My Womb E-Book

Sadaff Habib

• Herausgeber: BooxAi
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The depths of the womb are often not fully understood. Not only is it a source of life energy but the womb is the source of a woman's healing and a testament to her regenerating ability. This poetry collection honors the womb's capacity to heal herself, to birth her dreams, and to navigate the shadows of the feminine experience. From the loss of childhood innocence to the denial of societal expectations and conditioning, witness the peeling, shedding, and eventual re-birthing of a woman, through these poems, much like a phoenix rising from healing ashes of pain. Join me through moments of light, love, self-doubt, and conversations with grace.
My prayer for you is that these words guide you to your own healing grace.

Leseprobe

Sadaff Habib

My Womb

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2024 by Sadaff Habib

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, electronic or mechanical methods, or through the incorporation of this material into Artificial

Intelligence knowledge bases or Artificial Intelligence generated products, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by law.

Cover Design and Illustration by: Rein G. Layout Design by: Rein.G www.fiverr.com/reindrawthings

Published by BooxAI

ISBN: 978-965-578-903-4

MY WOMB

A COLLECTION OF 108 POEMS OF UNEARTHING, UNRAVELING AND RE-BIRTHING

SADAFF HABIB

CONTENTS

Introduction

1. The Fire

Don’t Yell

A Child Soldier Is Born

School Bags

Happy Birthday, Son

Wanting to Die

Your Marriage Took It All

Nobody Loved Me

A Psychic Garbage Can—No More

The Ultimate Tragedy

2. Healing From Ashes

Is Death So Bad?

The Abyss

Do Not Mistake That I See Myself as Weak

A Human in Pain

Would It Be So Bad to Slow Down?

A Contract to Live My Truth

Will You?

I Am Enough

Melting, Shedding, Burning

The Basket of Dead

Oh, Healing Grace

The Healing Horse

The Creator Within

A Combined Consciousness

Me, My Own Foe

Healing To Sparkle

The Struggle

Forgive Me, I Failed to Love Myself

3. The Dawn of Rebirth

My Womb Can Rebirth Me

No Longer Afraid to Stand Alone

Learning to Live

The “Original” Mind

I Am

What Am I to Create?

A Code Decrypted

Reflections on the Buddha

Devotion

Oneness

Mother Earth’s Wisdom to Her Child

I Am the Key and the Key Is Me

The Silence Within

A Fear of Death or Never Having Lived?

My Hands

What Is This Life I Wonder?

Bliss

Life Force

A Shifting

Faith

A Thirst for Wings

The Compass

Forever Free

Do Not Dishonor Yourself

Effortless Existence

?

Light

Head Bowed to Heart, I Listen

What If Your Happily Ever After Is Right Now?

The Ultimate Journey

What Is Yoga?

Who Is to Say What Came First?

A Prayer

Separation

Death Trance

The Feminine Is Birthing

We Are the Light That We Seek

4. The Rising

The Wild and the Woman Unite

My Voice

An Everlasting Union

My Soul Is Dancing

Desert Flower

A Faithful Love

I Honor My Song

Let It All Explode in Me

It Is Time to Rise

Does It End?

The Forgotten Feminine

Because Today I Breathe

A Mantra from Within

Each Special and Unique

I Believe I Can

Tribe or No Tribe—I Am Happy

I Am Unique One of a Kind

For You, Mother

The Power of Our Pack

Gaia

The Dance of My Psyche

The One Who Knows

My Womb

Little Me, My Little Yoda

Not Withered, but Wizened

Grateful to… Me

I Love All of Me

Who Am I Now?

My Guru

Turn Your Achilles Heel to Gold… and Let Go

Healing Tree

It Is I Who Chose This Test

The Gateway to the Universe

Act Like a Lady… No More

I Grow Silent

What Is My Truth?

A Moving Meditation

The Embodiment of the Divine Feminine

I Embrace All of You

What Is the Love That I Seek— Can It Be Outside?

Jump

Wounded Gifted Soldiers

I March On

A Song for My Soul

About the Author

To the one who created me,

To the other who liberated me,

To the two who birthed me,

To the third who pushed me,

To all those who came before me,

And to all those who will come after me.

INTRODUCTION

An End to a Beginning, a Beginning to an End

Wounds. Pain. Hurt. Tears. We run from them a mile away. The slightest discomfort that arises we wish to change immediately. In my journey so far, I have realized that in our deepest and darkest of wounds, the ones we don’t like to think of, let alone feel or be reminded of in any way. Those wounds are as precious as gold. They are our gold. In those depths of sadness, betrayal, and loss lie our gifts waiting each moment to be born.

Ultimately, all those tears are pearls of wisdom and all those lonely moments of heartache, a balm to the soul. This is not a realization that we have or that can come easily to us when we are shrouded and entangled in sadness. It certainly did not come to me immediately. But it came to me as I journeyed on, and I realized that it is possible. It is possible to be in a storm of life and yet watch detached. It is possible, and I believe it is part of our purpose on this earth. For a long time, I questioned, “Why am I here?” What my purpose is. The answer that I grow and learn to understand each day, is simple. I am here to be the best version of myself. Not of you, or my family, nor to meet anyone’s expectations of what I should or should not be, not to pigeon- hole into a role, not to satisfy a criteria, but to simply be me. Because when I return to the Creator, and I am asked how I lived, I want to proudly say I lived as no one and nothing but me. All of me in a moment. But to arrive at me, a lot of shredding was and continues to be involved. Letting go of conditioning, shreds of expectation and denial, can take time and I have grown to accept that this is okay. To return to my original mind, my original state, to return to that blissful moment; for that moment, all the pain is worth it.

And it is not always about pain. Sometimes, the sight of a baby green parrot pecking for food in an area otherwise frequented by crows can be a sight of grace. Other times, a little Sofia showing you her doll can bring back your lost smile. Yet other times, the silent ever watching blue sky can share its wisdom.

It is always there. Never far but very near. Our salvation, our thirst, our want for happiness, is but a breath away, provided our hearts are wide open to receive. To open our hearts to such grace, that is our noble mission. To achieve it, we must purify. To purify, we must walk through those shadows that we hurriedly lock away.

You may wonder why I call this poetry collection My Womb. Biology dictates that a woman has a womb to procreate, to birth another human. In mythology our wombs hold much more power, grace and healing. The womb symbolizes the sacred feminine, creation and life. It symbolizes regeneration and nurturing not only for others but for herself. A woman’s precious womb can heal her wounds and re-birth her into all that she is.

Why 108 poems? If you add 1+0+8 you arrive at 9 and it takes 9 months for a baby to grow in the Womb before it is ready to greet the world. 108 is a spiritual number of great significance. There are 108 beads in a Hindu mala (rosary). There are 108 sacred sites all over India. There are 108 stars in Chinese astrology and 108 marma points in Ayurveda. The diameter of the Sun is approximately 108 times the diameter of the Earth, and the average distance from the Earth to the Sun is about 108 times the Sun's diameter. Similarly, the distance from the Earth to the Moon is approximately 108 times the Moon's diameter. Isn’t that so special?

This poetry collection unfolds as the journey of a heroine through 108 poems. Her odyssey commences in the depths of childhood scars and unwept tears, only to emerge on the other side—from a wounded little girl who lost her voice to a woman proclaiming her divine feminine essence. She questions spirituality, dances with nature, and embraces the full spectrum of her being—capturing the essence of all that she is and continues to become.

I invite you on this journey through shadows, through moments of light, through more shadows, through self-doubt, through the divine feminine, and conversations with grace. Let these poems serve as your own compassionate healing hand.

My prayer for you is that through these words you

find your healing grace.

With eternal light, love and blessings,

Sadaff

Let the heat of your flames burn me to the ground, let the warmth of your embers penetrate my wounds. Oh, holy fire, accept my agony as a sacrifice to you.

Don’t Yell

Don’t yell; it hurts.

It hurts my ears, it hurts my heart,

it hurts my existence.

Existence, 4-year-old me does not know the word,

but I feel it.

I feel that I am.

I know that something thumps inside of me,

threatening to burst each time you yell.

Each time you fight, each time you hit Mummy.

Please, I beg you don’t yell.

Is it my fault?

Are you unhappy because I am here?

Are you unhappy that I was born?

Don’t yell, Papa. Don’t yell.

My heart beats faster than I have learnt to count.

I tremble with fear, I shrivel with cold.

I don’t know where to hide.

Are you not supposed to protect me?

I see Mama cry.

Don’t yell, Papa. I beg you.

But you do not hear my cry.

You do not see my pain.

You do not hold me.

You do not love me.

You have left me.

A Child Soldier Is Born

I felt your pain.

He kicked you, and my stomach ached

He pushed you, and I got knocked.

He dragged you by your hair,

and I felt my head go numb.

You collapsed in pain and I died inside,

seeing you motionless.

Mama.

I felt each slap, each push, each punch.

Helpless, I watched,

Too young to defend you,

Too scared of Papa.

He was too big for me,

Not knowing what to do.

I cried.

I prayed.

I cried.

I prayed.

Tears unwiped;

Prayers unheard.

Frozen in fear, I watched you cry for help.

I ran to the kitchen to find a knife,

Its sharpness I knew from the vegetables you chopped.

The cold steel would protect me, you, us, from whom?

It was my job to protect you.

It was my job to shield sister.

It was my job to take care of us all.

The murder of innocence,

The funeral of my 7-year-old self⁠—

All with the shine of a blade

As I walked toward you, knife in hand.

Papa took it away from me and violently shook you.

Terrified.

Not until later in life did I understand

I died in that moment.

From your child, I became your soldier.

School Bags

School bags,

A memory floats from the past.

A friend’s school bag I once admired flashes past.

Because at 10 years, she was prettier than me,

smarter than me.

And if I had the same school bag,

I too would be pretty and smart.

Maybe my parents would then love me,

see me, hear me.

A complex ingrained,

A life in vain,

A schoolbag carried for years.

Until my shoulders were too weary,

Begged me to let go.

Broken backed, I gathered courage

To allow myself to believe

School bag or not,

Pretty or not,

Smart or not,

Loved or not,

Seen or not,

Heard or not,

I was always enough.

Happy Birthday, Son

Excited, eager, it is my 13th birthday.

Officially a teenager, a rite of passage, a crossover.

Cake for me and lots of presents

And love from Mummy and Papa and Sister.

I am sure Papa will bring me a gift tonight.

It is my birthday after all.

I am ready, dressed up and happy.

And Papa is here!

Empty, with no gift.

Empty, with no excitement.

Empty, with no happiness.

It is my birthday; my heart cries.

Never mind, I tell myself.

We will cut cake and be a happy family.

I mean, play a happy family.

Request me a song papa on the radio.

A fight. An argument.

Should Mummy call the radio or Papa?

I should have never asked for anything.

I should have never asked to be seen or to be heard.

I should have never been born.

Harsh words. Sad words. Tears run down my cheeks

My birthday is over.

Papa requests a song.

Happy birthday, Sadaff, may he have many more.

And I am a boy.

He does not correct them.

He gets angry at Mummy.

Embarrassed by his failure—the adult in me reasons.

13-year-old me cries in anger.

Body changes, puberty, no friends,

Fat, ugly, geeky,

Unloved,

And now I am a boy

No one ever sees my pain.

Wanting to Die

I wanted to die.

I wanted someone, anyone to rescue me, to save me,

to help me,

help me, save me from myself, save me from the anger,

the shouting, the cruelty of the world, the unsteadiness

of my world inside and outside,

to show me that there is a better world—another world

out there

where I am loved

and cared for,

where I am felt for,

where my tears are seen,

where I am beautiful.

You see, at the age of 14, I decided I was worthless.

I decided that I was an ugly duckling.

I decided that I would never be loved.

I decided death would serve me.

Not knowing what death really meant,

I decided it was a mistake to be born.

Your Marriage Took It All

Your marriage saw no room for me,

For my tears, for my growth, for my fears,

My dreams, my hopes.

Your marriage took it all,

Snatched me up in its embers of ego and pride,

Chewed me and spat me out in bones.

Between wiping your tears and listening to your anger,

Mine fell unheard, unseen, unwiped.

When my feelings became too much for my gentle heart,

I silenced them into the darkest tunnels,

into the deepest folds of my being.

I told myself I had to be strong, to take care of you,

That tears and the sharp pain in my heart from

the dagger of your words must be quieted,

Must be killed

So that I can be strong for you.

There was no room for me to share my pain.

The growing pains of a teenager,

The insults from a teacher,

The snares from fellow little creatures⁠—

There was no room for my aches, my words, my pains.

It was all about you and him.

Never about me.

Never do I recall a day I was asked how am I?

Am I happy in school?

Am I treated well?

And so I found my peace in books,

In words I found friendship;

In pages I found love.

Maybe this is why I do not wish to have a child

Because the child in me died an untimely death.

So quick, so swift, no time for a funeral.

And before I knew it, I turned into a woman,

Nursing the little girl, I once was,

Walking through the same shadows, to heal herself,

Never understood, never accepted.

All the pain pumps in the veins of my heart,

And now they throb for my attention.

Regretful, I allowed this to happen.

Grateful, I can salvage the situation.

A path of healing set before me

Decorated with buried tears and unleashed anger

I know not who I am other than your savior

Who am I outside these embers of violence

I call home?

Who am I meant to be other than your protector?

What am I outside this ‘family’?

Nobody Loved Me

Nobody loved me.

Papa did not see my tears and did not love me.

For if he loved me, he would never hit you.

For if he loved me, he would see that each blow

to your face was a blow to my tender heart.

For if he loved me, he would have knelt down and

wiped my tears and hugged me tight and promised me

that he would never hit you again.

And we would have lived happily ever after.

But there was no happily ever after.

From violence to poison words,

My broken heart grieved for a father and grief turned

into anger and hate.

Year on year, I housed two venomous guests

in my tender heart, anger and hate.

This was not me;

This was not my nature.

Oh, it pained my heart.

Hate pounded and threatened to smother me.

What could I do?

He was my dad.

There was only so much I could cry and shout.

And I hated him,

How I hated him.

Many moons passed and the pain grew

into a tree of its own.

Lost was the little girl tender and hopeful of the world

trusting in its goodness.

No longer safe did she feel for everywhere

she saw monsters.

Packing bags, unpacking bags, a broken home,

a band-aid home

Until the day I broke

And ripped down the walls built around

my tender heart, to protect it from hurt or cry.

Prayer and tears once again became an ally

As brick by brick, the wall came down

And my heart came back to life

And breath by breath I welcomed joy.

A Psychic Garbage Can—No More

You used me as your psychic garbage can.

Each time there was a fight,

You never, not once, thought I am just a child.

Was that fair? I ask.

Was that just? I shout.

And all my shouts and screams were unheard