an itinerant observer

I didn’t set out to build anything. In the late 2000s, in Houston, I was doing what I was employed for, pediatric emergency medicine: long shifts, clinical and academic/research competence, the steady rhythm of a life that made sense on paper. And yet, something was off. Not broken. Not dramatic. Just... hollow in places I couldn’t quite name. I was busy, productive, advancing, while feeling, quietly, that the work was losing its soul. Or maybe I was. Around that time, without fully understanding why, I started writing stories for children. Not to teach. Not to intervene. Just to speak plainly and gently about things that had become too loud and technical in adult language. Fear. Illness. Change. Courage. Curiosity. The small, interior weather of a child’s mind that often gets flattened in clinical encounters. That’s where Biloongra – the kitten, the child, the me - came from. It began with a simple instruction. While I was in Houston, wandering through questions of purpose and...

Seven years. That’s how long it’s been since he left - though it’s a complicated kind of absence, more presence-in-absence than true departure. My father, Abu, was not the type to explicitly guide or advise. He was not a mentor, and certainly not a friend in the typical sense. We did not have those deep, heart-to-heart conversations. Instead, he was this quiet, steady presence in my life, sometimes maddeningly so. A provider? Yes. But as a father, in the conventional sense - someone I looked up to, leaned on, shared my struggles with? Not really. And yet, in some strange way, he was always there, quietly shaping my life choices without interference, accepting whatever I was doing, however unremarkable. I have often wondered if he would approve of the decisions I have made, like the time I signed his code status as Do Not Resuscitate . I remember standing by his side, grappling with that decision, feeling both alone and strangely anchored by the quiet figure he had always been. An...

Introduction In the reflective journey of life, we encounter profound wisdom from various traditions. Taoism offers invaluable insights with its emphasis on living in harmony with nature and embracing simplicity. In this article, we delve into three key concepts: Wu Wei, the childlike spirit, and the harmonious flow. By combining the wisdom of Taoism with the concept of the Reflective Journey, we invite you to navigate life's complexities with grace, authenticity, and a harmonious flow. Wu Wei: Effortless Action and Non-Action Wu Wei, the core principle of Taoism, is often described as "non-action" or "effortless action." It teaches us to find balance between action and non-action, understanding that sometimes the most effective course of action is to refrain from acting. By observing nature's wisdom and flowing with the natural course of events, we can navigate life's challenges with ease and adaptability. Embracing Wu Wei allows us to focus on the ...

“Baba, today you may pick me up early and take me to the zoo”. And thus Noori had spoken. Noori the kindergartner was obviously having some withdrawal symptoms since she had not been to the zoo in over a month. Noori and Baba frequented the zoo, at times twice a month, albeit for brief visits. Having a yearly membership to the Houston zoo enabled such frequent jaunts to one of the most favorite shared activity spots for the daughter-dad duo. What was more likely though: Mowgli’s spirit had entered Noori that morning, the way she was rattling off about the characters of the jungle book. After school I took Noori straight to the zoo. Hence, the jungle book, without offense to Mr. Kiping, was re-drafted by Ms. Noori. Mr. Sher Khan and Mrs. Sherni Khanum were ignoring each other. They had an argument about who was arranging dinner that night. Colonel Haathi was brushing his tusks after a huge meal of elephant chow. Bagheera was pacing up and dow...

Jack did not have much of a childhood to write home about. That obviously did not hinder his meteoric rise; as a young professional, he was already on top of his game. He was quite successful, with a salary in the six digits, vacations pre-planned for a year in advance, and stocks and bonds neatly sorted out. While he could hold on to investments with alacrity, what he couldn’t hold on to, for dear life, were relationships. Friends, men or women, would come and go from his life, with surprising frequency. To him even his biological family, the little he had, felt like it was on borrowed time. I think the lack of long-term connectivity with human beings wasn’t particularly bothersome to Jack. I gathered this over the course of half-a-year when we crossed paths several times. Notwithstanding our differences as obvious as night and day, including our respective skin colors, we shared a common interest: salsa. It was over salsa that we first met. We were both enrolled in a week...

Prologue : The bathwater, initially clear blue, gradually takes on a pinkish hue. Like rose water … or fresh henna, that’s come off of tattooed hands and feet immersed in a bath tub. The water overflows onto the pristine white tiled floor, making it blush. Mesmerized by the changing colors, my mind unsuccessfully tries not to focus on the source of that color. Blood. That oozes out of deep slits in both forearms of a beautiful young girl. Hannah sobs quietly and sighs deeply – but refrains from screaming despite pain from incised sinew, nerves, arteries and veins. [Random thought: they say arteries and veins don’t have pain receptors … ] Hannah’s muffled groans eventually die down; so does her body as her life takes flight. And thus Hannah Baker dies at age 17. She takes her own life and she does so in an extreme manner. ****************************************************** “What if Hannah’s parents had discovered her in the bathroom a tad bit earlier? What if 911 ha...