Is it true that the universe listens to our thoughts?
The morning of October 17, 2022, formed its halo on the horizon of Ontario, Canada. The rhythm and drum of a new day beat from the trees on the streets to the windows of the neighbourhood houses. I embraced the day. The fresh aroma of coffee floated around the kitchen, fused with thoughts and senses, reciting an ode. The soft odour nudged…nudged…and twinkled the night’s dreams into reality.
I took my time with my last sip of coffee. I was in the company of my solitude and deep conversation. I tasted each drop with my soul. The foam kissed my lips and lingered until I snatched it away with a curled tongue. Caffeine trickled down into the abyss inside, caressing each organ individually.
I placed the coffee mug on the counter. My hand reached for the laptop on the robust veneer kitchen island, and I began working. The silent body of the keyboard, cold from the night before, shivered beneath my palm. The warmth of my skin wrapped around the laptop like a blanket, trimming down the device’s humming. The little blue envelope in Outlook caught my attention—an email from The Writers’ Union of Canada, where I had applied for membership almost eight weeks ago. My hand hovering over the cursor, the body of the letter hung open, and I read. We extend a warm welcome…
Beyond the kitchen window, the wind pushed, and gravity pulled the golden leaves from a half-naked tree, sending them drifting in the air. My chin moved up as the autumn scene in my backyard stole my gaze and fluttered in my thoughts.
I was born in 1971 in Kabul, Afghanistan, where the Hindu Kush Mountain shoulders the central and western area, the great Khorasan, which was home to Rumi (Jalal al-Din Mohamad Balkhi) in the 13th century.
In 1973, The Writers’ Union of Canada came into existence in Toronto, Canada. Stretching between the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, Canada is the second-largest country on the world map. Nobel Prize winner Alice Munro is a member of the union. Margaret Atwood, whose name is widely known and echoes loudly in Canada and abroad, is also a member.
Growing up with books, playing with words, and reciting poems, I penned prose poetry and fostered the writer inside me. At the same time, the war in my homeland between the communist government and Mujahedin began in 1978. The homeland conflict devoured my youth, chewed on my dignity, and spat me out stateless on the global skirts at the age of 18.
In June of 2022, after seven years of kneeling behind my laptop and wandering, I published my memoir A Quest for Identify: From Afghanistan to the World. The incarcerated voice inside screamed aloud and freed the silenced writer with a newfound platform.
Click, click, click—the sound of something moving under my fingertips. The words adorning the illuminated screen seized my attention back to the kitchen, and I saw myself writing.
