Tell me something...

Two readers (family members) have complained that I talk way too much about my family and friends in this space. The underlying exclamation that I translated was that Goll Gappay is become repetitive and boring. Well, I want to ask you, is it?

What happens when I run out of things to say? And I am talking about big, inspirational things - things that will make a difference, things that will make you all say, "Yes, I feel this way, too," or "No, I don't feel this way, but I get that perspective." Do I just become quiet and the half dozen or so readers I have acquired drift away? Does it make a difference to anyone other than myself if no new words appear on these virtual pages? I am really trying to work through this. When I describe Goll Gappay, I often use the line "Little matters that matter," because it really is a collection of events and stories that matter, that may be insignificant but deserve to be told and shared. That was what I envisioned this blog to be. Am I losing this vision?

Why do I write so often about my family and friends? It's a valid question, really. I think the reason my posts so often circle back to family and close friends is because these relationships play a very important role in determining the type of inspiration I get for my writing. I am, quite unapologetically, a homebody. I am entirely unadventurous. My idea of a perfect afternoon is lounging on the sofa with a cup of coffee and a good book. I get my sense of nature by watching rain from the window, or by looking at the hills that seemingly undulate on the horizon. Even before we had Jahan, my husband and I spent our weekends relaxing at home, watching movies, reading, and cooking. We both just loved being in each other's company, and that was enough for us. We weren't hermits, but we didn't seek out big groups or busy venues to get a sense of fulfillment. We were both, to put simply, enough for each other. This still remains the case with the substantial modification of having a cute little toddler who loves to run around and explore, so now we do seek out parks and bookstores and child-friendly restaurants. 

If you are like me and are juggling work and family and writing and have no inclination to go and find inspiring stories, then you seek inspiration within, and you realize that it's really all around you. There is not just inspiration around me, you see. There is also goodness, and I am very, very grateful for this. I am in the company of good and interesting people. We are ordinary people with extraordinary stories to tell. Where else are you going to find a Pakistani woman who writes about a city she left over a decade ago and a city she hasn't yet fully discovered even after a decade? Who else is poised to tell the stories that I am telling here? Stories about acculturation and alienation and immigration and middle-class Pakistan and middle-class America and raising a first-generation American (or is my baby second-generation?) and confusion and finding meaning in mundanities and making the ordinary extraordinary and drive and passion and potential and success and challenges and disappointments and love and life and people and distance and loss and laughter and disaster and recovery and support friendship...

To me, these stories are worth being told. Maybe I tell the same story in different ways sometimes. Maybe I keep going back to certain things, some little matters that matter, truly, to me. And I shall go on telling them so long as you're there to listen. Are you?

Photos by Rebecca McCue