That the Sound of His Voice May Always Bring me Joy...

During a rare lunch away from my workplace yesterday and out with The People, I overheard these words from an exhausted-sounding Mom, to one of her two young boys: "Stop talking!"

It caught my ear, mostly because to me (the mom who was not the one at her wits' end), it sounded harsh. I've heard pleas to stop screaming, stop whining, stop hitting or running or bullying. Talking was an offense that seemed not-so-offensive.

Then I realized this must be a Mom who is around her kids a lot...a LOT a lot. This must be a Mom who could actually use a break.

Two of my best girlfriends and I have been having an ongoing discussion about motherhood (and religion and current events and sexuality and family...) over an app called Voxer for a few months now. Recently, we were talking about this very parenting question: how much time is the EXACT right amount of time to spend with your kids so that everybody is happy?

Hint: that is a question with no answer.

The reason there is no right answer is that it never comes down to the amount of time a Mom has with her child(ren); it has more to do with what happens during the time she has.

One of my girlfriends works many hours a week teaching at a university, many more hours grading papers, and many more hours driving to and from school and to her parents' house to transport her young daughters for childcare. She doesn't feel like the time she has left with her kids is quality time.

The other girlfriend is home all day with three children--an infant, a toddler, and a fifth grader whom she home-schools. She feels like so MUCH of her time is spent directly caring for, preparing food for, cleaning up after, disciplining and teaching her children, her time is also not of the quality she would like.

They are at opposite ends of the spectrum, but they are left with similar feelings.

The time I am able to spend with my son is dictated both by a shared custody schedule and my job (which has asked a lot of extra time of me the past 6 weeks, with two out of three employees in my position out until mid-March). Whatever the amount of time I am able to spend with him--it never feels like enough. And it definitely doesn't feel like enough of the kind of quality time I'd like: the time to take him on frequent outings, to play in the sun and at the playground and with friends; time to visit children's museums and the beach. It's not that we don't have any time for these things. I just want more of it.

But there are a million things I would like to have in an ideal world.

I caught a bit of an Oprah interview the other day with Nate Berkus...I don't know much about him except that he's a designer with his own show and multiple lines of interior design products. Anyway he was talking about losing his boyfriend to the Tsunami of 2004, when the two were on vacation in Sri Lanka. He talked about the difficulty in moving past that loss and coming to terms with your life where it is, as opposed to where you thought it would be.

I realized I have a lot of work to do in that area. Gratitude comes *somewhat* naturally to me, and I try to make up for what doesn't come naturally by making the conscious effort to appreciate. But I see now that I am still missing the joy of the moment every time my mind wanders to the things I don't have--namely, enough time with my baby.

I know that every day that passes in which I have yet to accept my life exactly where it is, I am keeping myself from moving forward. I see that it would be easy to spend 18 years wishing things were different and that I could have enough time with my son to be annoyed by his simply talking, like that mom at lunch yesterday.

And that would be a grave disservice to us both.

It is clear that no parent feels his or her situation is perfect, regardless of whether or not we feel we have control over it. But I also know that every effort I can make to accept the amount of time I have with my son, love and bless my life for every moment I've been gifted--in or out of his presence, and keep mindfully aware of the joy of every single chance I have to love him...well all of those efforts will be rewarded.

My son will feel my appreciation for our lives and know that I love him for exactly what he is to me in the here and now--not what he could be in some idyllic version of things. 

Hopefully, he will learn by example that his level of happiness is a direct result of what percentage of his being has made the true and concerted choice to be happy with the life he has, even as he is free to make all the changes within his power to make it better, if that's what he wants.

I thought I'd done a lot of soul searching over the past few years. Well, I have. But I see now that I've hardly scratched the surface. On this cold, rainy winter day just perfect for my contemplative mood, I send out a prayer--to whom or what I'm not sure. It's a prayer for wisdom and clarity, and for the means to find the kind of peace that comes from true acceptance and happiness, in parenthood and all areas of life...

The Depth of "Water"

My son and I have a few bedtime rituals. Some come and go as his interests in different things wax and wane. For months he wanted to watch YouTube song videos on my phone; now he hardly mentions it. Recently he's begun asking me to make up stories. 

Always, always, he wants to "talk a little bit."

Sometimes I ask him questions about his day during this time. If I'd been working that day, I may ask him what he did with his Nana. If we were together, I'd ask him what his favorite part of the day was.

Recently, as his cognitive abilities expand and he begins to spend more time in what could be called bona fide contemplation, we've begun to delve into more complex concepts.

The other day, I decided to explain to him the meaning of "grateful." From time to time I keep a gratitude journal, and that evening I'd been feeling particularly thankful. I want to instill this idea in him while he's young: the idea that it's good, meaningful practice to focus on the things in his life worthy of gratitude.

I told him that when you're grateful for something, you are happy about it. If it's a thing, you're glad you have it. If it's something you do, you're happy you get to do it.

The first night I asked him what he was grateful for, he said he was grateful for hugs, for giving hugs. (Yes!)

The second night, he said he was grateful "to have drinks of water."

Water!

I smiled out loud initially. But the following morning it occurred to me just how profound his choice was. I recalled the conversation and told him he was right to be grateful for water. I asked him whether or not he knew there were people--even kids!--in parts of this world who don't even have clean water to drink.

"They have dirty water?!" he asked.

"Yes."

I explained how they don't have water to wash their clothes or water plants. He said, "or to take a bath?!"

"Right."

***

I admit freely that there are times in my life when I find it very difficult to focus on the positive. I worry about money, about the future, about Kalil's upbringing. I bemoan certain of my past life choices and find myself making fantastical wishes about things I think would make all or some of the worry go away.

And then something like the other night happens to put it all into perspective. My son gives thanks for one of life's most basic, most staple (and thereby precious, even in all its mundaness) offerings. And I am reminded that my life is more beautiful than I have ever been able to fully comprehend.

My son is alive. We are both in good health.

We have water to drink. Food to eat.

We have love.

It's very possible I will write a similarly themed, "revelatory" blog a hundred more times in my lifetime--the blog wherein I detail what happened that week to make me remember that life is good and that, in every moment, I have more to be thankful for than can be cancelled out by life's occasional struggles. The lesson will never be trite in my mind. The remembering will never be less crucial or well-timed. My desire to share it will never diminish.

I hope that all who are reading this have something profound--or profoundly mundane--to focus upon and be grateful for.


And by the way, Happy Valentine's Day. May you always be surrounded, swathed, silly in love.

The Day (they wished) the Music Died

I'm pretty sure that if past lives are really a thing, I lived one as a Malian. Taste in music is probably not the proper way to make such sweeping declarations, but if it were...

As I begin to write this, I'm sitting in a bagel shop with one browser opened to YouTube, listening to the music in this video of Rokia Traore:

Go ahead, click on it and listen. Take a little journey with me.

Or try this one. You will have no idea what she is singing about. You may cry anyway:

I was first exposed to Rokia Traore about 10 years ago, when I was looking for some new music in the way that people USED to look for new music, the days before YouTube and Pandora and so many other wonderful means. I just grabbed a few CDs (CDs, hah!) from the world music section at the library and took them home to have a listen.

A few months before or after that, I was exploring new music in the OTHER way that people used to do so: the listening stations at Borders. It was there that I came across, and took home with me, a CD of the album Moffou by Salif Keita. No, I don't know what he's singing about, but just listen to this. I can scarcely think of a song I've found more beautiful or touching.

Or this one:

A couple of years ago, my brother shared with me and album called Amassakoul by the
Tuareg (nomadic people of northern Africa) group Tinariwen. Somebody somewhere along the way plugged these guys in, and the resulting, rough amp sound makes my soul sing:

All of these artists are from Mali, which makes me think I need to go there. In fact, I'd planned on it. The annual Festival au Desert, in the southern Sahara, which you have to travel by caravan to attend and where these and other similar artists play, has long been on my bucket list.

Except for this...

A few weeks back I was listening to a radio program called The World, when I heard a disheartening story.  In case you've more pressing things to do than follow that link, the headline of the story is "Music in Northern Mali is Silenced by Islamic Extremists."

It's what it sounds like. Extremists from a group called Movement for Oneness and Jihad (MOJWA) working to enforce Sharia law in Northern Mali have imprisoned local musicians, breaking instruments and punishing by force those caught listening to or creating music. That festival in the desert? Canceled.

Typing those last words while listening to Salif Keita's song "Yamore" has brought tears to my eyes.

Mali's musical contributions have not been quietly coasting under the radar. Mali is recognized by many as having an especially rich musical legacy (especially when considering the number of artists whose reach has spanned the world, relative to its population). That any single person--let alone an entire group of people--would want to silence that haunting and wonderful sound is almost beyond comprehension.

The story I heard on the radio mentioned that under MOJWA's interpretation of Sharia law, only the singing of Quranic verses is permitted. I referred to what appears to be the go-to internet source for answering all Islamic questions WikiIslam (yes, it's a thing, and it looks uncannily similar to Wikipedia, undoubtedly regarded as evil by virtue of its Western-ness, according to Sharia law. But I digress), to find out whether that was true. According to WikiIslam,

Music, and some other forms of art (including Tattooing),^[81] under Islamic law are forbidden. Western music^[82] and movies In particular, have been declared as corruptive influences by Islamic clerics. The vast majority^[83] of Islamic scholars and all four schools of Islamic jurisprudence^[84] are in agreement that listening to, or playing musical instruments, and singing is forbidden

Take heart, though. There is good news. Again, from WikiIslam:

The only exception to this rule which can be extracted from the hadith is the permissibility of singing acapella accompanied by a duff (a hand-held one-sided drum) on special occasions (i.e. on weddings, Eid, during jihad etc.)^[85] This form of song is referred to as a Nasheed (نشيد), and the striking of the duff is permitted for women only^[86] and must not be done in the presense of men

Nothing says musical celebration like the twice-yearly striking of a one-sided drum.

You know what? Sarcasm aside, the striking of a one-sided drum by women singing A capella is a beautiful thing. I've been witness to it at a couple of Mendhi ceremonies.

It is a beautiful tradition, but it is not enough.

During the month I spent in Pakistan back in 2006, I wondered at the lack of music in the country. 

Music, dancing, are releases, outlets for joy. And while some people were privately listening to music on their computers at home, secretly engaging in guilty pleasure of watching Bollywood movies (replete with high-energy, highly sexualized musical dance numbers), there was definitely a sense that the public appreciation of music was a big, big no-no. And Pakistan isn't even under Sharia law. Not most of it anyway.

Ali Farka Toure

How can the people of a country like Mali, formerly able to dance freely to the likes of Ali Farka Toure, be expected to sit still now? How can anybody believe they will be the better for it?

Simply, I think.

Religions, no matter what book they have been founded upon, are owned and operated by their believers. Their believers are humans. Humans crave and enjoy power. Power is maintained through population control. Population control and art do not belong in the same sentence except as a means to point out the deep contrast between them. (That is, unless the art is being mass-produced and fed to people by their controllers.)

Music is an art that represents unbridled possibility. Untold potential loss of control. Of course it does. I've felt it myself while dancing. When the music slowly, unrelentingly seeps into my soul and drives my movement, when my hair becomes damp with sweat and I have finally forgotten, or ceased to care that anybody else is present, when for those suspended moments I begin to believe that truly anything is within reach, or will be soon--those moments are the best kind of scary.

Unless you're trying to control a population. Unless the thought of a woman bringing men to tears (for example) using nothing more than her voice is so threatening, you are willing to devote all your resources and risk your life to put an end to it. Unless you feel the relevance of your religion's most conservative interpretations, of your bully tactics, of your facade of wisdom and power beginning to slip away. Unless you are a young man in a world whose women are finally, finally beginning to know and understand and use their power--then it's the worst kind of scary. And like something out of your worst nightmares, your cowardice begins to show.

But this is only partially about women. The news story mentioned only one woman artist who has been forced to live exiled in a small room so the extremists can ensure she is not secretly enjoying life through music. Many men have lost out as well through this silencing. But these are men who surely, through the force and provocation of music alone, must have by now become aware that the world is changing.

These men and these women understand that you can force people to stop listening to and making music, but you can't make them forget its existence. You can silence people's radios, their instruments and their voices, but you can't make silent their desire for what music brings them: the joy, even the sorrow.

The people of Mali will always remember that there are multitudes of things, of concepts, of people, of states of mind in this lifetime worthy of praise, apart from God. And there are bodily expressions, apart from prostration, to show the full gamut of human emotions.

To the members of the Movement for Oneness and Jihad, I say good luck. Perhaps if you'd really been listening, you'd know that the music of Mali holds more power than you could ever dream of containing.