i think books are important and i write... but in my own language... arabic

Yesterday I was distraught. Today I am grounded and at peace. Yesterday the angers and darkness that always live within punched their way through my equanimity and snarled at life in general and those I cherish in particular. I hate when they escape. Today, I gave thanks to God that once again they made their appearance known both because they bring me back to quiet prayer and because in my frustration and humiliation they push me towards centering my heart again in grace.

I just returned from getting my second COVID vaccination - round two of the Pfizer shot - and I am full to overflowing with gratitude. After the inoculation, the dark haired, dark eyed female technician leaned over her desk to see the title of the book I brought for waiting: Henri Nouwen's Sabbatical Journey: the Diary of his Final Year. "What is this book about?" she asked with a slight accent I couldn't place. "It's about a priest's sabbatical." When she looked puzzled above her mask, I asked, "Do you know that word? Sabbatical?" She shook her head gently. "Well, it is a time of extended rest that takes place in some academic communities - a quiet time away from work mostly for writing - but religious institutions often share a sabbatical rest with their clergy, too." She nodded with interest. "Do you know what sabbath is?" Again, she said no. "Ah, ok" I smiled with my eyes and then with my words through my mask. "A sabbath is a break from work every seven days."

She paused and then said, "I like books very much and write a great deal, too. How do you select the books you read?" Not the conversation I expected. "Well, some I choose to give my brain a rest. Mostly mysteries for reading at night. Some I pick because I know the author's previous works and want to go deeper. And then there are the books I take home because I know nothing about the subject and want to learn more." She was smiling with her eyes. "I think books are so important. And I write - but in my own language." "And what might that be," I asked, "if you don't mind sharing?" "Arabic" she continued. "How interesting" I had to reply. "Earlier today I was reading the English poems of a Palestinian-American, Naomi Shihab-Nye, whose father was born in Palestine." We stumbled around saying her name and then I suggested we write it down. "Oh" she said with clarity, "Shihab. Does she write in Arabic?" I thought probably not but she often reflects on her Arab-American roots. I added, "This morning I read her words spoken to her father right after September 11th in something she calls '19 Varieties of Gazelle' that says something like...

“I call my father, we talk around the news

It is too much for him,

neither of his two languages can reach it.

I drive into the country to find sheep, cows,

to plead with the air:

Who calls anyone civilized?

Where can the crying heart graze?

What does a true Arab do now?”

A silent paused filled the inoculation room. A shared albeit sad smile, too. We wanted to go deeper. I wanted to learn how she came to be here in Pittsfield giving a mostly elderly Anglo population their vaccinations? Where was her home of origin? But there were five other people waiting just outside the exam room door. So, we both sighed at the same moment and she said, "It was grand and extraordinary speaking with you." Touching my right palm to my heart I added, "It was a blessing for me. Grace and peace and safety be with you." She smiled... and I left.

I sat in the car filled with light. What mysteries are just below the surface, yes? Another of Ms. Shihab Nye's poem came to mind.

“Please Describe How You Became A Writer”: “Possibly I began writing as a refuge from our insulting first-grade textbook. Come, Jane, come. Look, Dick, look. Were there ever duller people in the world? You had to tell them to look at things? Why weren’t they looking to begin with?”

I wonder what tomorrow has in store for us?