This video is the result of a live interview conducted with my dear sister, Mrs. Amina Masood Janjua,
CEO of DHR (Defence of Human Rights and Public Service Trust) one of
the few human rights activist organizations founded by the victims of
the violation of human rights founded by Amina after the wrongful
abduction of her husband Mr. Masood Janjua.
To aid Amina and other
families in their quest to find family members wrongfully abducted,
please go here --> http://www.dhrpk.org/
My love and peace to you Amina, keep fighting the good fight. I am so
proud of your strength and courage and my hope is that this video, on
Human Rights Day, and everyday, brings you peace, love and hope.
You know those moments when you thought, “Wow, I almost died!”
Right now, I can feel a scar on the side of my neck left by an
innocent bee that stung me in September, and once again, I almost died.
Yet, I am alive.
I look at such times as windows. Portholes in life where one small instance, a millisecond, saved our lives.
Each instance causes me to question my path, purpose, every fiber of
my being and those connected to me and this immense human family I
belong to — all of us swirling around in a globe, wondering why we are
here.
There are times that you simply must capture, just for a moment. The
start of each day before it begins, when birds trill selflessly against a
beyond cerulean sky.
Listen, do you hear that? Shh. Go ahead, open the window, walk outside. Take a look around you and do not forget to look UP.
Harness that every day, right now, bring that into yourself,
the woods and forests, the turns and paths, the leaves and trees and
Earth. Take a walk, work in your garden, play with your children, create
art, write, sing, dance, whatever it is that you do that brings you to
life — that feeling — harness that.
Catch first morning rays breaking through limbs when the dew kisses the leaves, ever so loving.
Stand with your back against the spine of Mother Nature, tilt your
head upwards, maniacal, and be happy planted pure, in her face, the
dirt, her blood, the bones, her roots, your feet, and feel complete
because my dear soul, you are home.
Walking out of nature, energy shoots right out of my back between my shoulder blades. A celestial shotgun to the sternum — shazam!
The entire front of me guarded, preparing me for stepping back into
society. In those moments, I am weightless and able to fly, and I
spread my wings — glorious and majestic — and thank Dear Earth for
unblocking what keeps me chained to myself. I realize then the extent of
the power of consciousness.
It is a blessing to walk into this. Everybody is in a rush, caught up in whatever.
I am mesmerized by the sun, the way she dances and dapples,
illuminating leaves with paprika and turmeric. The veil is with me
always, where I am able to move my hand, lucid and glass-like, lifting
silken skirts of varied states of existence.
I blankly stare at people walking and kids riding bikes, and somehow,
I don’t belong; somehow, I’m somewhere else; somehow, my spirit is
screaming to be let free; somehow, I’m here, yet somehow no one notices
me.
Two worlds within one: illusion, reality.
Traffic traffic, traffic… there’s got to be more to life than
waiting. How do we live like this? Look at this! Look at us all, turning
and waiting and going, and everybody is suddenly addicted to being
busy. What are you busy with?
December 10th, you can make a difference alongside other human rights
supporters in homes, workplaces, schools, and public spaces around the world.
---> 10 Ways to Write for Rights Meanwhile, here are a few tips and resources to help you get started! Letter-writing cases: Take action on one or all of this year's important human rights cases.
The lone late rose cut - from thorns and bramble, uprooted from limbs as legs, and burnt sienna skied roots. The lone late rose, a most holy November one of Indian summers, of love lost, re-birthed and blessed. The lone late rose upon Italian marble, stoic and bold, beauteous and courageous, sits. The lone late rose cut as cheeks blushed, as sweet cherry bitters, slender and heavenly, like Madonna and child, like daVinci sketching a divine revelation on canvas. The lone late rose was cut, and the wind howled, and the heavens cried, and the lone late rose not once complained, yet wept, in silence. The lone late rose sent supplications to the dirt and silt, eve after eve, grateful to be alive, yet oh, ever so lonely.
And the lone late rose woke to a most Vesuviant dawn, one of mythology and magic, one of precious hands as angels wings, embracing her existence, pure. And the late rose was no longer lone, and blooming beside her was another lone late rose. And together they adorn one another, on Italian marble, with cheeks blushed, as sweet cherry bitters, slender and elegant, like Madonna and child, like daVinci sketching, a divine revelation.
