In late March, my wife and I were wandering through a local national reserve, and as we looked out over the magnificent marshes, a phrase came to my mind:

I found that it both alliterated beautifully and captured what I feel is true, so over the last two weeks, I started crafting a few more of these alliterative lines. But quickly, I found there were too many beautiful words to use!

So, I thought it’d be an enjoyable and creative exercise to turn it into a mindfulness-themed ABC.

Here it is. Let me know which ones resonate with you!

If you come up with any of your own, please feel free to comment!

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Jibran ❤️

*I think I’m correct in assuming most of you reading this don’t know the words Xenial or Xanadu. So let me briefly explain 😉

• Xenial means being hospitable (in the context of welcoming guests and strangers). Xanadu is a mythical, idyllic city. What I mean here is to make your (inner) idyllic city welcoming to all visitors. Both others and your inner other-selves.

• Oh, and yes, this was very hard to come up with; I definitely had to use both a dictionary and a thesaurus!

Hey friends,

A little toilet humor, I hope you can appreciate it ;)

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Cheers! 😘

Jibran

Hey friends, here’s another poem I wrote & narrated.

Thanks for reading!

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Regards,

Jibran

PS. Here are some other poems I wrote or narrated.

Hey friends, here’s another poem I wrote (& narrated.)

A little tongue-in-cheek neighborhood event.

Thanks for reading!

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Regards,

Jibran

PS. Here are some other poems I wrote or narrated.

Hey friends, here’s a poem I wrote. (And I narrated it for good measure).

It serves as a good reminder to myself to just start.

Thanks for reading!

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Regards,

Jibran

Hey friends,

The Hanged Man, as a symbol (best known from tarot card decks some people use), represents, to me, the value of seeing the world in a different way.

But this different view also comes with a few sacrifices. For example, having a different view makes you an outcast, deviant, by nature.

Not only to others but also within yourself. I.e., more exploratory and deviant sides of yourself can be in conflict with the more security-seeking parts, resulting in an inner battle.

I try to capture some of that symbolism in the poem I wrote below.

Enjoy!

I am hanging here, by choice, to be your sight,
    Upside down, all day and night.
For I see what you could see,
    Were you not afraid, to be me.

You hang me upended, looking solely at my feet,
    For my stare, you are afraid to meet.
In my eyes, you’d find the reflection of your soul,
    And see a life you could live differently, whole.

But rather than accept change, you resist,
    Suppressing your fear, ignorant of what you missed.
But no matter how much you try to cover the light,
    Cracks in your walls will only brighten, the darker the night.

Still, you are sacrificing me as deviant,
    Because you have become reliant,
On only shades of grey,
    Hoping you’ll never have a surprising day.

So again, I say to you from the upside down,
    “I offer you a different view,” but you only answer with a frown.
Such is being disconnected from the source,
    You do not know of your future remorse.

As I hang here, cast out, I am free to explore,
    I grin, for my sacrifice will bring to the fore,

A light, unable to ignore.

Thank you!

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Regards,

Jibran

You fall down.
You cry.
You hold your breath.
Seeming to die.

I almost call 911.
But you come to.
It was but a faint.
But the terror was true.

You scared dad yet again.
And I shed a small tear.
With your history.
I’m grateful you’re still here.

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Daisy (my daughter) can sometimes faint if she’s in too much pain. (It’s probably a defense mechanism that resulted from the extreme pain she had to go through as an infant in the NICU.)

The fainting hadn’t happened for nearly a year, so I hoped it was gone. But yesterday, she fell onto a sharp stick that stuck out of the ground, precisely on the part of her belly where she was operated on numerous times as an infant.

This time her fainting—the stillness without breath—took so long that panic started to rise within me. In the past, she’d start breathing right after fainting. But this time, it took half a minute before she retook a breath.

During those 30 seconds, traumatic memories rose in my mind and body of the time when Daisy was just 10 months old: I was carrying her across the street at night—she wasn’t breathing—to get to one of my neighbors (a doctor) to help save her.

It’s a story I have rarely talked about, for I don’t personally know anyone who would understand the feeling of almost losing your child again.

So I just write poems instead…

But maybe I should attempt it a little bit: Imagine the feeling of going through hell for three months to save your baby girl, it working out beyond all odds. Then living in uncertainty for another half year, cause things might still go wrong. Then, right when you start to accept she probably won’t die during her sleep, she almost dies in your arms again.

I’m not sure if there’s a word for it, but I just call it retraumatization. And it’s been one of the most difficult things to get over in my life. And, as you see from what happened yesterday, it’s still there somewhat.

It will probably always be there.

So what the stoics call Memento Mori—the meditation on death or impermanence—is something I don’t have to consciously train or cultivate anymore. It’s always there.

But with it, also the constant gratefulness for life.

❤️

Jibran

Hey friends,

Yesterday, I attended a cozy salon by and Tanya, where we got to read, share, and write poems.

The topic was hope.

But since I already wrote a poem on hope last year, I thought I’d write about something else that came up during the salon—the struggle to start writing (poems).

Here it is:

Sincerely,

Jibran

I see you dip underneath world’s end, last rays embracing me like a close friend.

Then I breathe in the cold air of the coming night, the day recharged me for my coming dream flight.

After I lay down on my bed of soft sand, my last glimpse is of the place beyond where there is no land.

I dream of a solar chariot crossing the sky, in it, Horus, illuminating Samsara with his eye.

I slowly wake up as you are birthed from the sea, and I can’t help but recognize you to be a being like me.

We both shine a moment beyond the void, however, we will both return after we are destroyed.

So now I can only be grateful that you are here, for with you lighting my path, I have nothing to fear.

Thank you! 🌅

Jibran

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Magnificent, bright, white, and pure,
they’re reflective of our divine nature.

Like a bloom, they burst forth with grace,
each gem unique, with a different face.

A refractive power, complete and whole,
creating our world we inhabit as soul(s).

Just like our being, if you hold on too tight,
they will melt or break and stop reflecting the light.

So merely gaze upon them without desire,
and you’ll see them shine much like fire.

And when you’re cold, alone, and unable to make art,
you’re simply busy growing crystals that brighten your heart.

So when you’re lost, go and look for the crystal within,
you’ll bask in the glow from underneath your skin.

Something different for a change. ❤️

Jibran

Soul retrieval - “[To] retrieve a piece of your past and feel more complete in the present… …it parallels the psychotherapeutic practice of integrating lost 'parts' of yourself which may have become 'split off' through trauma, illness or loss.”

The writer plunges himself* into the underworld of veiled shadows and forsaken dreams, that place where people’s souls are adrift.

Exploring the dungeons of the deep, he listens for the wandering soul’s call.

Diving deeper still, he arrives at the source of cries, steeling himself for the inevitable torrent of torment.

As he’s washed over with waves of the wanderers’ wails, he attunes himself to their call and makes it his own.

Faithful to have finally found the voice of these forlorn souls, he aims to free them from the depths by weaving words of welcome.

As he summons stories that resound in souls’ core, the lost drifters are drawn forth into the light once more.

Illuminated, soul revealed, the reader awakens to who they’ve always been, fully healed.

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Thanks for reading!

Regards,

Jibran

PS. Are you a writer (or storyteller in a different medium) as well? How do you try to make your work resonate with your readers/listeners? What world do you plunge yourself into to understand them or yourself? Let me know in the comments below.

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*feel free to replace “him/he” with her/she (or whatever you want).

Something different than a story this time. A short poem about hope.

Born with millstone around your neck.
With impenetrable wall against your back.

You had no chance, I was told.
But they did not know you were so bold.

You were holding on for life oh so dear.
While Godless me prayed against my deepest fear.

Will it come to pass as Passover came at last?
For that dreadful moment seemed to come too fast.

Eternal darkness was knocking at your door.
But from the void, you opened your eyes just once more.

“I’m still here,” said your gaze.
‘twas enough to stop the tremble in my ways.

Even as your flame became more dim.
I knew you’d come back to me as I sang an old hymn.

I sang of edelweiss and of blooming and of growing.
Even with my raspy voice, I started to see you glowing.

Brighter than the sun your flame burned.
As it was living that you yearned.

Just one more battle, one more fight.
One more step away from the passing of the light.

As I held your hand in the advance.
The man with the sickle had no chance.

You said to eternal slumber, not today.
Now five summers later I still see you play.

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Normally I write personal stories, but I wanted to try my hand at a poem for once.

Also, if you liked it, please share this with friends and family. ❤

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Sincerely,

Jibran