Irvin Yalom is an existential psychotherapist. He teaches that the amount of one’s death anxiety correlates with the amount of unlived life.
Can you live with integrity? in a way, that is aligned with your deepest beliefs and values?
Can you always make sure that the most important thing is in fact “the most important thing”?
Can you keep your eyes on the prize?
If you can, then you have a chance that when death comes, you might be able to say: Huh. So, this is the it. So be it. There’s not much I’d change about how I lived my life anyway, and not much I’d change about the rest of my days either.
And that, my friends, would be an amazing way to go.
Category: heartbreak
Home
where is home?
is home where you were born?
is it where you wish to die?
is it where you wish to live in between?
is it where you find yourself?
is it the one you love?
is home something you carry with you in your soul?
is it all of these things?
what if these things are scattered all over the earth..and buried under it?
Someone once said to me: once you’ve crossed the ocean, you feel you’re always on the wrong side..
I’ve published these poems about leaving Montreal, which is a home
https://hatsorveils.com/2016/11/20/freefall/
https://hatsorveils.com/2016/10/25/last-snow/
and here is a poem about going back home..home-home
They’re contradictory, but true
As I step off the plane
I let out a breath
one I didn’t know I was holding
Though it’s all beige and bland
with some sea and sand
To my sore eyes
it’s a sight to be-holding (close)
I feel safe despite wars
And breakneck speed cars
I feel fair cloaked in my abaya*
Best of all I blend in
And completely fit in
No longer …a pariah
- Abaya: long black cloak worn by women in Saudi, over their clothes
- Finding Your Place
image:https://www.google.ca/search?q=abaya+in+desert&safe=active&espv=2&biw=1534&bih=837&tbm=isch&imgil=UqzXbGT7hIVkvM%253A%253BkL1Blt0RpFKpaM%253Bhttps%25253A%25252F%25252Fwww.tussah.ae%25252Fproducts%25252Fdesert-butterfly-abaya&source=iu&pf=m&fir=UqzXbGT7hIVkvM%253A%252CkL1Blt0RpFKpaM%252C_&usg=__PVDDLVkvCJtsr7E1aDsn5-iqVes%3D&ved=0ahUKEwiWl87l6PvQAhVi34MKHWHlA7YQyjcIJQ&ei=tX5VWNboOOK-jwThyo-wCw#q=abaya+in+desert&safe=active&tbm=isch&tbs=rimg:CX_1do3e6ZoPGIjh46KSYdJK1fbShL8MDSyKP_1-Iv_17sr8gah-r1k8MihRdk6uOEPpdo1VaI-Rmd6t0ZZGmB4Sl03PSoSCXjopJh0krV9EX2LeHl6TyHFKhIJtKEvwwNLIo8RuLx8mCmKyxEqEgn_14i_1_1uyvyBhELbNN6vIzSjSoSCaH6vWTwyKFFEbNk1OMbfynwKhIJ2Tq44Q-l2jURb44ul_1-WoIcqEglVoj5GZ3q3RhGt-igEnioMsioSCVkaYHhKXTc9ETFWDkZT6_1a9&imgrc=f92jd7pmg8bkCM%3A
Paralysis
This will be clumsy, stilted, contradictory
It’s a reflection of how I feel
It’s my best
I have not been able to write for a few days..or enjoy eating, or sleep well
How dare I, when people are being massacred in Aleppo?
I know that my sleepless nights, my fasting, my paralysis does nothing to help them
but how dare I live as if nothing is happening?
how dare I write about anything else?
but how dare I write about it?
what do I know about it? about their suffering?
I feel Iike I’d deserve it if they spat in my face.
I’m not writing about Aleppo
It’s too huge, anything I say is inadequate, disrespectful
I’m writing about my paralysis
But how dare I?
How selfish to think about myself and write about my own misery?
Maybe it will mobilize me to do something useful..but what? Maybe it will touch other paralyzed souls.
I’m sorry for this disjointed incoherent message
It’s my internal dialogue, spilling over onto the screen
It’s the vicious cycle that has been my home this week..no its been my home for a long time, but like a chronic disease, like a volcano.. it flares up and goes dormant. It is the same disease, though it has many faces: Syria, Palestine, Egypt, Iraq, Afghanistan, Bosnia.. It has other faces, of other countries I’m guilty of not knowing enough about.…it may be my own country one day. It feels like all these countries are my own..but how dare I say that..from the comfort of my heated home, from beneath the warm covers of my cosy bed. This waxing and waning disease that paralyzes me has been my home since the Gulf war at least. I was in second grade then. I know that I know nothing of real war. I only got a whiff of its smoke, inhaled -moreover -through the privilidged filter of a gas-mask, something the less fortunate did not have. We heard of war, but we only heard the sirens -not the bombs.. well, not that I can remember.
My paralysis..It flares up when reality seeps through the barriers I build
I know, how dare I build barriers to protect myself when others suffer? -Guilty
My paralyzed state goes into remission when- in exhaustion, I retreat, and bury my head in the sand-Guilty again
My inaction is not born out of no action
It is the result of actions so strong-so strongly pulling me in opposite directions
It tears me apart
fight -flight
give to charity- but whats the point?
anger -shame
they should- we should
speak- but what is there to say?!
spread the word, the images, the videos- but doesn’t that feed into the collective sense of despair and hopelessness..and more paralysis
How can I be hopeless?
but how dare I say: everything is going to be ok
what do I know?
even if I believe the most terrible things happen for a reason
Can I say that to those over there? who may have lost all faith
Would I lose faith if I lost everything?
I don’t know..
All I know is that an image of child in the rubble..is an image of my child dead
And a video of a girl hugging her doll, or asking where her father is..is a video of my child too
But it’s not
so how dare I say that?
Guilty
Guilty
Guilty
Paralysis
My father and the sea
It’s such a gift to form a new image, or pretend to have a new memory of a loved one after they die.
*****
30 years ago
My father stood alone
Gazing out at the sea
And someone wrote this about his meeting with Princess Diana:
I would not have understood then, his charm, his diplomacy, his loyalty
what he was saying
I was only 2
******
25 years ago..
I stood with my father (well, he stood, and my feet dangled over the wall I was sitting on)
Gazing out at that same sea
“Baba, I’m bored, what should I do?”
“Do what you’re doing”
“What am I doing?”
“Looking out at the sea”
“That’s doing something?” I asked puzzled
“Sure it is”
I ignored him and decided to do something “productive” (yes, I’ve had this obsessive streak for quite a while)
I pulled out my book: Basil the Great Mouse Detective, see?
Again, I did not understand what he was trying to teach me, about life, about time, about “being” rather than “doing”
I was only 7
******
But I’m starting to get it now
Starting to gather all his pearls
Strung along the seashore of our past
Lessons I am understanding
Only in retrospect
As I walk in his footsteps
which have been washed away by the tides
I’m starting to get it now
Who he was:
Just a man
Trying his best
to be a husband and father
Probably making it up
as he went along
Definitely making mistakes
as he went along
Just like me
Just like all of us
******
My children don’t get it now
But I’m sure they will
25
…or maybe 30
long-short years from now
******
I miss him 💔 and would love to gaze out at the sea with him one more time,
doing nothing….doing everything that matters.
Wid Kattan
Reference:The Diana Chronicles, Tina brown, 2007, page 271
that moment..
I wish..
I could hover
In that moment
Before the break of dawn
Not in slumber
Yet not awake
On the tips
Of a feather’s swan
I wish..
I could glide
On that liminal space
To where you and I were drawn
To save just..
a moment
Of our love
:
:
Before it was all gone
Image: https://www.google.ca/search?q=swan&safe=active&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjqh4XMisjQAhVTziYKHQMGCj0Q_AUICCgB&biw=1459&bih=801#safe=active&tbm=isch&q=swan++art&imgrc=yXV8x-lp0PKNKM%3A
Freefall
It’s supposed to snow this week. I’ve been putting off this poem, but it’s time.
Winter’s coming.
I feel my heart fall
as the leaves fall
in my last fall
in Montreal
I feel my heart break
It’s so high stakes
wish time would slow
To a crawl
It’s my last shot
In the pool game
It’s the black one
Eight- ball
But I’m going home
To remake a home
I won’t be alone
After all
Still it’s so unknown
Though it’s called my own
Have faith, close your eyes
freefa
a
a
a
a
a
a
a
a
.
.
.
Wid Kattan
8 sketches, 8 hats
My home page as you can see in this link shows the many hats I wear. There are many facets to me, and to you and you and you. When our similar facets face each other, light is reflected back, we recognize our common human-ness. Stereotypes and racism no longer makes sense, because we are too complex, and too similar. If you see me as a human being, as a mother, as a professional, as an artist, it’s hard to fixate on that one facet that may disturb you: my religion or colour or race or name.
I think the whole idea behind my blog is to relate to people. To help you see behind the hats or veils I and you and you and you wear. To help us see each other. In today’s world, this one thing, this capacity to see each other may be the only thing that can save us.
Read more in the About me/us page
How dare you
Today is the international day for the elimination of violence against women.This is the voice I wish women could find in themselves.
I find it shocking that anyone could harm a woman at all, let alone a pregnant woman. Is there anything more sacred than a pregnant woman?
yet shockingly, the number one cause of death for pregnant women, at least in one study, was violence! See below
How dare you
Raise your hand to me
How dare you
Touch a hair
On my coiffed head!
my hairdo!
Do you think
That I am scared?
You say
You didn’t mean it
You say it
Like I care
The first time
Is the hardest
So you’ll surely
again dare
You lost me
Before it landed
Your fist
still in mid-air
You touched me once
That was our end
Touch me again
You’ll end I swear
And do you know how much I paid to get my hair done?
Stupid bully💪🏻
Study: http://www.webmd.com/baby/news/20010320/number-1-cause-of-death-in-pregnant-women-murder
If the world had your Heart, Abdul
If the world..
had your heart, Abdul
What a place it would be..
So cool
You, who cried..
When you knew,
The Tasmanian Tiger
Was extinct before you..
Before you were ever born
But you cried for it
Soaked your pillow
“Why? Why did they kill them all?
They weren’t dangerous! They didn’t do anything!”
You who asked me once
With your hands on your shaking head
“How do people do this?
How do you steal something?
How do you kill someone?
How?!”
You who wave at strangers and say
“See Mama,
It’s a game ..
you wave and see who waves back”
And people always wave back to you, my love
If only the world had you heart, Abdul
What a place it would be
:
Paradise
Note:
The Tasmanian Tiger is believed to have been hunted to extinction in the 20th century. There is actually a video of the last one known to survive, in the 20s I believe. Despite its official classification as extinct, sightings are still reported, though none has been conclusively proven.
It was a relatively shy, nocturnal creature, but a formidable predator. It was one of the rare marsupials where both the male and the female have a pouch that can protect the young.
Such a beautiful animal, so like you; merciful, shy, rare, caring-for-the-young Abdulrahman (which in Arabic means servant of the All-Merciful ).
Maybe you’ll be the one to discover there are still some Tasmanian Tigers left. Maybe you’ll be the one to capture them on camera when you grow up to be a wild life photographer, like you say you want to be.
There is always hope. As long as there are hearts like yours Abdul, there is always hope.
Painting above retrieved from: the depths of my heart.
Poem and image published with the permission of : Abdulranman, 9
Not an “other”
You would never have shot me
Or beaten me to the ground
If you knew me
If you knew me,
You’d never have been angry or afraid
If you knew me
You’d have loved me
You’d have shed more tears for me
than this blood on your hands
I think you know it
Yet can’t bare to know it
So you avoid my gaze
As the life leaves me body
You may look at me
But you don’t see me
If you saw me,
You’d have seen yourself
Not another
Not an “other”
In February 2015, 3 Muslim students were shot in the head in their apartments. Days ago, a 24-year-old Saudi student was beaten to death by a stranger- who used his fists as bludgeons- outside a pizza shop.
I just don’t know what to say, except: Don’t shoot! It’s me! It’s you..
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3893942/University-Wisconsin-student-24-Saudi-Arabia-beaten-death-outside-pizza-shop-6ft-white-man-violent-hate-crime.html
Bludgeon