Layli Maria Miron

Writer, Educator, Researcher

A day at the beach

Posted on June 15, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

The last few weeks have been hectic as Sergey and I nailed down such wedding requirements as invitations, reception location, accommodations, and dress choices (for me, not him). So we decided to go on a relaxing trip to the beach to recuperate.

Little did Sergey suspect that day at the beach with me is, well, no day at the beach.

Actually I was not the only companion–we went with a bunch of IT guys and a few IT ladies to a beach outside of Haifa where the aquamarine of the Mediterranean laps white sands scattered with seashells…and cigarette butts and charcoal, but still, a relatively clean beach.

A few months ago, I had dipped my toes into the Mediterranean for the first time in Tel Aviv. It is perhaps a little out of order that I entered the Dead Sea, a three hour drive away, so much sooner than the Mediterranean, which of course borders Haifa, but beaches kind of scare me. Actually, I have been to a Mediterranean beach before, in Barcelona. My overall impression of that beach was indeed fear. I was with my mom and Jasmine, and in our street clothes we felt a bit overdressed in the midst of what we realized was a topless beach. It was nothing I hadn’t seen before in art class, but…

Back to our present beach. Now, my ideal beach activity would involve lounging in the shade of a parasol with a good book, the soothing sounds of the waves in the background. Some people, however, prefer actually entering the water.

Not me.

I have a deep distrust of any open water between the size of large puddles and the Pacific. I think this arose from several mildly traumatic incidents. The first happened when I was a toddler and my swim instructor forgot to put floaties on me. Following his instructions–which I remember as him goading, “Don’t be a scaredy cat!”–I obediently proceeded to step underwater and came up having swallowed enough chlorine to bleach my insides clean. He was very apologetic. Besides that, there were the books and movies involving watery graves–Moby-Dick, Life of Pi, Titanic. Then there was the incident when, in my senior year at Mount Holyoke, I capsized a canoe, resulting in the loss of my spectacles and my dignity. And the latest and greatest, the escapade in which Jasmine and I almost floated over to Jordan on the Dead Sea. I still have the scars.

So, I argue that I am neither a coward nor a scaredy cat. I am simply more aware of the dangers of water than are others.

To compound these concerns, I was feeling genuinely sick, and unfortunately the seaside vendors seemed to only be hawking tiny kidneys–or at least that’s what the local snack appears to be–instead of ibuprofen or acetaminophen.

I started out with “I will walk in the surf.” I enjoy the nonthreatening whoosh of foam around my toes. Then Sergey convinced me to actually go inside the water.

There were two sides to this beach. One had some sort of breakwater that kept all the waves out; this is where most of the kids were. And that was the only side I would even consider entering. I waded in slowly, whining about the cold water, which was actually pretty warm. I swam a little in the midst of the happy children and their floaty toys.

Then Sergey decided to push his luck and induced me to come into the side with waves. Small waves, but still, waves. I demanded he hang on to me–“Don’t you dare let go!”–and we rode the waves up and down a little. Then I demanded he release me when I started to fear we were in too deep–“Let go of me NOW!” (Don’t worry, I could still touch bottom.)

Once I had gone through my odyssey, I could finally exit the water and do what I had come for: lie down, put on a sunhat and apply multiple coats of sunscreen, and read my book while daydreaming about painkillers.

I’m engaged

Posted on May 31, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Dear readers,

This is just to say, I am affianced to Sergey.

I’ve been saving my 50th post for this!

Bahá’í engagement means that not only have we decided that we want to get hitched, but our parents are on the same page. Thank you, parents! See my parents’ creative Naw-Rúz present to us below:

Most of you already know the story, but for those who don’t, here’s a little info lifted from my “Why Sergey” essay.

On July 5, 2013, I stepped off the airplane into the Holy Land. After getting through immigration, I was welcomed by my contact person from the BWC. There were a number of contact people there, including Sergey, who was there to pick up two of my orientation mates, Elika and Bahman. I was too tired and disoriented to make much conversation, but a photo Bahman sent, showing the three of us posing together at the train terminal, evidences at least some interaction. Through my daze on the train to Haifa, I listened to the conversation around me (how were these people so lucid?); Sergey said that he had not yet been to the beach. That lack of enthusiasm for beaches told me we were soulmates.

Just kidding. It actually took me a number of months—four, to be precise—to realize my attraction to Sergey. I didn’t see him much in the course of a week; an archival assistant has little professional reason to interact with an IT project manager. But, as luck would have it, we were both taking a Farsi class with my coworker Farideh. I would usually arrive a few minutes early; Sergey would usually arrive a few minutes late. (He claims that I always reserved a special smile for him upon his tardy entry.) Whereas I am a very quiet student, dutifully taking notes and asking the occasional question, he would ask loads of questions, gesticulating energetically, and remark upon the connections between the apparently infinite languages he knew—Russian, Romanian, Hebrew, German, English. Fortunately, neither of us had a knack for Farsi, or perhaps he would have found my stumbling attempts to speak the language more off-putting than charming; he seemed quite inspired by my small successes, congratulating me with a “Very good!” Occasionally, when I had given a response, I would feel like Sergey was looking at me a bit too long, but then figured it was just because I was in his direct line of vision.

Then, one day, everything changed. The occasion was the Birth of the Báb, celebrated on 5 November. After the program and circumambulation had ended, I found myself in the midst of the crowd that gathered to socialize in the small space in front of the pilgrim house. Feeling claustrophobic, I moved to the periphery, where I saw Sergey, apparently also alone. We greeted each other; I inquired after his Farsi studies. “I don’t like big crowds,” I commented. “Me neither, I would rather be somewhere above the crowd, maybe a roof, where I could watch,” he said. (Soulmates.) Then he invited me to join him and his friend Vafa for falafels. If I ever write a children’s book, I think it will be called Vafa Awfully Wants a Falafel. Although I usually abstain from crashing other people’s plans and from unforeseen falafel outings, I said sure, since I needed to head that direction anyway to find a replacement watch battery. It is important to note that I had been suffering greatly for the past week since my watch had died, leaving my wrist naked and me tardy.

So, Vafa, Sergey’s friend from Ukraine, led us to a small falafel shop in the Hadar district, the kind with mirrors above the slim counter so you can watch yourself spill pickles and drip tahini. Or at least that’s what I did. Afterwards, Sergey insisted on paying for my sandwich in a chivalrous move that I came to realize is a deep-seated part of his character. At that point, I was ready to set off after the battery and leave Sergey and Vafa alone, but instead Vafa left, and Sergey insisted he would help me. “This is my new mission,” Sergey said. “And I don’t give up until it’s accomplished. Plus, it’s for the sake of the BWC, since your office needs you to be punctual.”

For some reason, nearly all the watch stores were closed, and all the stores selling batteries didn’t have the cell I needed. (I can’t help but wonder if perhaps that was providential, as it gave us a reason to spend more time together.) After nearly an hour, when the sun had set, I was ready to call it quits. But Sergey told me not to give up so easily—there was one last store. I was skeptical. It was a hardware store with big things like tires and tools. But he insisted, and lo and behold, in a tiny set of drawers on the counter, we found the right battery. Sergey put it in my watch, and to my elation, it started ticking!

Over six months later, and five months since we made our “character investigation” official, my watch is still ticking away, leading us closer to our eternal union.

Mother’s Day

Posted on May 11, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Today is Mother’s Day. So, in honor of one of my most dedicated readers:

Mommy holding me in front of the Lorax mural she painted.

Here you are with me and this mural

both at least partially your creations.

You must have been so patient,

finding the inspiration,

sketching the composition,

then painting so neatly

until the magical landscape encircled us.

When I think of you, I think of you making:

collages, frames, food, family,

the bright birds from gourds and beads,

your mind winging baroque whimsies.

Mother: creator.

To Mommy, across the seas.

The Hyrax

Posted on May 3, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Q: What would you call Dr. Seuss’s Lorax if he grew taller?
A: The Hyrax, of course!

I had never heard of these wondrous creatures before I visited Hermon National Park in northern Israel. And I might not have noticed them, had it not been for my curiosity about some stairs leading up a hill at this park. Explorer that I am, I decided that I had to see what was at the top. We climbed up accompanied by another gentleman from our group. When we were a few paces ahead of him, we heard him cry out–“Look! Some sort of large creature!”

I froze. Did mountain lions live up here? Was one crouched on the nearby boulder, preparing to pounce? We descended the stairs to see the fearsome beast.

It was a brown, furry, ball of cuteness with a surly face, poised atop the enormous boulder with a clear “king of the hill” attitude. It regarded us with disinterest, these lowly hairless creatures who had blundered into his realm.

Soon we discovered that there was a whole clan of hyraxes living on these boulders. In a reptilian way, they like to sun themselves because they lack good thermoregulation (like me). They are actually rather remarkable. Although they look like big rodents, they are actually related to elephants (they even have mini-tusks), and their ancestors have been sunning themselves on planet Earth for nearly 40 million years–20 times longer than modern humans have been around. Sergey and I went paparazzi on them, and a few indulged us by holding their poses.

Later, I was once again wandering in the park, this time behind some sort of utility building, when I spotted a small animal ahead.

“IT’S A BABY HYRAX!” I exclaimed and gave chase. He skittered behind a tractor away from my camera, but this time we had truly hit the jackpot: a whole extended family of hyraxes peered at us from the brush beside this building.

This one is showing off his tusks in what appears to be the biggest smile a hyrax can give.

This one is showing off his bitty tusks in what appears to be the biggest smile a hyrax can give.

The nursery for the babies seemed to be indoors, through an open window; they played on a thick vine hanging from a tree, running up and down. One young fellow got too excited and tumbled off the vine to the ground, then picked himself up and ran back. It was seriously so cute it made me want to cry.

The time came that I had to leave my new quarry and resist the urge to take one back to Haifa with me. I will have to content myself with my hyrax photo album.

Nimrod and Pan

Posted on April 19, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Last weekend, I exchanged Mount Carmel for its wilder cousins in the Golan Heights, thickly clad in green. There were two destinations on this trip, which was organized by some coworkers: Nimrod’s Fortress and Banias Springs.

After some initial picnic-packing panic due to my forgetting cutlery (“We’ll have to scoop up the rice with Pringles!”), spoons were procured, and the day was off to a good start. After a picturesque drive through verdant northern Israel, we arrived at Nimrod’s Fortress, looking very medieval indeed with its stone battlements crowning the mountaintop.

Fortress ahoy!

The fortress was built in the 13th century by the Mameluke Muslims. According to legend, this is the place where Nimrod, great-grandson of Noah, was punished by God with a mosquito inside his head, which drove him mad. Alternatively, and less interestingly, this might have been where Nimrod built a castle. Anyway, suffice it to say that the fortress is really big and old, with various chambers and passages to explore–“a playground for adults,” as a friend put it.

The first thing I noticed was the tranquility. Quietness is fairly impossible to find in the Haifa/Akka area–there is always the hum of traffic, barking dogs, distant voices, the occasional soccer match or lusty caterwaul. But on this mountain, the predominant sound was birdsong. I could almost feel my eardrums relax in the peace.

After a stroll along the length of the fortress, Sergey and I reached the keep. The keep–the most defensible tower of the fortress–is also called the donjon, which is a much more entertaining name. So, in a corner of the donjon, we found a steep staircase on the edge of the mountain. (Don’t worry, there was a railing.)

“Do you want to go down there?” I asked. “It looks pretty steep.”

“Sure, but will you be ok?”

I took this as a challenge.

“Let’s be adventurous!”

After mincing my way down the crumbled steps, using Sergey as my banister, we reached a chamber. After stooping inside, we saw the only way forward was to crawl through two low archways, which we did. I was pretty proud of myself. Let’s pretend “crawl through medieval fortress” was on my bucket list–accomplished!

Rare moment of physical activity.

My bucket list also includes not dying by tumbling off the side of a mountain in northern Israel, so when we saw that the stairs on the other side were even steeper and more deteriorated, we retreated.

But our adventures were not over. The next stop was Banias. Sergey and I, hardy outdoorsmen that we are, were already exhausted by this leg of our journey. While some in the group proposed a 1.5-hour hike, we sleepily wandered off toward the ruins of Paneas, an ancient Greek site of worship for the God Pan. A wide grotto yawned in the reddish rock face; this was where sacrifices were tossed, apparently. Niches in the rock indicated where statues had been.

Niche with Greek writing above

Now, to our credit, Sergey and I did attempt to do some hiking around the park. We walked along a pretty stream adorned with foliage. According to the pamphlet, we must have encountered the bur-reed, loosestrife, and common hemp agrimony. To me, it sounds like some botanist was feeling buried in strife and acrimony.

About 15 minutes in, I threw in the towel. To our delight, upon our surrender, we walked into a clearing where a Druze couple in traditional garb sold Arabic coffee and thin, crepe-like pita with zatar and lebaneh cheese. It was a snack worthy of Pan.

Ok. So I have endeavored to control myself for the duration of this post, making it somewhat edifying with historical tidbits gleaned from the brochures and Wikipedia, but what I really want to write about is hyraxes, which have since that fateful day entered my pantheon of adorable small creatures. In fact, I think I need to devote a separate post to them–I’m just that enamored.

The Vainest Chameleon

Posted on April 15, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

This blog is transforming into one of a recreational naturalist. I promise, I do more than stumble across mongooses and petrified hedgehogs here! It must be good karma from those tiny lizards I saved from sticky traps last year.

So. I was on my way out of the office headed to lunch. Now, I have an uncommonly beautiful walk to the lunchroom nearly every day, walking through the blooming splendor of the gardens. There’s always some gem to discover, whether it is a tree snowing petals in February, the yellow snapdragons lit up by the sun, or a colorful songbird.

But this day my encounter with nature was super duper extra special.

There I was, on my way out, when I noticed something green sitting on the white marble steps. It was a chameleon!

Already preparing to tip over.

Imagine my delight at seeing this odd creature unleashed from the confines of a pet shop terrarium. Its eyes oscillated in different directions. Its feet were cloven into two sets of two toes each. Its tail was curly. It was a true wild chameleon.

I was getting pretty close to the chameleon because, technophobe that I am, I don’t know how to use zoom on my phone camera. The lizard seemed slightly nonplussed, then sort of tipped over and plopped off the edge of the stoop onto the next step, where it landed gracelessly on its side. I felt guilty, assuming I had caused its flop, but then it slowly picked itself up and walked to the edge of the step and proceeded to do the same, this time tilting over onto the gravel.

Gathering momentum for the next dive

It was truly the most unapologetically graceless animal I’ve had the privilege to watch. I don’t know how it even got up the steps in the first place, but I’m not sure that it had any options for descent besides letting gravity do the work. Furthermore, it was clearly a slave to vanity, choosing to pose against the backdrop of blinding whiteness rather than the inconspicuous safety of camouflage against any of the abundant surrounding greenery. If this was an Aesop’s fable, it would probably have been scarfed up by a fox.

Instead, clever creature, it decided its willowy figure was best accented with a vertical pose.

And then I had to go to lunch and resist the urge to make him my pet.

Rat a tat tat

Posted on April 6, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

It was Friday morning, and I was on my way to the office. As usual, I knocked on Sergey’s door (a few floors downstairs) to pick him up for the daily commute. He opened the door. “Can you come in for a moment?” he asked. “I have something to show you.”

Now, the last time Sergey said that, he had a bouquet of roses waiting for me inside. This time, it is a rat. I don’t want to read too much into what this means about the progress of our friendship, but…perhaps some backstory is in order.

First, Sergey and I had watched Ratatouille, which I find an unbeatably adorable movie. I mean, a French foodie rat with family problems? So cute.

A few days later, the movie really came to life.

Apparently, Sergey’s version of the gourmand critter flew/climbed in through the kitchen window. Yeah, Israeli rats climb walls and break into apartments. He and his flat-mate, upon discovering their guest, hid nearly all the food and dish ware and sterilized the kitchen. They left out sticky traps, peanut butter scented, to catch the beast. But this rat was smart, and, while avoiding the traps, went for the real peanut butter, nearly gnawing through the lid. I had to admire its palate and persistence.

The final weapon in the weeklong battle of man versus rodent was old-fashioned rat traps. That is how on that Friday morning there came to be one terrified rat cowering piteously in the corner of a trap on the kitchen counter as I looked on. Seriously, it was so pathetically afraid–trembling, big beady eyes panicked, squeaking whenever Sergey spoke or moved.

In the abstract, I don’t think retaining vermin is wise. Rats carry all sorts of pestilence and are a health danger to humans. But, watching this creature, clearly so afraid to die, how could we do anything besides give it freedom? So outside we went with this pet, and released it into some bushes. It ran off without so much as a backward glance.

TO A RAT (apologies to Robert Burns)

Small, worm-tailed wee creature,

with dirty paws your concerning feature,

why do you choose to live

‘neath this ancient fridge?

At quiet hours you grow spunky

and gnaw a banana like a monkey

leaving your marks of hunger

for us in the morning to discover.

I am sorry that we curse your life,

tempting you with cruel delights,

tidbits luring you into traps like sirens,

rewarding your desire with a prison.

But, wise rat, you chose well your abode

for herein dwells a gentle landlord

who cages and evicts you without pain or loss–

though perchance you will miss this kind host.

Check out “To a Mouse” for the classic rodent ode.

Farewell, puppy

Posted on March 25, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Shadow Amerson, 2004-2014

My family’s dog of a decade passed away.

I’m not even sure where to start with writing what I guess is an obituary for her. Ten years is a long time, at least for a 22-year-old. I’m not sure how people manage to condense a human life into a newspaper column, because I really struggle to write this.

We got Shadow directly from a breeder. I remember this lady as rather brusque and slightly racist, which are perhaps common features for someone with such passion for purebreds. If I recall, Shadow’s father was an actual German German Shepard. I’m sure she had a proud lineage, and in fact, her family tree is probably better mapped than mine. But as German Shepards go, she was of the longhair variety, considered inferior and inadequate for a show dog, which made her affordable.

Unfortunately, her pedigree didn’t serve her health. Even in puppyhood, she was a sickly dog. I won’t go into the details–in fact, I can’t even remember all her various sicknesses and emergencies. Suffice it to say that her cone became a frequent accessory.

I have some memories of puppy behavior class at PetSmart. Mainly I recall one gentleman who, to our distress, insisted on ruffling her ears. Growing ears should be handled with utmost delicacy so they grow erect and regal, but she had one ear that insisted on flopping over. As the years went on, she acquired more physical eccentricities. The extraction of a broken canine left her long, mole-specked tongue lolling out of one side of her mouth. An affliction in her eyes made them droopy and bloodshot. But she was a beautiful dog, weighing in at 100 pounds, massive for a female.

Shadow in the snow

Oh yes, remember that behavior class? Well, she didn’t either. As Shadow grew bigger and stronger, it became difficult for Jasmine and me to walk her. Any understanding she had of the command “heel” dissolved at a sighting of a squirrel or passerby. Our walks reached their inevitable culmination when, one day, walking her in the prairie behind our house, a jogger stepped out from behind a bend and Shadow, surprised, lunged. I was pulled to my knees and hung on with all my might (which wasn’t much) as she pulled me along in her pursuit of the jogger. It was rather like water skiing if the boat were a dog and the water was grass and no skis were involved. Finally we got her under control, and I got up, my knees grass-stained and shaky. Really, big dogs should come with brakes installed. From then on, it was choke collar–which didn’t do much with her thick fur–or the halter.

She was the ultimate family dog, protecting us with spit-flinging barking fits from any delivery person who dared ring the doorbell, or worse, friend who dared to step into her territory, and entering panic mode when we were absent. One thing you need to know about Shadow was that, underneath the stoicism (instead of seeking affection, she seemed to resign herself to my insistence on petting and baby-talking her) and the fierceness was a profound sensitivity.

Shadow: “Stop…touching…me.”

(I write that, and then I think about her lifelong greeting: goosing me. Well, sensitivity takes many forms.)

As a puppy, she was once outdoors taking a bathroom break during a storm when an enormous clap of thunder scared her nearly to death. From then on, she retained a phobia of thunder and similar booms like fireworks–we cursed Hometown Days with its lengthy grand finales that made our dog tremble and whine piteously–and later on any remotely bass sound. The grumbling motor of the garbage truck terrified her, turning Mondays into the Day of Whimpering. When she was young, we would sometimes spend the day in Waukesha with our grandparents, leaving her in the basement tornado shelter as a makeshift kennel. One of these times, a storm passed over Verona. Driving home through the puddled streets, we had no way of anticipating the mess we’d find in the shelter. Great bloody streaks ran down the door with bits of fur embedded from when she had tried to claw her way out. It was like something from a horror movie entitled “Separation Anxiety.”

Shadow had her quirks, her phobias, and her ailments, yes. Her eccentricity was only rivaled by the lead character in Marley and Me (go read it!). Nevertheless, my fondest memories of her are relatively normal: playing in our backyard. She had a big red ball that we would roll across the grass and she would chase and even dribble it with gusto, tripping over it with her big paws.

A rare slightly athletic member of the Amerson clan

In the winter she bounced through the snow, ignoring the ice-balls that would gather between her toe pads, leaping, diving, chomping up snowballs. I remember her eagerness, waiting for a ball to be tossed, her body poised and taut in anticipation, sometimes uttering a yip if we made her wait too long. Even in her dreams she would play–or at least that’s what I imagine she experienced as her legs twitched and she emitted adorable sleep-woofs. Later on her dream life progressed to scratching at the floor as she dozed, and sometimes I would wake up to the sound of her scratching downstairs. I wonder what she was digging up.

When I said goodbye to her this summer, I knew there was a good possibility I wouldn’t see her again. But still the loss stings. How strange to imagine my house without all the sundry arrangements we made for her–the water dish in the downstairs shower with the curtain hemmed high enough to let her under, the toddler gates, the doghouse in the kitchen. The strange emptiness there must be without her sounds, her scent, her doggy presence.

Shadow, girlie, I will remember the smell of your ears, that waxy sweet fragrance hidden in the soft fuzz and sticky skin of those keen, twitching sensors, the way I still remember the dusty, salty scent that clung to the feathers of Skippy, my parakeet. I will remember kissing your dry, rough nose. I will remember burying my hands in the warm, luxurious fur around your scruff. I will remember your canine language of woofs, whines, whimpers, growls, groans, and barks. I love you. Like so many pets, you helped teach your humans new ways to love.

The Fast

Posted on March 15, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Today, my groggy eyes are presented once again with a stunning sunrise. The sun peeks up at 5:52 like a fiery tangerine hoisted from its nest behind the mountains. I lift a hand up to protect my eyes, and it is stained orange by the light. Some of the clouds look like mountains that have simply detached from the earth; both land and sky are permeated by the same pink glow. Two minutes after the sun rises, on schedule the lights at the seaport switch off.

Climbing onto my bed with a prayerbook in hand, pulling up the curtains, and assessing the sunrise has become one of my fasting rituals. Most days, a layer of clouds obscures the sun now that we’re finally getting rain, but every once in a while, I am treated to this splendid feast of colors.

The first sunrise of the Fast

For me, the Fast forces heightened consciousness about time and habits. I’m not saying my focus gets sharper during the Fast; the afternoons are always a struggle between my desire to take a long nap and my need to keep working. The other day, I bumped into a friend who told me that during the rest of the year, our souls are slaves to our bodies, but now our bodies are slaves to our souls. An interesting theory, but my stomach is certainly an ill-behaved thrall, kicking and screaming for food.

There is no other time of the year when sunrise and sunset hold so much sway over my habits. In fact, usually I rarely see the sunrise. But I also notice other things–for example, over the past two weeks, my sugar cravings have declined, and I have survived on a nominal half-cup of coffee in the mornings. And getting up at 5:15 gives me so much quiet time before going to the office in which I can write. I think I might be a closeted earlybird.

I’ve also realized just how close my office is to the upper terraces, the Bahá’í gardens that climb up Mount Carmel. Without the routine of coffee breaks in the morning and afternoon or the daily trip to the lunchroom at noon, I find myself with more time to go outside and enjoy the scenery and sunshine, which is a form of sustenance in itself. On one of my photosynthesis strolls with Sergey, I spotted a big praying mantis sitting motionless at the bottom of some terrace stairs, and crouched down to watch this alien-looking creature. (Have I mentioned I like creepy-crawlies?) It was the first time I’ve seen a “wild” mantis in ages. A few days later, we saw what appeared to be an otter scampering through the gardens. He clarified that it was not a landlubbing otter but rather a mongoose. All my mongoose knowledge stems from the 1975 movie Rikki Tikki Tavi, which I remember watching on one of my parents’ compiled VHS tapes of children’s films. It was pretty great to see one in real life, long, sleek, and tawny, though with no apparent cobras in tow.

In fact, many office workers have the same idea and emerge these days. I wonder if the local gardeners think it’s funny, this yearly exodus of winter-pale Bahá’ís to the outdoors, sniffing the fresh air and clambering up the staircases of our Eden. Where else in the world would I get to fast with so many other Bahá’ís, who all experience the same hunger pains, sour breath, and low blood sugar afternoons?

Kingfisher

Posted on March 10, 2014 by Layli Maria Miron

Today for the third time

I saw the kingfisher.

Today for the third time

he saw me and flew away.

Jewel bird, he is his own diadem,

amethyst crown and sapphire cloak

with a lick of silver at his throat.

He saw me, and he retreated

as I stepped closer, hoping to gaze

at such treasures as my greedy eye

and his glittering wing can alchemize.