I could meet your mom and tell her what a fantastic son she has raised.
No other man compares to you.
If I had to chose between your happines and mine, I would always choose yours.
Most of all, I wish you would open your heart to receiving and giving love again. You've cemented walls to keep love out, but you've cemented potential happiness out as well.
I believe in a future with you.
You own my heart and I'm not sure you are aware.
They say in love that sometimes "you just know."
Well, I just know.

Tidal Reflection

There are few things in this world that leave me dumbfound and breathless.
The ocean is one of them.
Its waves drown my thoughts and fill my lungs with gratefulness.
As I stand by the foamy ocean edge looking into the vast curved horizon, I am reminded of my grandmother - a selfless and caring warrior who is no doubt surfing in the magical red, pink, and blue clouds ahead of me.
I can feel her warm smile as she gently blows me a kiss, caressing my beach blown hair and leaving me goosebumps.
These are the moments I treasure and attempt to capture in my worn out memory box.
An old white former shoebox aged by seven years and filled to the brim with nostalgia, hope, heartache, and tears.
A robber would never care to take a box so worn out containing nothing but useless relics.
Yet no gold, silver, or diamond could amount to the emotional sentiment contained within.
I secretly wish I could bottle the wonder and awe of the ebbing waves with the purple blue sunset to store it in my box.
I know however that it would be selfish to keep such beauty to myself...
As I bid adieu to the salty crisp air, blazing sun, white sand, and astounding ocean for the day, know that I am thinking of you.
You are on my mind and I wish you could experience this joy with me.
As I look up towards the sky on the short walk back to my car, I am greeted with the sweet welcome hello of our grandiose satellite moon,
And I know that somewhere you are thinking of me too.

Happy.

Woke up this Saturday morning to the sun shining into my canopy bed warming my face and inviting me to a new day. I step outside onto my balcony and lay in my hammock in awe of the beauty of this earth. The water from the kiddie pool below making a gentle and calming sound to soothe, the hot sun blazing on my cheeks and legs to create a crisp brown tan later in the day, and the coo-ing of birds freshly awakened ready for a day's adventure. It is peaceful out here with no one in sight, empty pools below, and no sounds other than that of nature. Palm trees sway softly in the background with the light wind interrupted only by the rare pigeon landing at its trunk for a rest, leaving me stunned as to how I am so fortunate to live in this paradise. Life is wonderful. This is the state of living I so yearned up north and desperately chased. Peace, happiness, and undeniable joy.

"You have time."

"You have time."
Those three words could burn a chasm through my hypodermis without rupturing a single slender vein.
My body has become immune to the punctures that have been repeated to me by every friend, family member, and ex.
It no longer reacts with a tender sorrow and eruption of violent tears.
It has become an expected response.
My body is numb to the optimism of those words; the way that a patient with diabetes is anesthetized to their diurnal prick.
The regularity and predictability of the cut has concealed its sting and weight over life’s normal proceedings.
The wait for the “right” time and the “right” man and the “right” moment has exhausted my tear ducts to the point of dehydration.
Please refrain from preaching to me that “You are young,” or “Everything happens for a reason,” or my new favorite: “Trust God’s timing.”
I am weary of the forged confidence inherent in their articulation.
The suspicion that an Eve has been crafted without an Adam will likely cause tumult for some,
But after lonely years, futile dates, and failed relationships, the skepticism has built a durable layer of subcutaneous tissue to sustain each subsequent piercing.
Piercings that are imperceptible to observers, but merely masked by a strong countenance hiding the fragmented craters underneath.

New City, Old Ways

Laying on my baby blue beach towel on the hot summer sand is my happy place.

But the waves that crash into the surf today mimic the tears rolling down my face as they collide with the sides of my sun-screened nose and full lips.

Have you ever noticed the coincidental saltiness of a tear drop?

Procession of Death

This city will eat you alive...
The way cruel selfish eyes ignore a homeless man's empty belly,
The way hours of your day are spent at a job that will bring you money with no lasting happiness,
The way the subway trains demolish and discombobulate human life,
And the way death is disguised behind the pretext of "police activity".
Today I stand on the very platform that less than 24 hours ago, a man died. 
He hurled himself into the tracks (according to reports) and was severed into pieces...
As I stand here on the platform and look at where his body laid yesterday on the tracks and street, it is astonishing to me how quickly the rest of this city keeps on moving.
Someone lost their life, and yet the city takes not even a day to mourn...
I wonder how many people actually know about the death? 
I wonder if they even care? 
Death is a very hard concept for me to swallow, whether I know them personally or not. 
Did the man commit suicide or was he pushed? 
Regardless, I bowed my head and prayed for him and his family this morning while waiting for my train, but I hate to believe that's all we can do... 
I recently read a quotation that said something to the effect of: each passing day is the constant movement towards death.
Life is so fleeting.
Notice your breath today. 
Breathe in the summer sun, and warm heat through your living nostrils. 
Be happy, and chose today to take a step towards joy.
Life is fragile enough - we are only made of organs, skin, and muscle which can be stripped in an instant and your body parts washed away with a fireman's hose. 
Decide to acknowledge that frailty today and choose happiness.   

Umoja

Somewhere between 20,000 feet into the air while we are cutting through wisps of cotton clouds and beyond the eyes of those on the ground, and our soaring altitude of 38,000 feet, I regain my heart and my spirit is awakened with a renewed sense of joy.  This is my seventh flight in less than two months and the window seat of my various 737s have become home.  A place where my eyes can be amazed by the landscapes just underneath my feet, and where my mind can transport itself to the grassy acres imaging a life not lived.  At times anger fills my heart, upset that God would give us so much world, but so little time to experience it all.  An impossible task to see every blade of green grass or particle of gritty sand.  It is in these moments of dismay that I can clearly articulate and understand the importance of learning from and listening to others.  This world was meant to be lived and experienced together.

Transformation

Confronted with such beauty, I am not sure how the presence of God can be denied. 
Such a vast expanse of mountains skillfully created with a dark brown river running gracefully through it, quenching the thirst of this land's population.
The peaks denoted with one side dark, shielded from the sun, and the other, light reflecting its grandness among the few scattered houses across the terrain.
For a moment my mind wanders to consider the lives of those who occupy the secluded homes and valleys of this land.
How peaceful and separated from the bustle of NYC...
How connected with nature and its sublime beauty...
Soaring above this landscape, there are no tall buildings and no traffic jams to concern or stress oneself with,
I am drawn into a life that seems so foreign yet so becoming.
My mind wanders back to the dichotomous peace of the Middle East...
Another land that while its reputation would suggest a life of intolerance, violence, and anger,
I am drawn to their openness and dependence on others.
I recently read a fantastic quote - while NYC is tied to its independence and solidarity, the Middle East culture is one of interdependence.
Of relying on a neighbor for basic necessities, or shelter, or to simply pass the time.
Islam stresses the importance of spiritual detachment from material objects, and thus the lavish NYC lifestyle is tossed away and even considered maliciously deviant to the Muslim culture and lifestyle.
Many westerners fail to understand and appreciate the art of difference; a break in our upbringing that unfortunately can cause demise in some.
I have found myself in my twenties openly welcoming difference and submerging myself in sometimes culturally or emotionally uncomfortable situations.
Those same situations have grown my maturity and worldly acceptance.
I have learned to not only accept the differences, but appreciate and admire those who live substantially "radical" lives as compared to westerners.
I have found myself recently contemplating a life abroad...
Navigating the souks of Tehran with a galibayya and head scarf attempting to shield my naiveté.
Walking the blistering hot alleys of Agra bargaining with street vendors.
Praying with my head touching the sacred ground of the Hagia Sofia, barefoot, enthralled by its royalty and majesty curious as to how many other devout worshippers had whispered prayers to Allah.
Unearthing the grandeur of mystic Cairo learning to live with sand as a form of precipitation.
Hiking the insurmountable mountains in Kathmandu and reaching its cloudy and chilled peaks fully exhausted but thrilled at an accomplishment as I take in the view from 6000+ miles above sea level,
Celebrating Kwanzaa gorgeously wrapped in African garb and dancing to the beat of tribal drums and chants,
And immersing myself fully in a Buddhist temple in Bangkok living a life filled with love, peace, and family, but simple pleasures only.
There are so many culturally rich cities and towns in this world that NYC seems like a hodgepodge.
A city so racially, religiously, and ethnically confused that while everyone is represented and living harmoniously (for the most part) there is no overarching culture. 
It is a soup made of a bit of everything but the flavor when tasted is unfortunately sour and bitter.
This world has too many secret alleyways, too many sacred calls to prayer, and too many authentic meals to prepare, to limit myself to the second hand experiences NYC offers.
I have contemplated setting sail to a new country... Iran perhaps?
There are so many treasured archipelagos, villages, islands, and republics left to undercover and immerse myself in.
I am yearning more life defining moments...
Moments such as those I encountered standing in the holy Sheik Zayed Mosque, horseback riding up the Bosque Nuboso near Arenal Volanco, praying in an underground church constructed in a salt mine in Zipaquira, and gallivanting in the stunningly brilliant Simon Bolivar Parque. 
I am ready, world.  I'm coming to take in your exquisiteness with openness and struggle through the walls that will surely cause me frustration and angst at times.
But, I am arriving with an open mind ready to take in the transformative experiences to be scripted into my heart and eternal memory.

Deafening Silence

I have no more words to tell you.

No more letters to splice together to tell you that my heart is lying on the railroad tracks waiting for its Superman to rescue me from the wreckage that is about to transpire.

No more phrases to convey that my love for you is as deep as the Mariana Trench – spurting explosive magma into the ocean abyss; impossible to see its brilliance with the naked eye, yet as extravagant and perilous as a Macy’s fireworks display for the fourth of July.

No more colorful expressions to illustrate the red blazing passion that radiates in my soul every time I hear your name mentioned or see a text from you illuminate my phone screen.

Honestly, I don’t think you realize that the edges of this smoky atmosphere do not even represent a fraction of how far I would travel if you needed me.

Yet, I have told you all of this before in not so colorful words.

And nothing was ignited within you.

Not an ounce of my love has permeated through your resistant walls.

Walls so steadfast that the even the Great Wall of China with its over two thousand years, are ashamed of their frailty.

I recently admitted to myself and a close friend that I continue to believe and hope that maybe one day those walls will crash as vehemently as the Berlin Wall; a day of triumphant success and vulnerability.

Although met with obstinacy to start, the results were a more unified people,

People who learned to accept their differences, and start a new nation filled varied in thought, morals, and emotions.

My friend replied to my bashful admission “There’s nothing wrong with having that kind of faith in someone you love.”

She was right.

But I struggle knowing that a man so put together and wonderful would awaken my love with no attempt to foster that love.

Instead I have been left with an emptiness in my ventricles and while my heart will eventually pump out the built up frustration, disappointment, and melancholy,

Hope will never be silent.

Surreal Paralysis

Leeches are an interesting parasite; they feed on blood and can store up to five times the body mass of that blood. 

They take in so much liquid that they only need to feed twice a year. 

They also, surprisingly, have two suckers, one at each end to silently and painlessly take in the sustenance and constituents of your being from either end. 

There is no clandestine trap door to exit their solid grasp once they’ve grabbed hold.

New York City is a leech to me; a bloodsucking, thirsty, ungrateful, so-black-it’s-purple leech. 

This is the city where your hopes and dreams come to rest in a graveyard of concrete. 

Where the rudimentary jungle is a labyrinth of skyscrapers that are constructed with lost aspirations cemented into their walls.

Where being a single “independent” 30 yr old career woman is swooned upon,

All the while she yearns in her heart for a companion, desperately seeking him out in a selfish workplace and inebriated bar scene – or better yet the anonymous cosmos of the internet.

Where working fifty to sixty hour work weeks is normal,

And where lunch breaks are unheard of.

The city where nightlife is a meat market for perverts to pick their meal for the evening,

And where men outnumber their counterparts making them eager for the next exciting rendezvous with an anonymous wet pussy.

(Which is not to say that one should frown upon that disposable life if that is what you chose, but this is not the life for me.)

This is the city where it is normal to cohabitate with rodents and roaches,

Where people look forward to crowding a numbered or lettered cart during rush hour as their mode of transportation,

Only to smell a pungent body odor or get a quick watery spray of a stranger’s snot.

Where walking by a person with no home and no food is a common occurrence – but don’t worry, you are not obliged – walking by and ignoring their humanity is ordinary too.

Where your sidewalks trade green trees and kids on bicycles for massive bags of trash and predators lurking in disguise.

Where people buy dogs as a replacement for children and adorn them with clothes, buying them gourmet food.

This is the city where lies are rampant, deceit is an epidemic of the common cold, and truth is an evasive concept.

Where churches adorn every street in opulence, glory, and mystery, but behind the aesthetic doors on Sunday, the pews are left half empty.

Where women camouflage their innate giving and caring nature behind pearls, sleek straight hair, an aggressive countenance, and rosy blush just to impress and advance in big business.

Now, don’t get me wrong, all of New York City is not wretched.

There are those transient moments of peace while running in Astoria Park, taking a stroll on the Highline, or sitting on the benches at the Brooklyn Promenade at dusk.

Those moments are very far and few between – evanescent and too pathetic to constitute for a quality of life argument.

There are places in this world where the streets are quiet, almost eerily desolate, and peaceful.

Where children still play outside and neighborhoods throw block parties.

Places where the water gently crashes into the surf creating white sand and a serene backdrop for a beach house.

Where our backyards are not views into another complex, but are grassy acres of land filled with swimming pools and fireflies instead of a rat’s arresting eyes.

Places where men regard a woman as a treasured gem – where chivalry and traditional morals reign.

Where women are not afraid to admit that they want love and a settled life in their twenties - instead of chasing an unfulfilling career that will not cradle you and comfort you when you are at your worst.

Places where one can truly experience a Buddhist nirvana – that salient moment of enlightenment and wonder where peace can be attained.

This city boasts to offer so much – career advancement, networking, the best public transportation, and the bright alluring lights. 

All of which are an illusion created to distract and deter one from the true meaning of this fleeting life.

A life of peace, of happiness, and full of love. 

Love being the unparalleled superlative of them all – the collage of relationships that brings value and meaning to the beginning, the middle, and the end of our lives.

New York City, it’s been real. 

I am ready for a deeper life constructed of breathing in the sweet aroma of fresh air seasoned with an ocean saltiness. 

Florida calls to my soul. 

"I’m coming", I whisper back. 

"Ya vengo."

The Revelations of the Qur'an

I am overwhelmed with how beautiful the Qur’an sounds as I listen to this stunning recording of the entire Surat Al-Baqarah.  I am compelled to drop to my knees and worship with my hands lifted in prayer, palms facing upwards to receive the blessings that would otherwise come down from the exquisite domes of the mosque.  If only I knew the direction of Mecca… 

Placing my forehead to my wooden floor, my apartment is nothing like the grandiose of the Sheik Zayed Grand Mosque in Abu Dhabi.  None of the grandeur, opulence, or impeccable reverence that I am sure is demonstrated there day after day.   The melodic Arabic is captivating.  It is a mysterious culture that I have been unexposed to in my twenty-five years of life, but one that I find intriguing and distinctly beautiful.  A religion so grounded in its traditions, history, and principles, that no can fault Muslims for their strong grounding in antiquity and veneration.  The language, people, and customs draw me in.  It is truly a sacred occasion – one that I am unsure on how to properly respect.  I pray the way that I know best, listening to the chanting of the man’s prayers in Arabic and entranced by the rhythm of the words.  It is a cry to Allah; a chilling, penetrating moment for me.   I am lost in a trance and mediate on the refrains as if it was a ballad.

I have always been one to explore new identities and cultures.  It challenges my sense of self and I enjoy immersing myself in another’s truth and being.  As my forehead touches the floor, I can feel the power of God, Allah.  I am a Christian to the core, but also an omnist.  Jesus is my Savior, but I have profound regard for Muhammed, Abraham, Buddha, etc.  We are equal.  We are the same.  We call God by a different name and have different dogma.  My philosophy is one of mutual respect and worship.  My bucket list includes: “Praise and worship in a Christian church, Muslim mosque, Jewish synagogue, Buddhist temple, and Hindu shrine.”  I am admittedly obsessed with learning and immersing myself in cultural (albeit sometimes uncomfortable) rituals of different countries, religions, and races.  A profound sense of unity and self-awareness is found when I do.  Humans are all the same. 

Yes, we are all the same.

A Dictionary Reborn

I want to make up words. 

Make up a praiseworthy word that has the robust decree of “HALLELUJAH!!” at a Baptist service,

Invent a word that has the uncomplicated innocence of a precious newborn’s first delectable coo.

A novel term that can abundantly express the untouched purity of the season’s first white snowfall that so regally resembles the distant and secluded Arctic tundra.

A word that can adequately illustrate the power and strength of the trusses and columns that support the wonder of the Brooklyn Bridge – boldly standing after more than a century of wear.

Create a new masterpiece with a word that will encompass the tranquility and serenity of the calming yet authoritative waves that crash into the sandy earth on every jagged shoreline obediently following its composer’s rhythmic instruction in deference.   

Design new and innovative choreography with my words to express that distinctive moment where you accomplish your seemingly impossible goals through the sacred grace of God and your untiring determination.

A word that embodies the unyielding hope in a mother’s tired eyes for her undeserving children and personifies the grandiose nature of her persistence and will.

I wish I could rip the pages out of Merriam-Webster and fill the emptiness of the blank bindings with all of these words for you.

A fresh and contemporary language that would be our own and that would demonstrate the vast and cosmic nature of my deep trenched thoughts towards you.

Untainted by man’s feeble interpretations and understood only in those silent and golden ephemeral moments when you so softly dole out cosquillas.

Words that have a magnificence that uplifts, and supports.

Words that demand attention and power.

Words that express pure admiration and adoration – the kind that soothes, comforts, and relaxes.

And most of all, words that exercise and challenge the boundaries of love. 

Words that hold more mass than Atlas’s shoulders,

Words that carry the influence and impact of Jesus’s death and resurrection,

And words that will be as emotional and immortalized as your wedding day pictures.

I would move the tectonic plates on earth for you, mami.

I just wish this confined language had the abundance of words – even just one solitary comprehensive word – to satisfactorily display the profound reverence, tenderness, and momentous regard I have for you.

For now there is only one expression in this language, and though I use it often, its nucleus of influence is filled to the brim with protons and neutrons weighing it down with significance and conviction.

The command of this phrase has conquered the levies that constrain them to three words on this page.

They have surpassed limitations and though I cannot rescript the languages of this earth and conceive a brilliant modern way to say it,

In their inadequacy, these words are all that I humbly have. 

I love you, mami. 

I love you.

Here Comes the Feeling You Thought You’d Forgotten…

The synchronized rhythms of the drums, guitars, and piano fill the room.
With a well-tuned ear, they synthesize into a harmonious beat.
A DJ’s work is never done synchronizing, sequencing, amplifying, and mixing.
Playback, rewind, copy, and paste.  Repeat.
As one frequency crossfades into the next, the mastermind is already tuned into his next stroke, next move, and next effect.
The amalgamation of calculated measures and patterns entices the crowd and keeps them electrified for what might come next.
But what of the man behind the headphones so diligently scratching his turntable?
As I watch his movements and study his performance, the man is immersed in his element;
An element that allows him to release, express, and entertain.
He melodiously taps his left foot to the beat, 
His right ear shielded by the headphones that play his next tune, the left ear tuned into the current track.
Eyes fixated on the laptop that carries the hours of music, occasionally glancing down to the table to compose his next meter.
He is born with a God given gift for music and I find this man even more confident, mature, and attractive when he is “in the zone.”
He looks back and says to me, “Are you bored?”
The question takes me aback as I quickly dismiss his query.  
“Bored” is the last word that comes to mind.  
Enthralled, captivated, and transfixed are more in line with my thoughts at the moment.
A very familiar feeling has arisen from my being this last month.  
A feeling that I am attempting to quell, to quiet, and subdue, but one that continues to submerge every time I think of him and one that continues to grow with every passing day.
Sharing his music – his most intimate dreams, passions, and goals – reminded me of that feeling I’d thought I once forgotten.
There is nothing like seeing the man in your life succeed, progress, and fulfill the desires of his heart that Christ has placed there.
I believe in him.  I know his musical success is at the tips of his fingertips. 
But while God works out the path, timeline, and the series of events to lead him to his victory,
I am immersing myself in this overpowering, overwhelming, and magnificent emotion over and over again.
I hope to capture its heavenly harmonies and revel in its exquisiteness.  
Play it back, rewind, copy, and paste.  
Repeat forever.