MOTHER AND CHILD // DANA AL RASHID

-1-

The mother gives birth to her beautiful child. She already loves and knows it very well, for not too long ago, they were one. As it is helpless and vulnerable, she devotes the whole lot of her time in caring for it in its first few years. It becomes the source of her happiness, and “occasional” pain, exactly the way she becomes to it. She loves her dear child so much that she wants to protect it from this cold harsh world, back into her womb, but she knows better. The child makes silly mistakes out of impulse, but mother knows that it is still a child, who needs patience and tolerance to grow lovingly.

-2-

The child grows into youth, and yearns to experience life through its natural way of trial and error. Mother knows best, and so she warns and advises him about the dangers of the outside world. Youth feels controlled and smothered. He is no longer a child, and he is able to think and decide for himself. However, he is still making silly mistakes out of impulse and naivety. And so, he sets out to experience the world, mother knows best, and so she lets him go, even though it is very painful. She knows that if she shelters him -out of love- he will not grow, and he will grow resentful of her. She is hurt that he didn’t listen to her, despite all the years of continuous love and care she gave, but she knows better. She knows that her love is unconditional, and so she cannot own him, nor can she expect him to be as she pleases as an exchange for her love. She also knows that in order to grow, hearts must be split wide open with the axe of life. Or is it the harvesting sickle of death?

-3-

The youth sets out in his adventures; some are filled with success, which make him happy and proud. Others, not so much. His heart breaks, and part of him dies, he remembers his mother’s advice. He is in great pain that he has no experience in dealing with, for he, like Persephone, has been raped by life.

He realizes that the things and people he once wanted and chased so much were not as reliable or beautiful as they seemed in his eyes, in fact, they were hurtful and sinister. And so, he goes back to his mother to be soothed, completing a full cycle and becoming one with her once again. The mother welcomes him with arms wide open. She is forgiving beyond her rage that he left her, for she knew this day would come.

He is not remorseful for his experience, for he sees many of his peers still tied to their mothers by the umbilical cord well into adulthood, embittered yet too bound and comfortable to grow up.

-4-

Both mother and -former- child learn a great deal from this experience. Mother learns to let go without expectation, and to polish her love to be as unconditional as it can be. In releasing, her son was growing to come back to her with more riches. In her solitude, she learnt to channel her creative gifts in different and productive ways, rather than having her life revolve around another person, no matter how dear.

Youth learns to deeply appreciate the reliable and loving anchor that his mother is. He realizes that there is wisdom in her advice, and perhaps he shouldn’t act on impulse all the time to save himself some pain, because things are not what they seem, especially to young eyes. He learns to give back love and care to her out of gratitude, not guilt. For we see all too many mothers emotionally blackmailing their children into doing as they please, and children either serve long years with resentment, or backfire into ruthlessness and never coming back. They can “leave” mentally even if they are in the same house.

The youth once again sets out into his adventures, but this time with much greater insight from both parties, into an upward spiral of development. In fact, there are two adventures, that of the youth (exterior masculine) and that of the mother (internal feminine), but we often overlook the roots which keep the tree alive.

-End-

Mother and child is the first and most intimate relationship humans -amongst other creatures- experience. It is of extreme importance because our survival was once entirely dependent on the mother. The bond of mother and child is so sacred there’s an entire religion that revolves around it! And so, it shapes the face of our future relationships and more; it shapes our psyche. We duplicate this very relationship pattern in our friendships, love interests and marriage, especially if not aware.

After reading the little eternal tale above, ask yourself which role you normally play; are you usually mother or child? of course, We may switch from mother to child in our relationships,but there’s usually a dominant role we like to take. Patterns you have learnt from your own personal mother-child tale will inevitably show up, but it makes a world of difference to be aware and know where they came from.

It’s also worth mentioning that mother and child is another module or name -if you may call it- for the yin and yang duality. Therefore, within each mother is her child, and within each child is his mother.

This is the tale of all tales, and not only does it symbolize our relationship patterns. On a wider spectrum, it symbolizes our journey from life to death, with all of our little adventures unfolding  within.

MUSINGS // MAGDA MAGDY

Ever think how the vastness of the universe is just a reflection of your soul? barren and desolate.

1. // NADA J

The day I confessed I was starting to fall in love with you, you shook your head, and said “repent, repent.” And I did, coming back the next day, with my hands tied behind my back, my eyes red, my wings withered and bruised. But with you, it was always the same. You said you can’t fall in love with a sinner, not this time. I said I won’t sin, not ever again.

And my Dear, if you’re listening now, please understand it’s not easy. I will repent, but I'm not promising you I’m coming back anew.

GRACE // KIKI

He held himself with grace that made it seem like the entire world was his entitlement. He walked with such certainty, taking deliberate steps. Tilting his head to one side as he did things, making it seem that it was so easy to live; that it was so easy to be him.

He spoke in a tone that made me want to fall apart. To stand there, stripped of all my walls and facades– strength, independence, success – he spoke and I wanted to be little. He spoke, and I wanted to be small, I wanted to be comfortable in the small space I occupy, in my mumbles and incoherent thoughts. He spoke and I wanted to cry, not minding the whole world watching. He spoke and the world stopped whatever it was keeping itself busy with, its false sense of grandeur, until he was done vocalizing a carefully processed thought.

All done in but a moment, but to me, the world really does stop.

My false sense of control, of knowledge, of having it all figured out. All it takes is one word. I want to touch his skin, and maybe in doing that, I will understand. I own nothing but my senses. I won nothing but the awareness of my true self in his presence. For the first time, I don’t feel like I want to own that person, to control that person, and it’s not because I know of my inability to do so. I don’t want to.

Free spirits are in fact not free; they are confined by their own thirst for freedom. They strive for it, fight for it… the very thought of being stripped of it utterly frightens them. Fear eats away at your poise, and who am I to do that?

Who are you to expect things of such a being– enlightened, illuminated.  Who are you to limit such an existence? 

RED AND TWO MOMENTS OF OCEAN // FARIDA EZZAT

He says this is a true story and that he remembers everything.
 
Her True Story:

She was bleeding in his arms. She was bleeding and they were red. She cried and he sat there helpless; paralyzed.

“You are beautiful and I may not love you but you are here and will always be.”

“You’re going now?”

She couldn’t reply, her blood a sea drowning all realities and words and feelings. But she uttered at the end: “Yes, and I will be waiting for you.”

She departed. His tears permeated her blood and the ocean of something they didn’t know overflowed and it was not a tragedy.

He embraced her body and her red wings. She was not there.
 
He says this is a true story and that he remembers everything. He still lives by the red ocean and wonders if red skies ever dance.
 

NEW STITCHES // DONIA ELMAGHRABI

I can almost see it. 

You’re staying in bed, somebody let you down again. The world seems far too big, far too cruel, and you ache in places you never even knew existed. It aches to remember, it aches to breathe. 

You think of yourself as spoiling fruit, too ugly to even be seen in white light. You hide underneath the covers, chasing the shadows of people who didn’t have the heart to love you anymore. You lose yourself somewhere in the middle of the chaos in your head, your hands burning from all the scratching at the edges and the clawing at the walls. Your feet are tired from spending so much time running away from them when you always end up running into their open arms. 

Your voice is a drowning siren, I can see your rage turning red. I can see the coldness biting deep into your chest, I can see you trying to think of anything else but the way you feel. 

Counting the shapeless figures on the ceiling. Pushing the earphones a little closer. Making the music go louder and the car speed faster. Letting the numbness take over. But still, you remember every nuance of every word of every time. You measure time in bursts of clarity that come way too scarcely. You measure it in whispers, in words, in the distance between two sounds. It stretches, and it shrinks, and it takes you back to places that make it harder to want to wake up in the morning. 

But let me tell you just this: I’m here now. I’m braver than your loneliness, and I’m stronger than the tides that pull at your heart.

We can jump off buildings together and turn into soaring birds on our way down. I will make you so full of light, you would forget where you buried your darkness. I will love you so hard, it will feel like anchors opening up our hearts from the inside out, and I wouldn’t mind. I’ll tear your old self from its chains and hinges, and I will love you all the way into finding a brand new heart. 

I will teach you never to hold your breath unless you plan on letting it out, and how there always is the good kind of breathless. I will teach you that it’s okay if someone you love undid your veins with a seam ripper or took a blade to your almost-but-never-quite-healed wounds, I’ll have the patience to stitch them back up no matter how tired I get of holding the needles. I will be new stitches to all of your old wounds. 

You know I’m not the “hold your hands when they’re quivering kind of person”, and I’m not the “let you cry on my shoulders” one either. But I could try to be the person who makes you laugh so hard, you hardly remember the tears striking your cheeks. I can be the person who makes you forget to remember that you’re still hurting. 

I’ll be your armor, if they come with their hurtful words and their chainsaw memories to get you, they’ll have to cut me down too before they get anywhere near you. It will ache anyway. I know that. But if the aches turn into open cuts and broken bones, I will heal you. 

So let the noose of rope find its way around your neck, let the concrete ground embrace your falling body, let the venom course through your blood and the razors cut into your skin. 
I will save you every time.

UNTITLED // AHMED SHERIF

You put it in your mouth and you light it up. It burns. And you burn.

You inhale it devouringly. You feel the nicotine infiltrating your bloodstream and you feel your hunger for it getting satisfied. You feel the smoke filling up your lungs, and you hold it inside for a while so your demons can take their share too. They like it. It keeps them still and it keeps them quiet. They asked you to do it more often last time you sat together and talked, last time you were bargaining for your sanity.

Enough, you decide.

You exhale, feeling every ounce of pain, every burden, every shred of insanity and every horrid creature inside you blending with the smoke and escaping with it. Reposefulness. But it’s an illusion; an illusion of momentary salvation you’re addicted to. What’s inside of you remains inside of you. The smoke particles diffuse through the air forming a hazy painting composed of faces; faces of people you miss and faces of people you would like to meet, faces that taunt you and faces that beckon to you in vain. You see your madness manifested in a puff of smoke.

You smoked too much, your body is numbing and you can’t feel your limbs. You don’t care, because what good are your limbs if not for entwining with theirs?

You light another one.