"Arif my Friend"

Arif Kazi is my friend. He is from India. He is bright, he is funny, he is articulate and he just happens to be Muslim. His choice of religion is not a big deal and normally would not even be noteworthy, but I don't think I've ever known anyone who was Muslim... and after all my years on this earth (and the fact that there are approximately 800 million Muslims in this world) I think that's pretty amazing!

I love talking to him about his religion... the traditions, the origins and all the similarities to Catholicism and Judaism blow my mind! It is really interesting stuff!

Arif is animated about his beliefs and devote in his practice. He eats only "halal, which are foods seen as permissible according to Muslim dietary law (Sharia) and he attends the obligatory Jummah (Friday afternoon service). When prompted, he talks about his faith with passion and seems to enjoy playing the part of the "Ustadz" (teacher). He is going to bring me a Koran, written in English, so I can learn more.

Arif and I are from opposites ends of the earth. He's a male, I am a female. He was born in India I was born in the US. He is young... I am not. He is Muslim, I am spiritually open... Yet with all our differences, we are good friends. We like each other, we respect each other, we enjoy each others company and we like talking about the differences between us. We embrace the differences that we find in each other and oddly enough we do it easily. It seems like the most natural thing in the world to do.

What I don't understand is why it's so difficult for other people to do the same?

Joy

What is joy?

For me it's the feeling I get when I'm with my Grandson. This amazing, 11 year old, dynamo stirs emotions in me that I never knew I had.

Don't get me wrong, I love my children. My girls are wonderful, amazing, really fantastic, but having a Grandchild is indescribable!

I think when you have kids you're so worried about doing everything right and not screwing them up... you miss a lot! You love them, you enjoy them, but there's this underlying tension and worry. This weird anxiety like your forgetting something or that you've missed something.

Not to mention the fact that you don't ever want them to see you for who you really are! God forbid. You need to keep the grand facade going that you're this all knowing, all powerful, perfect "parent." Even though they know... and you know, you're not. You never were.

With my Grandson, it's different, it's all about love. Unquestionable, unconditional, undying love.

I look at him and I see bits of his mother, sure that's easy... but more than that I see my Dad, my Mom, traces of Uncle Charlie... and I see me. In him I see what must be traits and characteristics of the many generations of my family that came long before me. I also see the future.

After I'm long gone, he'll still be here. He'll hopefully have a wonderful life and a family of his own. He'll have memories of me that don't include my disciplining him, or punishing him. He won't think about the times I messed up or made is life miserable, because it never happened. He won't blame me for things that have happened in his life, or worse blame me for the things that didn't happen. His memories and judgement of me won't be clouded by that whole painful parent/child, love/hate thing.

Nope, after I'm dead and gone... he'll be left with memories of "Grandma." ...and with any luck at all he'll be overcome by a feeling of unquestionable, unconditional, undying love and feeling of joy.