[the sound of munching]

Hear that? That's the sound of me eating my hat, shorts, bra, blog, whichever you prefer.

As I have been herein wallowing in my discontent, a tiny voice has been whispering to me his name and a few of the things that he said, particularly, here and, especially, this.

".... [to be happy] - this is a gift of God."

The ability to be happily at peace with life is not something I earn, deserve, cultivate or inherit. It is a gift. All I must do is accept it.

I am continuously, consciously, seeking to see myself as I am, not as I would wish. This means that there are days when I look in the mirror, after having not in a while, and cringe. Embarassed. Like when you glimpse your reflection AFTER you get home from the store, kicking yourself (more likely your partner) that you went out looking like that, suddenly understanding why folks were staring.

My parents immigrated to the US from the Middle East, just after they married. I was born within their first year here. They fought when we were young over what role their culture would play in our lives. My Dad was determined for us to be American, red, white and blue. My Mom wanted to teach us their language and heritage, which is rich beyond most. I sorely wish she had won that argument.

Estranged from my culture and more specifically, my grandparents, for most of my life, it is one of my life's greatest victories and joys to have been so close to my Father's Father in the last few years of his life.

He was somewhat of a celebrity in his circle and you can learn more about him here, if you speak that language. I don't, but I visit every (not) so often and look at the pictures and listen to the audio links of him speaking mostly about Rumi, the Sufi mystic whose poetry he published two books about.

We drove to L.A to see him two weekends in November of 2000. He was moved by our efforts to connect and we bonded, despite the fact that few in the family still spoke to him.

He would call me often over the last year or so of his life. He was happy beyond measure and just before he died December 17, 2003 (the same date Rumi died hundreds of years ago!), he was preparing to go on a speaking engagement in Las Vegas, at 89 years of age.

He would often call me just to tell me that I knew "the secret". He would go on and on as he was known to do, preaching about many ideas that monks and saints are intimately familiar. I often wish we each had a better command of the other's language, so we could have discussed our beliefs in greater detail.

Although perhaps it is best that we never did.

My Father told me later that my Grandfather often spoke of me to my parents. He would reassure them (as they often needed someone to) that I was on the right track and boast of my ability to make my own tough decisions and follow a path very few choose to travel. I knew "the secret to life", he would tell me over and over again, in broken English. As if repetition would make up for what he knew not how to tell me.

The secret. It isn't in a clean kitchen, that's for sure. Nor is it in a perfect lifestyle full of successful careers and big mortgages, healthy bank accounts, ski vacations, piano lessons, multiple cars, kids, pets and a secure retirement.

This is really no secret.

So, if you don't catch me here very often anymore, know that I'm off doing one of the following:

1) making every effort to practice what was taught here

2) making mad passionate love to a man who presses his face against mine and breaths deep the scent of she whom he loves with all of the largest heart I have found

3) making movies and taking pictures of the big-eyed, laughing, loving little creatures who will soon shrug a hug and turn a teen shoulder to all the love I have for them

4) making time somehow to record it all here

Thirsty? Here. (It's on me)