When the spirit moves you

It’s almost too hard to keep coming back the US for these long trips. It seems I’m destined to miss wherever I’m not. My lovely lady friends keep in touch, sending emails and text messages, I know I’m not forgotten there. Thank goodness! I miss them all and will spend so much more time with them in the afternoons when we get back to Sharjah. Did I write about the fantabulous BG yet? Another woman it’s taken months to see again, after a spring picnic with she and her husband, and the ever present Pitame. We sat on the public lawns of her compound and enjoyed Turkish delights of the non-sweet kind, tomatospicy rice and dolma and sautéed chicken livers. The Pitame played American football with her husband while we lounged on the blankets and talked about our original homes, our mothers, our lives. I wandered a bit away when she heeded the call to prayer that afternoon, and then we talked some more. Then there was that long spell where I had no car, so visiting in Dubai became difficult. And she had some health challenges to overcome, which limited her mobility, as well. But we kept in touch by email and knew someday, insh’allah, everything would work out.

While my mother in law was visiting, I took her and the boychild to Mall of the Emirates, as she wanted to treat the kid to an afternoon in the snow. I was close to my friend, well, closer to where she lived than I’d been in a long time, with time all to myself, so I rang her up. Huzzah, she was available!

In she walked to the coffe shop, resplendent in a colour of green I adore but haven’t the guts to wear, bright bright bamboo green… with a hint of orange mesh scarf following her forehead beneath the green of her overscarf… orange eyeliner the exact shade of the peeking scarf, and the long covering gowns of a modest Muslim woman in brilliant, joyous, amazing green. “YES!” my heart cried in delight.

She gave me these adorable slippers her mother had made – that fit perfectly, of course. And a small, sparkling square of cloth of great significance. It’s the cloth that women use to cover their hands while the henna is drying. As part of the wedding ceremony, the bride is lavishly decorated on her hands and feet with henna, in swirling floral patterns and solid henna fingertips. If you’ve never had henna applied, it’s an exercise in patience and luxury, as you can’t do much for hours afterwards. No chasing children, no serving tea and coffee, no washing dishes. The longer the dark brown henna paste stays on the skin, occasionally moistened with a secret mixture of water, lemon and sugar, the darker and deeper the design will be. Since some traditions say the bride shouldn’t begin domestic duties til the henna from her wedding is faded, it’s in her best interest to make the design stick. At the wedding ceremony, all the women dance with these small cloths, waving them in the air, trilling that blood-stirring ululation with covered mouths and revelling in the fact of their being. And true to my friend, it’s a brilliant, shiny, hot pink piece of cloth. No drab cream colour for her, no. 

So I’ll go out dancing with my friends here in DC one night, that tiny scrap of happiness waving in the air above our heads. I will wish I were dancing with my lady friends in Sharjah and Dubai, while wishing I could somehow have all my women friends dancing together. Wouldn’t that be joy enough to move the world?