StoryStorms

Teachers? Check!
Bachas? Check!
Unicorns? Check!

And that's how we complete attendance!

Penheads Junior!

Reading. Writing. Vocab!

If I could peek inside my head, it would probably look like this - Compartments of chaos. Creative yet destructive. Appreciating yet depreciating. Organised yet disorganised. Bearer of sickness and bad news. And more sickness and worse news.

If there's anything that I've learnt about my brain in the last two years, is that it's not a trauma informed one but a trauma REformed brain. One that's structure and wiring has changed to such a dramatic extent that it's made me weaker than I ever was and stronger than I will ever be.

That's the thing about trauma. It leaves necessary wounds. Wounds, so the light shines in. And then with time it leaves scars. Scars, so the light shines out.

When StoryStorms was first born, I was at rock bottom. See rock bottom is a sacred space. It's very quiet there. Because most of the storms have died out. It's also very dark and confusing because no rainbows are yet shining. And in the quiet stillness and confusion, rock bottom becomes just that- rock. A stable and solid foundation from where one can go nowhere but upwards. To where the sun is shining. To where the rainbows are.

Since the last two years, I've been in another rock bottom. Deeper and steeper. Darker and scar-ier. And as I continue to look inside my brain, into these compartments of chaos, I think maybe it's the destruction that catapults recreation. The inevitable depreciation that creates more value. The disorganised disjoint mess that life sometimes becomes that it helps us rethink. Regroup. And restrategise.

And if I continue to explore my brain that way, it doesnt seem like such a messy and chaotic place after all. It seems to be exactly the way brains are supposed to be- compartments of creation.

Long before the program began, long before these folders started to fatten up, In my minds eye, I already knew how I was going to take this picture. How I would position it, where my mug would be , what colors I would use..it was one of the pictures I looked forward to taking the most.

These neatly stacked folders, paper clipped, color coded and labelled to perfection, perched so smugly and neatly on this table represent a certain dogged discipline no? But creating these was quite the opposite. A juxtaposition of sorts. A culmination of seven weeks of brainstorming and back and forth and feedback and mind changing -each sheet so carefully planned and lovingly differentiated for each child. Each sheet slotted with a certain sense of triumph and accomplishment. Each folder holding the weight of so much effort and sleepless nights.

Once I was done taking this picture, I did what I looked forward to doing the most. Holding up some of these folders in sheer awe, silence echoing in this dimly lit room. I held them up and with my gaze caressing across them- I sighed. Like a child sighs in silence when looking lovingly at a most special toy. Like a reader sighs at the end of a most special book slowly closing it staring into the distance . A sigh that exudes tons of gratitude laced with tons of happiness. A sigh that sums up seven weeks of love and work and energy. A quiet sigh of quiet joy that sums up one picture frame.

From our heart to yours !

When teachers come together with a creative burst, class setups begin to look a little bit like this!

Live from the heART room!

Hurray for interactive creative writing programs!

Registrations open.

Eid Moo- Barak everyone!

May our intentions remain pure and the sacrifices we make everyday be accepted. Ameen.

These past rainy days, both literally and metaphorically, I haven't had the energy to write or the capacity to think, so I've resorted to reading Sylvia Plath's letters in my reading-thinking time instead.

Its fascinating for me to revisit these as I once did in my teens. Though now that I read them again, I'm lost as to what drew me to these letters back then. All those lines about writing and passion and freedom and a desire to be published and have dreams about a home and children couldn't have been on my mind as a 15 year old.

Yet here they are, her words underlined in bold red strokes from all those years ago, exploding with the pain and joy of motherhood, how small she felt against her responsibilities and how mighty with her writing. How each commission she earned held tremendous financial significance and how much she yearned to publish her work.

How she would wake at 3 am to write and how I wake up at 3 am to pray and read. How much she longed for the things I too have dreamt of and of most things I have achieved. And the fact that our life trajectories have compounded more in these rainy days as they once did when I was 15 years old leaves me with an eerie sense of deja vu awe and disdain.

Did I not grow up at all or did I grow up too much? They say the written word reveals just as much about the reader as it does about the writer and here I am thinking aloud and feeling both revealed and unravelled.

Made these foliage bands with my kids on a beautiful almost rainy day.

There are some days that are easy.

There's no nonsense, no distractions, my ibadah goals are on track and I move through the day fully understanding my power and my purpose and when I put my head to the ground or raise my hands up to the sky, I know exactly what to say to my Rabb, and what and how to ask.

On the good days, words come to me easily and rythmically, with the careless abandon of a believer who slips from one tasbeeh bead to the next, knowing exactly where to begin and exactly how to end.

But then, there are the bad days. Oh the many bad days.

On the bad days, no matter how hard I try, there is too much nonsense, too many distractions, both inside my head and outside and no matter hard I try, when I put my head to the ground or raise my hands up to the sky, my heart does not feel what my tongue tries to muster.

On said bad days, my eloquence fails me and my conversations, scattered about like broken tasbeeh beads, end abruptly. I don't enjoy these bad days, have too may of them and have no remedy for them either.

Except this;

Even if your heart feels empty, Ask. Even if your thoughts are in disarray, Recite. Even if your actions feel mechanical, still make those slightly longer, albeit quieter sujood.

You know why? Because your efforts and love and hope and patience and steadfastness will shine through it. Because all of that will emanate from you like light and lightness-ness. Because it will make the bad days seem good and the good days seem better.

❤️

Float like a butterfly,
Sting like a bee.
That is how we Mohammad Ali!

Creative fuel and purposeful writing results in everlasting learning ❤️