Hi everyone. Here's 2 samples of something new i've learned...doing kaleidescopes digitally. Fun. enlightening.

If u like it, go to this link to learn more.
http://www.krazydad.com/fungames.php

Have fun...and hope u enjoy my results as well.

The first one I call "Entrance way for the Masjid" and the second one I call "Paracheuters in fall formation".

The original picture was...guess what...some dead trees. Fantastic, eh?

balqees.

Islamic Blog Directory: If you'd like to join us...

Islamic Blog Directory: If you'd like to join us...

FROM VIETNAM TO ARABIA

FROM VIETNAM TO ARABIA


It was the time of my youth
Yet I was becoming aware
Of what was going on about me
Here, there-everywhere.

Oh, I've never been a wizard
At global civil issues
But the Vietnam war awoke in me
A sense-on which I used many tissues.

But like to many teenagers
Of my day and age
I was more concerned about myself
And those around me in such a rage.

And like so many I was affected
By our own country's propaganda
So that I believed what they presented us
Of the Red Indians, the rag-heads, even of Uganda!

So, then, why shouldn't I be taken in
By the stories they professed
Of how those dirty evil scumbags
Of Nam were imposing upon us?

And Hollywood joined in the campaign
Eventually presenting us with entertaining fare
Of how those nasty Viet-cons would soon come after us all
Even to the extent of our very own laire!

So why shouldn't we support our leaders
Who did so masterly dare
To send our young men into the gates of hell
Way over there?

I mean, the front was not on our land
We were not facing the danger over here
The conflict itself was far, far away
So why should we even care?

Raise the patriotic blood pressure,
That was their plan!
Make the world safe for living
For every women, child, and man!

But they had a fine plan indeed
To play to the masses
Don't raise the standard of living too high over there
Just enough fit for asses.

Ensure that the Americanos would remain always
On the top of the social ladder
So as to keep their spot high above
The rest of the world-Oh, what's the matter?

Well, all of this did not dawn on me
Until many ages gone by
Beginning with separation from the influence
Of the propaganda-making machine-Oh why?

To tell you the truth-I've had the privilege
In these ages since then
To get a new, truthful perspective on all things
Life in general, and lands, and men.

One great lesson I've learned
Is that life's not all cut and dry
That the administration doesn't always tell the truth
Oh-how they love to cover up and lie!!

And I've learned something about myself
After all those passing years
Why I cared about that Vietnam war-
Why I shed so many tears.

I was afraid about my dear brother-
The only one I've ever had to this day
That his number would come up
In the frightening draft-Oh, what a day!

I was afraid of the day to come
That he would eventually have to choose
To either serve or run
Either way-I'd be the one to lose!

My brother going away-
For me to lose his presence was my greatest fear
I know it's awfully selfish of me
But I was only a teenager-didn't you hear?

He never did serve
In Vietnam nor elsewhere in his day
Something I've always been so thankful for
In every form, shape, and way.

And as the years progressed along
And we all matured as they added up
It was me who left him behind
For another life and land-mixed up?

And so to Arabia I escaped
With the man of my dreams, as it's romantically said
To carve out for myself my own choice of life
Living in the land of the desert bed.

No sorrow nor regrets have
Plagued me through the years
Other than my separation from my birth family
And yet I've learned to live with those tears.

But this life has enriched and enlightened me
In many ways more than one
On how to be a better person
I only hope that I can become.

So back to memories of the Vietnam days
Isn't it strange how the two have entwined?
From Vietnam to Arabia in one phase-
A lifetime of memories in crossing separating lines.

Dad's Eyes

DAD'S EYES

Author's note: We were each literally dragging our feet on our writing assignment from the minister. He had given us the opportunity to talk at Dad's funeral or write our thoughts to have him incorporate into his speech, if we couldn't talk. We all opted for the second. But even then, we were dragging our feet collectively on this assignment. It seemed like to put down our memories in writing made the whole thing so much more real. Seemed to put a seal on his death. Dead is dead. No denying that. But to put our thoughts down in writing seemed to make it ever so much more real, and burning to each of our souls.

That night before the minister was supposed to come visit Mom in the morning, none of us had written anything yet. And then we each retreated to our own spots individually in separation and isolation, to try to gather our thoughts and put them in writing. It was a terribly long and lonely night for us all. When I talked to my oldest sister on the phone, she said she really couldn't bring herself to writing anything…it was just too hard. I said…I know. That's alright. Whatever. Told her if she had an idea of what she wanted to say, I could perhaps put it into words on paper for her. So, she mentioned to me (only reminding…for I had already thought of it myself as well…it was such a common thread for each of us in our relationships with Dad) about the memory of his eyes. The look he would give us. We called it the 'beady-eyed-look'. Read on the essay to learn more. I wrote it, but it was my sister's idea. So, we both participated on this one. She ended up writing down her own thoughts…things that literally brought tears to my eyes as well. But this essay was a joint effort by her and me.


DAD'S BEADY EYES


Although Dad was most generally easy-going, and often even kept much of his emotions to himself, still we kids could often read him quite easily and with much accuracy.

One thing very common to all four of us was that we could tell when Dad was angry or upset with us, even if he did not scold us.

We affectionately called it the 'beady-eyed' look.

When he became angry, his eyes, particularly the 'eye balls' would constrict to a very small bead-like size in the center of the white. And the color of those eye-centers would turn the deepest black, in sharp contrast to the surrounding white.

Hence our term 'beady-black-eyes'.

More often than not, he would refrain from further scolding. A simple look from him with those eyes was enough to tell us we had done something wrong.

-Connie Cook & Samira Van Fossen

DAD AND HIS CAT

**In 2005, I and all three of my adult children and my 2 grandsons (had only 2 at that time) traveled to the US to visit my family. It was the last time that I saw my father. Strange intuition-when we parted at the airport as I was preparing to board the plane back to Saudi Arabia, could hardly look my father in his eyes. And he had similar reaction. Seemed to be that we were on the same brain wavelength-had this terribly strong intuition that I would never see him again. And it turned out to be true.

During our visit, I was terribly struck with my father's newly adopted pet...or the cat that adopted him, you might say. So struck that I ended up writing about him and his cat. I was terribly pleased that I was able to get this piece done and sent to him to read before he died in 2007. He did read it, and he enjoyed it.

And so, I invite you also to read and enjoy. Envision my father as he is described.

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DAD AND HIS CAT

My Dad never was a cat person. At least that's the way that we kids remember our youth. There was this resident family dog-a stray that was most likely part golden Labrador-that as family tradition has it, began her life with the family somewhere about the time I entered into the picture. As for me, I'm the youngest in the brood consisting of four-three girls and one boy. And although Lady was the family dog-she and I developed quite a close relationship-seeing as how the others grew up and moved away from home in search of their own niches in life. She needed some companionship, and since there were no other brothers or sisters left at home for me to bother, we clinged onto one another with a naturally balanced pull. She died-or we all supposed because she just wandered off one day never to return-at a ripe old age for a dog of something like 17 years.

Mom and Dad, out of their loving and caring duty as parents, replaced Lady with a completely different type of dog. But it was me, at that funky and finicky teenage, who eventually left home and the responsibilities of that dog-leaving Mom and Dad to shoulder that burden.

The memories of my childhood and Lady brings with it memories of a stray cat that adopted us for a year or so. She had something like two litters in a year, each litter consisting of 8-10 kittens. I was truly thrilled with the cat and her kittens. But not Dad. One of his more strong rules was that the cat and her kittens were not allowed into the house. It was something of miraculous nature that she was allotted a box in a corner of the garage, and not literally kicked out in the street. Although Lady's domain was the garage as well, she did not get scolded as the cat did if she or any of her pups wandered inside the house from time to time. And although she was a dog, she was remarkably patient and understanding of the cat taking up residence as well.

Mom was never objecting to either the cat nor the dog. And she didn't even seem to mind if they wandered into the house from time to time. Her only request with respect to the animals was that they don't stay in the house. Their place of residence was outside. She had enough to take care of with us four youngsters plus her ever-changing shifts as a nurse in the maternity ward at the local hospital. She didn't need the excess stress of trying to potty train a cat and dog and cleaning up their messes. Something that I can fully understand and sympathize with now that I am a full grown woman, wife, and mother.

But it was Dad who was always so objectionable to the cats. That is what rings in so clearly with all the memories. And that is what makes all the more recent developments so strange and even amusing.

I live quite a far distance from Mom and Dad now. On the other side of the world-to be more exact. And the circumstances of life have prevented me from more frequent yearly visits. But we do keep up to date on each other through the other various forms of communication.

One of the more recent tidbits of news was that a second stray cat had adopted them. To be more precise, this second cat adopted Dad! A year or so previously, a cat had adopted them-but she apparently was more inclined towards Mom. Because of her coat's coloring-mostly black with white paws-they named her 'Bootsie'. And then came along 'Blondie'-this new stray that adopted Dad.

As I said-Dad never was a cat person. I don't think he ever really hated cats-or any other animal, for that matter. But he was never attracted by their charms. He was just as aloof in respect to the cats, as are the cats themselves aloof and finicky in general.

So Blondie must have done a real heavy trick to get Dad to respond to her in such a fashion.

On my last visit to them a couple of years ago, I found myself just gawking in amused awe and exchanging secret memory-filled looks with my brother and sisters when we would witness the intense and loving exchange between Dad and Blondie. Looks that only we siblings could possibly know the meaning of. We were all reliving those memories from our childhoods through those looks.

Because Bootsie and Blondie don't get along too well when confined inside together-Mom and Dad have agreed to designate separate sections of their house to each, and rotating their outdoor excursion times, in attempt at preventing the literal cat fights. And no matter what they do to prevent their intermingling and eventual fights, it still happens from time to time. The most predictable result is a terrified Bootsie hiding under the bed with the triumphant Blondie perched nearby, to ensure that her opponent is weakened, frightened, and in hiding.

The most amazing and amusing scene was to see Blondie- obviously feeling rejected from Dad's not noticing her and sitting with her-come raise her paw at the glass door beside Dad's reclining chair. He had been pre-occupied by his visitors from Saudi Arabia, and so had forgotten about his normal sitting time with her. And Blondie, out of her need for his company and attention, and her own impatience to be able to wait any longer for him to realize this on his own, took it upon herself to come and call him out to the porch.

The inside of the house enclosure was Bootsie's domain. She seemed to be older, and had problems with a hyper-thyroid, and needed the relief that air-conditioning provides her in the sub-tropical climate of central Florida. Blondie was the newcomer-they weren't even sure yet how long she would stay-and she was obviously more inclined towards the outside and even did her fair share of hunting. So, because of this, Blondie was assigned the screened-in (non-air-conditioned) porch area-from where she also had quicker access to getting outside.

Now, picture this if you will-here we are at mid-day, in the mid-summer heat of July, and my almost 80-yr-old father is responding to the beck and call of a cat, to sit with it on his lap-first putting a towel on his legs to catch the shedding blonde hairs. My Dad who could hardly tolerate a cat in a box in the garage out of his sight. Petting this cat, talking to her ever so softly, using endearing names for her, even singing or humming to her-enduring the sweat and the heat all in the goal of comforting her heart-to know that her adopted human Dad still loves her, even though he's now busy with his little girl visiting from far away.

We all seem to mellow out and change with age. Amazing-even amusing sometimes-what those changes are.

THOUGHTS ON DAD AT FUNERAL TIME

**My father passed away in August 2007. He had been ill with lung cancer for about 6 months. At least that is when he had the first diagnosis. It was diagnosed only in the last stage. He must have had the cancer for a long time prior. After the rounds of chemo and radiation, the tests showed that his lungs had cleared, but it had spread to the liver (perhaps even before the treatment), and he was now too weak to undergo any more treatments. He knew at that time that it was his death sentance. I have lived my whole adult life in a long-distance manner, and we were deemed to part long distance. Sadly, I did not make it back in time to see him one more time before he passed. Needless to say, it has been difficult at best to cope with that. The following is something that I wrote for the minister overseeing the funeral service to read for the people in attendance.

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THOUGHTS ON DAD AT FUNERAL TIME


How do you put the real feelings into words?

How do you express a lifetime of love, joys, and sorrow in a few short lines?

When a girl loses her father-it's no easy thing for her to handle.

My father was no ordinary nor simple man. He worked tremendously hard and long through the years to provide for his family the best possible within his reach. Yet he never let work or monetary success take priority over simple happiness and satisfaction of his family. Leisure time and fun family time was equally important as was striving for necessities and even luxuries for daily life. And although he was dedicated to his loving wife and precious children, he never forgot about his ageing parents behind him. He had a canny and tactfully loving manner of paying due attention to all. Not forgetting to mention his dedication to the betterment of the society through volunteer work in all stages of his life.

If I had the chance to send him a message, I would tell him that although I remain his little girl-I'm no longer a little girl. With his passing I've aged greatly-perhaps finally grown up. I've already told him that I love him, and with that we both had our own closure. But I would also promise him that his memory-and perhaps his legacy-will live on.

Not to be forgotten, nor lost, my dear father has found a sense of importance and immortality by the endearing mark he has left on this world.

And now I pray for him for the peace that he so sincerely desired.

-Samira Van Fossen
27 August, 2007

ODE TO A BELOVED UNCLE

**PREFACE: The following was written in loving memory of my husband's uncle, after he died in the spring of 2005. As you will learn, he made a lasting impression upon me and my life.
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ODE TO A BELOVED UNCLE

His talent, his knowledge, and the art-now lost forever!!

As muslims, we have been fore-warned that as time passes, and as the Judgement Day draws near-as the Hour has been established-so will the beneficial knowledge decrease. Scholars of Islamic teachings have interpreted this through the ages to mean not that knowledge will be picked from our brains and removed as one picks and removed berries from a bush-but rather that those blessed souls who have been endowed with knowledge and a special talent or a gift will die off, without-for some odd reason or another-having passed on that knowledge or talent for future generations to benefit from and develop upon.

And so this happens now as I am a sad witness to it.

The passing of Uncle Abdallah is a sad blow on so many. It is always typically selfishly sad for us when a loved one passes along. Out of our natural human inclinations, we cry out of the sorrow of looking towards the moments to come when we will miss the presence of our loved one in our lives. A presence which we had become accustomed to, and which we selfishly dread when faced with the reality of this immediate future void. That is in reality a reflection of the love of one's self, not of the loved one who has passed along. How many times-at the death of a loved one-have you heard those remaining cry out for fear of the unknown which the deceased must be entering??

Uncle Abdallah was well-trained and professionally versed in the age-old art of what might be called 'traditional orthopedics'. He was not a lettered man. Nor did he go through anything anyways near a conventional medical school. But he knew how to read, understand, and interpret an x-ray. And even more important-he knew in his brain and heart where and how to guide his crafted yet strong hands to set straight even the most peculiar bone and/or muscular deformities, fractures, slips, sprains, and strains. In the Arabic, his craft is known as one of the many branches of 'arab medicine'. This term is a wide-encompassing term meaning in general traditional treatment passed down through the centuries and generations. In encompasses a wide range of treatments from the usage of herbs and spices and home-made remedies of mixtures of ointments and lotions as well as various herbal potions, and of course, not excluding the physical treatment of setting straight orthopedic ailments.

His practice could perhaps be compared to the more modern development of chiropractic treatment, but only in a vague way. This is an art encompassing much more than mere chiropractic practices.

And so sad for the remaining community-his craft and this gift from God has been lost now forever. Unless and until God should grace yet another soul miraculously to begin all over again. But it is a feat not easy to achieve. For the knowledge that Uncle Abdallah acquired and went to his grave with was not something he merely woke up with one day. No; it had accumulated painfully and slowly through the ages; passed down from generation to generation, to apparently diminish and disappear now in this age. So sad for those remaining.

So many knew him far and wide. He had no need to advertise. The simplest and most ancient form of advertisement-word of mouth-was plenty to assure him of even the most distant customers, day and night, all through the year.

Severe cold or rain would not discourage them from waking him and his family at any hour of the day or night. Nor would great distances or miles be a hindrance for those seeking an option to long periods of uncomfortable casts or invasive surgery using steel implants, which would require even more eventual surgery. And, unlike the various modern-day treatments, his age-old practice proved to induce good, strong, proper, and even healing of the bones, muscles, and related tendons and fibers.

A dearly lost art indeed. And a man greatly missed by so many.

He was widely known as fair and just in all matters. Extremely generous, he would jump at the chance to entertain and feed the guests. He was well-known to even compete with others in attaining guests for entertainment, so deeply rooted was his inclination towards generosity towards the guests.

And so loving and caring for his family. Always ensuring to provide the best he could for them, and more. And although he had no dependable monthly income, he was never one to be known to be miserly towards his children or his wife. Yearly ensuring a trip to Makkah and then to Madinah for witnessing the completion of the fast of Ramadhan and the celebration of the eid. And providing for his wife not only the enjoyment of the trip, but as well gifts for her to take back home for herself, and plenty of shopping money for her to buy gifts for her loved ones back home as a treat of her return from traveling.

Such a loving and generous man indeed. Even in the late years, when the two (i.e. man and wife) had become rather slow and weak in their movements, he was so daunting on his beloved wife to take her himself personally to visit her sisters or other loved ones, keeping her hand in his to guide her in and out of the car to the door of the houses, and back. And now, the surviving wife is left to face the emptiness of her house, the evolving emptiness of her life without her life-long partner, and the upcoming excruciating moments when she must clear his possessions out of the house out of her view. Going back into her bedroom now, the pain only begins over and over again, as she notices his cloak hanging in the closet, his clothes hanging on the hook on the wall, and the thin cane he customarily carried along with him, all painful physical evidence of his one-time presence in this worldly life. Letting go is always a drawn-out and painful process. But it is something that we all must face eventually.

Of those he treated, I will narrate briefly to you of only a few to demonstrate his explicit talent. One-a young man-was in a devastating car accident. It was a miracle that this young man did not die in that accident, nor was he more seriously hurt than the fractures that he encountered. But he came out with a broken thigh bone, and a shattered hip and joint. The doctors prescribed a sequence of surgeries to reset the break, and to reconstruct the shattered hip and joint. The young man and his mother so wisely opted to try Uncle Abdallah's traditional treatment. And so he proceeded in his usual manner of first washing the injured area with warm water and soap. And then his hands began with the knowing pressure and pulling, advising those standing by to hold the man down as the pain would rise, until he got the fracture and the dislocations and the shattered bone fragments all set in the proper places. Then he would wrap the region with perhaps a strap of leather, covered by some gauze, after first applying a mixture of a ghee and honey rub as a soothing ointment which also helps induce the healing process. And before leaving the patient, he would first instruct the patient and family on how long the wrap should remain before removal or his next visit; and also on how or when the patient can bath; and he would remind them also of the importance of healthy diet to help induce good healing: fresh meat broth, fresh fruits and juices, etc.

As for the young man, the treatment consisted of several such repeated visits over a span of several months. And, finally, when the healing was complete and all wraps removed and he could easily walk again, he returned to the doctor who treated him those first days and nights at the hospital. That same orthopedic surgeon who was so insulted by the young man's insistence to exit the hospital, fractures untreated, on his own accord and accepting his own responsibility for any adverse reactions to his own option for refusing conventional treatment.

The doctor could not believe his eyes: the young man was walking again-only several months after the accident-with only a slight limp, no sign of any distortion of the leg, nor any sign of surgical entrance. How could this be??? Could it be true???

The doctor asked the young man to agree to a new x-ray, as well as he asked medical records for his chart and previous x-rays to make a study comparison between the two sets of x-rays.

It was truly amazing! Without any invasive surgery; with only his skilled hands, experience, and knowledge, Uncle Abdallah was able, by the grace and permission of God, to renew this young man's leg into a miraculously healed and useful leg!!

All praises and thanks be to God Almighty. And may He shower His mercy on Uncle Abdallah and let him rest in peace.

As for uncountable others-truly countless breaks, dislocations, deformities, sprains, and strains, have all been successfully set straight by Uncle Abdallah.

But now to be no more. He and his art and his heart are lost to us all now forever.

But the memory of him, of his talent, of his love and care for his fellow man, will carry on in so many of our hearts for a long time. As well as the memory of so many witnesses to his attention and attachment to worshipping God in the best possible manner.

If I had the chance to relay to Uncle Abdallah a message-I would say: 'We miss you dearly, O father!! Not only for the great service you provided to so many, and the odd hours that you would- without any complaint- jump to help others, but for your deep and caring heart, for your strength, for your love and kindness. I pray that you will rest in peace and comfort now, with no more pain or discomfort, and that you will be admitted into the most beautiful and wide expansive Heavens!! Ameen!!!'