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Where to begin. I guess from the beginning

Two years and some change ago, I started dating my boyfriend. We had decided to make it official, in part because I was leaving the Washington D.C. area (where we met) and moving to Philadelphia (after two unhappy years--excluding of course meeting him). In January of 2012 I moved, we started dating, and by March he had accepted a promotion in his company that brought him to Philadelphia, too, and we moved in together.

One thing he had told me, from the very beginning, was that his religion was very important to him. He is a Sunni Muslim, the dominant sect of Islam that makes up 75% of the Muslim world population. He practiced the main tenants and observations of the religion: he abstained from pork, fasted during the Holy Month of Ramadan, paid zakat (the equivalent to the Catholic tithe or other Christian offerings), had studied the Quran as a child, and knew how to properly pray. So it was important to him that his children be raised Muslim.

I myself had a complicated relationship with organized religion. I was raised in the Christian faith but had some serious questions that had led me to an agnostic state by the time we met. While I truly, in my soul, could not ever deny the existence of God, I could not reconcile the things I was taught in church and in school. There were holes, which no one from lay to clergy, could fill for me.

And this is important: my boyfriend did not tell me to convert to Islam. Our relationship did not hinge on me converting to Islam. "As long as you believe in God," he said, "And you would be willing to allow me to raise our children Muslim, I don't care if you convert."

Because to force, coerce, or even persuade someone to convert to Islam is a sin for a Muslim. Not just a slap on the wrist, on paper you shouldn't kind of thing. A sin. This is something my boyfriend stresses to me constantly, as does his family. They are not trying to convert me, it would be a terrible, terrible sin for them to take me away from my "deen," another word for my "faith."

This said, I still decided that it would be prudent for me to explore this religion that was so important to the man I loved and his family. I began to slowly, and then more intensely, read the Quran. I fasted for Ramadan. I listened to lectures by people who had converted, and read books by those who were raised in the faith. And most of all, I saw how my boyfriend and his family lived their lives. Good, upstanding people who loved their families deeply, conducted themselves as purely and modestly as possible, and had respect for everyone, regardless of religion.

And somewhere, along the line, I accepted Islam. I couldn't tell you when. It was a slow burn, a warmth that started in my heart and spread to my fingertips.

My boyfriend was worried at first, and would constantly ask, "You are not doing this for me, are you?" To which I would sometimes exasperatedly reply, "NO!" Islam answers those questions I had been asking my childhood, filled the gaps that no other religion I had exposure to had been able to do so. And it is beautiful.

I have not said my "shahada" yet. This is when you go to a Mosque and declare before an Imam (a Muslim clergy member) your belief in one God, and in Mohammed his Messenger (Peace be upon him). I know the "Kalima," which is what you say during this process. And I can't wait to do it. But I made myself a promise I would finish the Quran entirely before doing so. So I wait, for now, for about 100 more pages.

But I am a Muslim. While I haven't said the Kalima before an Imam, I say it to myself every day. I believe it, unquestionably, in my heart. That's what I will often say to my boyfriend. If he could see how purely, how strongly, I felt Islam in my heart, he would never ask again if I was "doing it for him."

For the most part, my mostly Catholic family has been accepting. My mother was relieved, I think, that I wasn't an atheist. Especially after I explained that Islam is not a deviation from how I was raised, it's the completion of the story that has been told since Abraham. It is the "last religion."

A Muslim cannot be a Muslim if they do not believe in the Torah and the Gospel of Jesus.

A Muslim cannot be a Muslim if they do not believe Jesus (PBUH) will return to Earth.

Jesus (PBUH) is the most quoted prophet in the Quran. Mary, Mother of Jesus, has an entire chapter, or "surah," devoted to her life and giving birth as a virgin to Jesus (PBUH). I am not a Quranic scholar, and I won't pretend to be by trying to analyze too deeply the text, but where Islam differs from Christianity is largely with the divinity of Jesus (PBUH), as Muslims see him as a prophet sent by Allah, and not the Son of God. There is no trinity in Islam, there is but one God Allah, who sent to Earth many prophets. There are also differences in the depiction of the crucifixion. Christians see this as the death of Jesus (PBUH), whereas Muslims believe before he was upon the cross God took him up with him. But these differences are not seen as contradictions. The Quran is the completed story, gaps filled.

All this said, there were members of my family vehemently against my conversion. It breaks my heart every day, because I know, and have known for some time, that this is my deen and I will not be strayed from it. I pray every day that I will not lose these people because of it. I put that in Allah's hands.

Besides my conversion, which was life changing enough, I recently made another decision related to how I am going to live my life as a Muslim. I have decided to wear a "hijab," a head covering for Muslim women to wear when they are in public.

I haven't told my family. I haven't fully explained it to my friends. Today was the first day I wore it to work, and none of my coworkers asked and I didn't bring it up.

Even though I haven't spoken of it in depth with anyone other than my boyfriend and his sister just yet, I am so, so excited to do this. I've been thinking of it for a while, and this past week I couldn't not do it anymore.

I had to run some errands in the city by myself. For some reason, as I was leaving, I thought, I'll wear a scarf. I didn't call it a hijab in my head yet. I loved it. I felt beautiful in a way I hadn't before. And I couldn't wait to wear it again.

My boyfriend had no idea I was thinking of this, and when he got back from business and I told him, he was supportive but not persuasive one way or the other. Neither his mother, sister, aunts, or female cousins wear a hijab, and it is not specifically mandated in the Quran. Modesty in dress, speech, and behavior is called for, but the specific garment is not required. Muslim women who do not wear a hijab, or the more covering garments such as niqabs or burkas, are no less Muslim than those who do. I do not pretend the hijab makes up for the other sins I commit, or puts me above anyone, Muslim or not. That kind of thinking would fly right in the face of the whole reason I wear it.

Some people associate the hijab as a symbol of oppression. I know this. I've heard it. But that is far from the truth. Yes, there are some people in the world who obligate women to wear these coverings and will punish them if they do not. This is not Islam. It is a choice on how you want to cover yourself, how you choose to live modestly. The key words are "choice" and "choose." Nothing is Islam is to be forced upon anyone, believer or non-believer.

For me, the hijab in these early stages, is a reminder. A reminder of the better, more modest life I want to live. I don't believe I'm going to be damned if I show my hair to a man not in my family. But I do believe God wants all of us to live modestly and humbly, and when it is on my head, cupping my cheeks, the hijab is a reminder that I should speak well, be kind, and that most of all, that I am a servant to God. Humility. That's what the hijab is for me.

I would dare anyone to say I am oppressed, any way. I have a well-paying job in the financial industry, I own my own car, pay all of my own bills, and live my life according to the choices I make myself.

But I worry. I worry people will not understand that. That they won't want to understand it. That wearing a hijab will hinder me professionally, in a mostly non-Muslim company. That my family will be angry, confused, scared. That my friends will distance themselves. That strangers will be rude or untoward. I will of course do my best to explain whenever possible, but that only goes so far. And even though no one at this point could tell me anything that would turn me from Islam, and that I do believe the hijab is the right choice for me now, I still worry. Because I am not perfect. And I pray for the strength to endure any or all of these things, should they happen.

My biggest worry is my mother. As supportive as she has always been for me, in every way, I still worry that she won't understand. This is why I have put off telling her so far. I want to find the right words so she will understand that I am still her daughter, her baby doll, and not some foreign person she doesn't know anymore. I know I am probably imagining the worst, and my boyfriend tells me this, but still. I worry. She is the last person on this Earth I would ever want to cause unhappiness for.

So that is my story. My genesis.

As-Salaam-Alaikum. Peace be with you.

Quarter of a century

A thought occurred to me as I was driving home from work the other day.

I think. Or maybe it was when I found myself alone in my apartment. Or maybe it was on a solo lunch break in the middle of the week.

Who knows.

The thought was, "Adulthood means loneliness."

It was one of those organic thoughts that springs from somewhere deep and unfounded that never dawned on you before and isn't from a book or movie or song you heard. Unknown, unrelated molecules from your brain or heart or arms or legs smashed together and through some chemical reaction produced this thought.

And it can't be ignored.

At first I tried to argue against it. That's just not true. As an adult (chronologically speaking), I find myself with a close group of friends that I love and that love me despite, well, me. A mother who is unendingly supportive and who I speak to everyday and who would quite literally do anything on earth to assure my happiness. A boyfriend who is there for me in every sense of the word, always looking to know me in a new way even though we've known each other for two years and have lived together for fourteen months. I have a flurry of acquaintances I can have a pleasant lunch or casual drink with after work and talk about sports and television and other light topics. None of this adds up to someone who is lonely.

But I am.

It's been creeping up on me for some time now and I've this past week identified it. For better or worse.

Perhaps I am using the wrong word. It's possible I should be saying self-reliant or independent or something. Lonely has a horrible connotation, obviously. It can never be a positive emotion or state of mind, no matter the context. And maybe it isn't true loneliness, but this new found dependency on myself and only myself to take care of me that just...feels like it. It could be just my still somewhat immature mind unable to convert the childish need to be taken care of into my aging body's status as an "able-bodied adult" and once I shake loose the last trappings of childhood and become truly comfortable as a grown-up I will be fine.

Or...maybe adulthood is loneliness. And truly being an adult means accepting it and moving on.

Because as much as your support system may be there, in the end it's just you to take care of you, to calm yourself down or lift your spirits or pay the goddamned bills or make decisions about your future or figure out what will make you happy or keep yourself from being overwhelmed by it all when you find yourself alone.

In one light it's empowering. In another, it's awfully, awfully lonely.

Happy 25th birthday.

The second reason I prefer animals to people: Puck

I decided since my last post was dedicated to the awesomeness that is Molly, it would be unfair to leave Puck out of this.

He too, had quite humble beginnings.

One chilly november evening in 2010, as I was walking Molly in our after-work evening constitutional, in the premature-night of fall in Virginia, I heard a very high pitched cry -- which as I rounded the corner in my townhouse development, I realized was a kitten meowing. Our neighborhood had somewhat of a problem with a colony of feral cats in the woods nearby, so cat-sounds were not so unusual, but this one made me worry. It was coming from a window well from a nearby townhouse, so loud I hear it around the block, and I couldn't understand why no one else was curious (particularly the people who lived in the house he was crowing beneath).

As I got closer to the source of the sound, I remember a man on sidewalk, seeing what I was doing, saying, "You'll never find it." But I persisted, Molly leading me with her determined sniffing. We paused over the window well, unable to see below it, and the meowing stopped.

After jogging back to my apartment to seek assistance from my roommate, a great woman who was as dedicated (some might say obsessed) with animals as I, and the mommy to two great cats, we retrieved a handful of grey fur. As I held a flash light over her head and she reached into the well, Puck even tried his hand at four-week old hissing. We LOL-ed at him, and brought him into the apartment.

puck's first time indoors

We discussed what we should do, having two cats already in the apartment as well as Molly. The most viable option seemed giving him over to a friend of my roommate's, who ran a cat rescue. But as we sat drinking white wine with some friends, waiting for her to come over and take a look at him, well…I fell in reluctant love. I didn't want a cat, but what is it the Japanese say? When you save a life, you are responsible for it. And I've never looked back.

scale - november 2010

interwebz premiere - november 2010

matching accessories - december 2010

his first crib - i may have been worried Molly would make him a chew toy

she was less than enthused to be an older sister

pondering his existence - january 2011

going through puberty- february 2011

bored with my french movies - february 2011 

one of my favorite pictures - april 2011

reppin' philadelphia - february 2012

Molly speaks

I have the fortune of having the greatest dog in the world.

artsy return to philadelphia - january 2012

lunching on rittenhouse - july 2011

mom's pool - summer 2011

beach bummin' - summer 2011

trying to steal my man since - december 2011

christmas day - december 2011

a real time snap - tonight!

like I said: greatest damned dog ever.

But her beginnings were not so glam.

I rescued her (and vice versa) three years ago this October 14th. She looked like this.

fall of 2009, walking around East State Penitentiary

She had been found by the amazing, wonderful, awesome, please-donate-to-them shelter wandering in the woods. As you can see, she was malnourished, had very thin and wiry fury (quite a difference, n'est pas?) and, most notably, could not bark. There were a few theories as to why, but no concrete conclusions.

Which is tragic in a way because either through physical or emotional trauma, my darlingest baby was traumatized (and if I ever found out a human was responsible and came face to face with that person there's no telling what I'd do or say), but also a blessing because she is in fact a Pomeranian, not exactly known for their discretion in barking.

That said, in the past few months, she has found her voice.

It first occurred a month ago. My mother was babysitting her (a tactic not at all devised to keep her off the grandchild fever train) and texted me around 10 pm on a Wednesday, "Molly said her first word."

It was "out." My mother and her boyfriend were having their typical Wednesday night on the couch watching tv and suddenly, a burst of sound came from the couch. A short, raspy, rounded...word.

She looked to him, he looked to her.

Mom: "Did you make that noise?"

Him: "I thought you did?!"

They then looked to Molly.

So it's been a running joke since then. Molly is not actually a mute, but a selective mute. Like Holden Caulfield.

And tonight, she exercised that selectivity again. Boyfriend and I were sitting on the couch, watching Game 7 (f-ck you Lebron, really) and it again, a sudden burst of sound from the floor.

We both looked immediately to Molly, perched on the floor, reveling in using her favorite word.

So I obliged her, and it was obvious her little squawk was a request to go out, because as soon as I stood she bound to the door by her leash.

And as pleased as I've been for the past three years with Molly's general quiet, I wouldn't be adversed if she talked to us more. Like the fur, the extra (healthy) pounds, and the diva 'tude at times, all of it came about because she's comfortable, happy, and loved. And I can't even put into words the changes she's brought about in me, so I'm happy I'm able to return the favor.

My pets are cuter and creepier than your pets

Meet Molly and Puck.

What the hell is heaven?

This morning, on hold with a client, who was at her place of work when she called, I was subjected to a rather mediocre pseudo rock 80s song for about thirty seconds while she scoured for information. The hook of the song struck me, amidst the generic, twangy soft rock.

"What the hell is heaven?"

After I got over the fact that this company found this song appropriate as hold music, I lazily jotted the line on my notepad. For some reason, it was really funny in that moment, and I mouthed the rather unimaginative wordplay and smiled. Even now hours later when I think about it I laugh a little. But as trite as I thought it was, and bemused I was by it, it still got me thinking: what the hell is heaven, for me?

My heaven is my mother's house, the two-story, tan house with green shutters at the end of the street in a suburban-but-really-rural northeastern Pennsylvania town, where I lived full time from ages 12 to 18, and then periodically through college, and then only as a visitor for the past two years.

I can think of no better way to spend my eternal afterlife than within those walls, probably drinking a lot of keurig coffee and watching a lot of jeopardy and luckily, if I'm in a ~warmer afterlife, plenty of swimming.

But then...then I felt a weird guilt. I feel a sort of guilt for being 24 and still attached to this obvious substitute for the womb.

Shouldn't my apartment, one I happen to share with a man I love, that I picked myself, that I decorated, that I spend most of my nonworking life in, shouldn't that be my heaven? My port in the storm? Surely, real adults don't fantasize about their mommy's house. Not only that but it seemed to cheapen what I've built here, of my own choosing and design, and so, guilt.

And you'll have that, I guess. Or I will at least, as a perpetual and often irrational guilt sufferer.

But the truth is the truth, which is why I felt guilty.

The truth is I've never felt as blissfully happy in a museum in Paris, in the best restaurant in Rome, in a cushy luxury bed in a midtown Manhattan hotel, roaming the peaceful, serene highways of Texas, or even sitting on my butt watching Family Guy and smoking hookah with my beloved in my own apartment in my favorite city in the world as I am laying on my mom's worn, slightly crooked couch while the sun pours in from the French doors and she sips coffee nearby. I just don't. All the traveling I've done has only further confirmed this as a fact.

One aspect of growing up I'm finding difficult to cope with is the complete and utter responsibility I have for my surroundings, how there is no one to plan my vacations, arrange my schedule, filter my friendships, or create my home. It's a thrilling, beautiful freedom but there is at least now, a loss of security in that freedom. So no matter how lush I can arrange my apartment, no matter how relaxed I can be in it, it will never be truly blissful. Bliss involves a kind of ignorance, a lack of responsibility, and it seems that diminishes just a little more everyday. Without bliss, a place can't really be heaven, can it?

I wish the client would have let me on hold just a little bit longer so I could find out what indeed the hell is heaven.

The beginning of the philadelphia story

I had a "bad" day at work on Tuesday. Working in customer service, I deal with a lot of unhappy people, so there are bound to be such bad days. Having a 22-mile commute on a very congested highway can influence those bad days, especially when an accident in a construction zone makes me an hour late. And of course, the pressure to study and perform well on an upcoming licensing exam is an ever present stressor.

I was at the end of my rope, emotionally, on the phone with a client. As he was filling out paperwork on the other end, he asked off-handedly where I was physically located.

"My office is outside of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania."

Philadelphia.

The clouds lifted.

For two miserable years in the Washington D.C. metro area, I would have killed to say those words.

Suddenly the background stress faded and i felt relief.

Location, location, location.

That's why I decided to rename this blog. From a favorite quote from a favorite book by nabokov (a truth I maintain, on some level) to what it really is now, now as i blog about my life going forward.