Patricia Panahi
Born of a Catholic mother and Moslem father, Patti is never sure what religion to follow, or any at all for that matter.
In her youth and early twenties, she explores numerous religions, but none speak to her soul. She can't accept the idea that one group has the whole truth and everyone else is wrong, or confused, or infidels, or a cult, or going to burn in hell for all time. To limit her thinking for religious purposes is like living in a cubicle and not being allowed to look over the wall and see what is going on outside. She wants to think for herself, to study, to analyze and to practice without inhibitions. Why would God only accept the practices and prayers of one particular group and not others? An omniscient God can't be that petty, can he—or she?
She finally concludes that she just doesn't know and flounders in a spiritual void for a time. But when she is diagnosed with a serious illness and haunted by inner demons of her past, she cracks and falls apart. Deep, buried emotions erupt to the surface, shaking her to her core.
Propelled to seek answers and find inner peace, she cries out to the heavens for help. Consequently, she tumbles into a spiritual adventure that explodes her concepts of reality and opens her to a brave new world where souls talk, trees emit energy fields, rocks have life, and God is everywhere.
Patricia Panahi holds a BA in English and an MA in Linguistics from San Diego State University. She spent twenty years teaching English to international students in Iran, California, and Hawaii. She also directed ESL programs for Hawaii Community College and the University of Hawaii at Hilo.
In the mid 1980's, she owned and operated The Light Spot, a metaphysical bookstore and coffeehouse in San Diego. She also managed the Inner Visions Center which offered classes and workshops on personal transformation.
Patricia currently devotes her time to writing and her spitirual path. She lives on the Big Island of Hawaii with her husband and one mischievous feline.
Islam
My friends say that Daddy talks funny, but I think that’s just the way Daddy talks. When he can’t remember an English word he snaps his fingers over and over and says wha-cha-ma-call-it. Daddy’s from a place called Iran. It’s on the other side of the world. Nana says that he used to be a graduate student at Columbia University, but after he married Mommy, his family in Iran stopped sending him money, so he had to go to work with Papa, Mommy’s father, in the ink factory.
My parents met at the Natural History Museum in New York while Mommy was on a high school field trip. Nana says she and Mommy used to burst out laughing because Daddy used funny words to explain things. Nana says I look like Mommy, the same big blue eyes and fair hair. I like looking like Mommy—I think she’s pretty. My sister has Daddy’s exotic look with dark hair and brown eyes.
When I was six, we moved to our own house, a small three-bedroom with a fenced-in yard in Elyria, Ohio. Life was ordinary, predictable, and secure. I wore saddle shoes, wiggled my hips in a vain attempt to keep my hula hoop in the air, watched Howdy Doody and Captain Kangaroo, and loved trick-or-treating on Halloween. I attended Eaton Elementary, a spare sock full of marbles in tow, in hope of winning bigger and prettier ones. During Ed’s visits, we’d explore the local woods, share our favorite comic books, see scary movies like the Blob, or stroll up to the local Dairy Queen for chocolate-covered ice cream on a stick. My summers were spent exploring the neighborhood and nearby forest and stream, usually staying out until dusk. “Just be home for supper,” Mommy would say.
But when I was nine, my world flipped upside down.
Daddy went back to Iran to take care of family business, but then discovered that he couldn’t return to America because he hadn’t served in the Iranian military. Unable to come home, undoubtedly missing his wife and kids, he said we should all move to Iran, that we would have a better life there. He could work as an architect because he’d graduated from Tehran University before he came to the States. We would have a nice house, he said, and we could even have servants to help with the chores.
I didn’t know anything about Iran, couldn’t begin to understand what this meant. All I knew was that Daddy had been gone for over a year. I missed Daddy.
Mommy reluctantly agreed. Yes, we would move to Iran.
I remember the day everything fell apart. My sister and I were at Nana’s house because Nana was taking care of us while Mommy was busy handling all the details for our move to Iran.
The phone rang, and suddenly Nana’s voice got high and hysterical. I crept up the few steps to the dining room where Nana was talking on the phone. She hung up and turned to me, her eyes red, her face contorted. “Your mother is gone,” she said. “She’s run off with another man. She’s not going to Iran.”
