i'd like to go west,
where the boundaries of our past do not bind us,
where the wind takes us where it pleases, which is where we want to go

i lost my journal for the second time this year.

and despite my growing fears,
we are together

you were vulnerable to get in touch with me
and i was
to let you in.


we touched with water, pooling at each other's feet.
we swam, jets streaming in our faces, heat carried on our chests
does the magic hit you the way my heels hit the ground?

i ask more questions than i have time to scrounge for answers to

well. it touched me. Quoted from Liz's blog post:

In 2000, I accompanied my mother to Sarajevo to meet a family that she had been supporting and corresponding with since the war, through Women 4 Women International. This was soon after the war ended, and the region was still somewhat unstable. You can’t imagine the people in my life who begged me–begged me–not to go.

I haven’t written about it much publicly (although I did touch on it here) for reasons I can’t entirely grasp just yet. But it wholly changed the direction of my life. How can it not? I met families who became my family, like long-lost cousins I had just discovered.

I listened to women tell me, first-hand, stories of rape and abuse at the hands of Serbian soldiers.

I had toasted steins of pivo with friends, dancing wildly to turbofolk albums in bars that were entirely unremarkable–except for the bombed-out shells that passed for the front entrances.

I slept in the bed of an elderly, formerly wealthy woman who rented out her lovely apartment to visitors to be able to afford her rent. We discovered the next morning over strong coffee and sweet rolls that she had slept on the couch.

I graciously carved the small chicken at a family’s home, that was intended to serve 14 of us.

I picnicked in the most gorgeous park, which our friend had to scout for landmines before choosing a spot for our blanket.

I traded smiles with ten year-old children who had to re-learn how to run, that long had they spent in hiding underground.

I sobbed, as my friend Tima took my hand and held it to her throat so that I could feel the shrapnel that remained imbedded under her skin.

And then, I came home, continued doing what I could for these families emotionally and financially, wrote furiously in my journal about it, and hoped that some day I would find the right way to tell these women’s stories to a larger audience.

Then I went on with my life.

Is my experience one that should be dissected and mocked, simply because of who I am and where I live?

Was I simply a “poverty tourist?”

I guess I am one of those “means justifying the ends” types of gals. I don’t care how or why Madonna adopts children in other countries. I don’t care about Angelina’s motives for being a UNICEF ambassador. And I don’t care whether Nike donated $100 million to human rights charities for good publicity and the tax deduction.

These are the acts that make good things happen.

i'd like to study anatomy
where you are my textbook
and my canvas is your eyes

so what is this aesthetic?
the one that mocks our dream?

my beautiful friend and coworker Hend got married this past weekend. after a whirlwind of music (both latin and arabic) and words and dancing, i see the meaning of happiness left there standing with brilliance in the end.

we have come such a long way. 3 years ago we were writing our hopes and dreams on napkins and restaurants. and look at us now, just look how far we've come.

i did find your bed of anger
i slept it it with my face down against the pillows, rank with the smell of your fear
i made the bed of your anger, carefully sliding my hands across the sheets
and you were lying there, prostrate
and i find tears leftover where there should be none,
i drink water when we are no longer thirsty and when i am thirsty i find no drink

but today i see sunlight, and sunlight wipes this bed
clean with its fingers
reaching further than i could ever hope
and hoping deeper than i could ever reach

i am cradled
in the heat of the night time
your body emits air
and i breathe it in
i'm not sure where my heart wanders during our dreams
of floating and bathtubs and travels across couches
but in the morning it follows the hollow of your throat
back to your arms again.

i really like food way too much

sometimes i'm in yoga class, coming out of final savasana, and i'm turned on my right side towards the evening light streaming from the windows, and i just smile. it's like the molecules in the universe come in and you can't do anything but smile. and then you know how powerful you are, everything you are, just the way you are.