From Chapter: Finney
“Where’s Finney?” I could feel my face warming up with shame.
“He left. He said to tell you happy birthday,” she said, a sorry-for-me look on her face.
“He did?”
“Yeah, his dad came to pick him up. He is so hilarious!” Aimée and Dad looked at each other, laughing, the smell of fun still lingering in the air. They’d had a blast. He and Dad had been throwing ice cubes -- the little ones from our fancy ice-maker -- into the ceiling fan. My dad, the guy who got miffed if the lid to the milk jug was screwed on wrong. The unlikeliness of that story along with the fact that Finnegan Wiley had actually come to my birthday party and I had ignored him, like some shallow bitch in a Molly Ringwald movie, made everything seem surreal. I hated myself, more than ever. And I hated everyone there. Which isn’t fair, really. I mean, there were some nice people in the room. But that’s what happens when you’re not doing something that your heart is screaming out to do: you hate everyone around you, even though they’re just innocent bystanders. It’s called being unhappy, and I was starting to build myself a cathedral of my own misery.
I felt so deflated; why did I do that? I had invited Finney to my party, so, what was I looking for? I knew I loved how Finney was -- edgy, funny, eclectic, and a mess. And he didn’t care, or at least he didn’t seem to. I didn’t know if it was that I “liked” him, but I liked him. His person, who he was. I wanted to be that way, so bad. But I wouldn’t let myself. I couldn’t. And I had missed my window. My door. He had offered to be the metaphorical moat to my castle-trapped princess, dying to escape from the hollow world of the suburban royal court, out to the rich enchanted forest. And I had turned away; he’d left. Aimée, the half theater geek, half Second Floor girl, had spent the whole time with him and my dad in the kitchen, having a great time. I was a coward; I’d been miserable sitting listening to The Outfield and bullshitting about tennis and summer camp. But I still did it.
“He left. He said to tell you happy birthday,” she said, a sorry-for-me look on her face.
“He did?”
“Yeah, his dad came to pick him up. He is so hilarious!” Aimée and Dad looked at each other, laughing, the smell of fun still lingering in the air. They’d had a blast. He and Dad had been throwing ice cubes -- the little ones from our fancy ice-maker -- into the ceiling fan. My dad, the guy who got miffed if the lid to the milk jug was screwed on wrong. The unlikeliness of that story along with the fact that Finnegan Wiley had actually come to my birthday party and I had ignored him, like some shallow bitch in a Molly Ringwald movie, made everything seem surreal. I hated myself, more than ever. And I hated everyone there. Which isn’t fair, really. I mean, there were some nice people in the room. But that’s what happens when you’re not doing something that your heart is screaming out to do: you hate everyone around you, even though they’re just innocent bystanders. It’s called being unhappy, and I was starting to build myself a cathedral of my own misery.
I felt so deflated; why did I do that? I had invited Finney to my party, so, what was I looking for? I knew I loved how Finney was -- edgy, funny, eclectic, and a mess. And he didn’t care, or at least he didn’t seem to. I didn’t know if it was that I “liked” him, but I liked him. His person, who he was. I wanted to be that way, so bad. But I wouldn’t let myself. I couldn’t. And I had missed my window. My door. He had offered to be the metaphorical moat to my castle-trapped princess, dying to escape from the hollow world of the suburban royal court, out to the rich enchanted forest. And I had turned away; he’d left. Aimée, the half theater geek, half Second Floor girl, had spent the whole time with him and my dad in the kitchen, having a great time. I was a coward; I’d been miserable sitting listening to The Outfield and bullshitting about tennis and summer camp. But I still did it.
From Chapter: Zawiyya
We eventually pick up the prayer retreat schedule she’s set out, and a couple days later Laila and I are sitting, about to start one of our twice daily Al-Wird — the prayer bead chanting. Which I hate, even more than the Rosary back in elementary school. What a waste of time. It doesn't feel wonderful like the remembrance memory I had at the healing intensive. It doesn't clear anxiety from my heart. It isn't helping me feel peace and love. It is tedious and time consuming and it makes me want to throw heavy objects against the wall, yell and sprint out the door. But they are holy, mystical prayers, I'd been told. And I had little glimmers of the truth of that: cool laps of oceans of mercy in my heart, that would enfold hard stuff inside with the tenderest purl, but then disappear in a twinkle like water sinking into sand. It is just so fleeting that it hardly seems worth it.
I'm explaining all of this to Laila in my sometimes ornery and dramatic way when I can tell her patience is starting to run a bit thin, so she finally gets real with me. She heaves a sigh, contemplating how to get it through my thick skull. “Denise, this is an ancient Sufi practice that helps us go inside, through the layers of our selves, with each round, to help us get to the Voice of God — that place inside each of us that is knowing and peaceful and sometimes majestic. It is holy and mystical and a precious gift, and can offer us immense guidance. This is why Sidi recommends we do it twice a day. But we are still human. So try to think of it like this: Al Wird can be something like a bowel movement. Sometimes it feels so good, it is almost orgasmic. But other times, it’s just shit.”
We burst into laughter. And I realize that I don't have to be all spiritual, or floating on a cloud when I do these practices. It isn't necessarily going to feel peaceful and beautiful and amazing. I get it: just do it, and trust, and see where it takes you. And so, step after step, little by little, as I do these practices regularly, they get less hard. Then I start to feel some peace, some mercy, some calm -- and less fleeting. It's still hard sometimes -- at times I want to rip my face off — but eventually I get through it, or the tears come, and I feel the coolness inside, and, in that moment, things are okay.
I'm explaining all of this to Laila in my sometimes ornery and dramatic way when I can tell her patience is starting to run a bit thin, so she finally gets real with me. She heaves a sigh, contemplating how to get it through my thick skull. “Denise, this is an ancient Sufi practice that helps us go inside, through the layers of our selves, with each round, to help us get to the Voice of God — that place inside each of us that is knowing and peaceful and sometimes majestic. It is holy and mystical and a precious gift, and can offer us immense guidance. This is why Sidi recommends we do it twice a day. But we are still human. So try to think of it like this: Al Wird can be something like a bowel movement. Sometimes it feels so good, it is almost orgasmic. But other times, it’s just shit.”
We burst into laughter. And I realize that I don't have to be all spiritual, or floating on a cloud when I do these practices. It isn't necessarily going to feel peaceful and beautiful and amazing. I get it: just do it, and trust, and see where it takes you. And so, step after step, little by little, as I do these practices regularly, they get less hard. Then I start to feel some peace, some mercy, some calm -- and less fleeting. It's still hard sometimes -- at times I want to rip my face off — but eventually I get through it, or the tears come, and I feel the coolness inside, and, in that moment, things are okay.