asma's blog

Do you ever notice how it’s quite difficult to stay focused on a specific task? And not just on an internal level. It’s everywhere externally.

I haven’t published anything on my blog in quite some time, but I’ve been writing. On and off, I would pick up my computer and start writing. Half of the drafts were started and then abruptly halted due to distraction, and the other half were discarded due to my own critical mind.

But today I feel inspired and ready to write about focus.

Upon my return from my travels this January, I found myself to be the most focused I have ever been. I was consistent, determined, and passionate about my pursuits, acting from a relaxed nervous system that made each of my next steps feel expertly planned.

I remember it felt a bit like skiing. Skiing is something I hold very close to my heart because it was the first thing I consistently failed in, but continued to practise. I was very young, maybe around 7/8, when my father introduced skiing to me. I was a wobbly little kid, with the wrong size skis, loose boots and snowpants that I’m pretty sure barely fit me. I still remember the first slope my father took me on, and it was not a bunny hill. It was an intermediate hill that I had no business being on. But I still went. Slowly and surely, I went down, bombing the hill in a vibrating pizza that was creating mounds of snow around my circumference. I could hear my dad in front of me saying, “Bend your knees! Bend your knees!” but feeling like I had no control over my body. My little legs began to burn from the incessant pressure of pushing against the snow, and I knew it was coming. It was time for a fall.

So I began to feel my knees buckle, and surely I fell, an awkward front-facing, cross-ski fall. I was scared and had no idea how to get up, because my angle was such that a slight lift up would have my skis begin gliding against the hill while my body positioning was still not secure. I did it anyway, and I fell again. I’m pretty sure I got down that hill half sitting, half tumbling, but I know I made it to the bottom.

Skiing is different now; it’s like a breath of fresh air that takes me away from the physical. I feel secure and safe regardless of which hill I’m on, and I have a deep sense of confidence that I will always make it down. I’m definitely not the best at skiing, but I would classify myself and a upper level intermediate. I haven’t skied in over a year; this winter I didn’t get around to it, but the last time I did it was soul-nourishing. My last ski trip was with my cousins in Lake Placid, NY, at Whiteface Mountain. It was a beautiful resort with uncanny views and challenging runs. I didn’t get around to too much independent skiing, as I was half teaching a friend and wanting to stay with the group; side note: I wanted to share a little reflection about teaching others to ski. I’ve been in a few environments in which I got to help others with skiing, and my favourite thing about it is seeing the looks on their face once they start to enjoy it. I know the first fifteen falls make you feel like you never want to do it again, but once you push past that, the satisfaction and pure joy I see on someone’s face once they begin to feel united with the snow, the wind and the gear is unmatched.

Okay anyway, back to focus. So the reason I bring up this ski trip is that there is one distinct memory I have that stays with me and reminds me of what it feels like to be in a flow state. A state of consciousness that surrounds enjoyment, determination and an effortless will to push through. I was at the top of a mountain; it was just my younger cousin and me. We both were nervous, as it was considerably steeper than everything else we’d been on. I looked at her, and I said, “Do you want to go first?” and she replied, “No, you go.” So I went.

I began to slowly inch towards the edge, my heart pounding in my chest, but then I remembered something someone told me about skiing.

“Don’t look down, dont look at your skis. Just look straight ahead, and your body will know what to do.”

So that’s what I did. I flung myself off the edge and began to pick up momentum; the hill was especially icy, so that added to the adrenaline, but for some reason I wasn’t scared. I was going fast, but I felt super secure. My legs were flexed and strong, and it felt like each movement was unveiling itself to me the more I trusted myself. It was almost like I could see invisible targets in front of me, telling me which direction to angle myself in and when to make my turns. It felt surreal, challenging but so natural. I felt like I was exactly where I needed to be, doing exactly what I wanted to be doing. Not a single other thought entered my mind, only what I needed. I was laser-focused.

Over the past few months, I’ve been grappling with how to achieve that feeling again, and I was craving that feeling of complete and utter immersion with a task. I would get it in little blips here and there with schoolwork, but nothing substantial. I would try to lock into things but I found myself always getting easily distracted and losing my focus. I used to think there was something clinically wrong with me, that I just was dumb and couldn’t focus on schoolwork. That all my peers were so much smarter and excelled so much more in everything academically related. Feeling constantly behind and frustrated about why I couldn’t be as focused or as diligent as them, I felt deflated and in constant mental ruts. And then one day, on a walk to meet my dad at a property, I stumbled upon a little pottery studio. Just a 6-minute walk from campus, this little place had been hidden away from me for all these years until the perfect time. I walked in and began to look around, not knowing how much joy I was about to experience in my life due to this studio. I was greeted with a friendly face to whom I inquired about classes. And lo and behold, a couple of weeks later I began my ceramics journey.

When I first started, I was met with constant failure. I remember my second day on the wheel; I spent about 4 hours throwing clay, unable to center. I had restarted and recycled the same pound of clay so many times that my water bowl was sludgy and sticky. It wasn’t even water anymore; it was a thick clay smoothie of failure. My wrists, back, and neck were sore by the end of the day, and I almost cried on the walk home. But a couple of hours later, as I was sitting in my bed after a shower, I began to crave the clay again. That’s when I knew. I found the feeling again. When I was least expecting it, and had no idea I even needed it, I found it again.

The next week and the weeks following, I went to class with a pep in my step. A sense of self-love and joy in what I was going to do. Centering became easier, clay felt like home, and the studio became a safe space for me. A place in which I forgot about trivial worries and just existed. Failing, succeeding a little bit, failing again, but continuously trying. And week by week I felt myself improving. Whether it was with trimming clay, throwing on the wheel, handbuilding, glazing or clean up. I felt like I was getting the hang of things, little by little, because I just had this immense enjoyment, and that made even the failure feel enjoyable. The rules didn’t make me feel constricted; rather, they guided and levelled me, just like the teachings of Islam do.

The focus came, the will came, the excitement came once I let go of expectation and fixating on an outcome. It just came to me most beautifully. I don’t know where or how my ceramics journey will go, but one thing I know for sure is I absolutely love it.