A Dialogue

"Tis time to play", said the Sun to the Moon,
"Time to revel in the glory of day"
"I beg to differ", replied he,"tis too soon,
"Allow me to shine a little more if I may".

So too is the dialogue of body and soul,
A constant clash of conflicting interest
Each rallying for their ultimate goal
Body: pleasure; soul: eternal manifest.

Poetry speaks

My earliest and proudest memories of myself are of me writing. The very act of coaxing words out of my mind or heart or wherever words happen to reside and arranging them in some meaningful order on a page (or screen) always filled me with confidence and indescribable satisfaction. Often, however, upon revisiting my writing, I would writhe in acute embarrassment- my writing was, in my opinion, appalling and amateurish. Certainly not worthy of publication, even to my nearest and dearest.

But, in recent times, and ever so gradually, I am becoming increasingly, flagrantly apathetic: I am caring less and less about what people may think; more 'frankly-my-dear-I-dont-give-a-damn'.

So, I've decided to publish to my blog some of my writing, over time of course, because I did say gradually.

** ** **

Have you ever walked in someone else's shoes?
Or put on their overcoat
Waiving wall-papered mores from a civilized youth?
And when the raw, stripped walls scorn and scoff
In hushed response,
Do you regret your parade? Do you yearn to undress?
Alas, she has, she did, she does.

A poem by Emily Dickinson

IT was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl,—
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And ’t was like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.

But most like chaos,—stopless, cool,—
Without a chance or spar,
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.

"Possible high grade lesion"

Letters in the post are few and far between these days. Well, except for bills, but they are usually very clearly marked and receive no attention for days, sometimes weeks at a time.

But real letters, letters addressed to me, in white inconspicuous envelopes are a rarity. So it was with great enthusiasm that I tore open the envelope to expose its contents. I didn't expect them to be so brazen.

I've had mild (CIN 1) abnormal pap smears for the best part of a decade. The initial blow of being suseptible has come and gone. I know I am only human. I know I have an increased risk of cervical cancer. I have come to terms with it, and for the better part of my days (and nights) I don't even remember it- I'm very good at forgetting things I don't want to remember.

This was somehow different. I'd had a nagging voice for months telling me I was late for my pap test. But nagging voices in my head can't compete with the very real and urgent voices of my every days, my darling children.

God love them. God protect them always. And send each and every one of them on every road they take, a loyal and loving friend.




I love them more than I could ever tell them. I'm not good at telling.


So, as I was saying, if I am being completely honest, the contents of the letter did not come as a surprise. Not really. Though I'd hoped it would have still been 'mild'. I can do without upgrades, thank you very much. I've always had a modest appetite.

February 2nd, I will have a more invasive examination- colposcopy, biopsy etc etc.
Then surgery.

And then that will be that. God-willing.

Happy Days

Today was what I would class a 'productive' day. Not for me specifically, per se, but for our family unit combined.

Still in substantial dental pain following a tooth extraction a few days ago, I had had a very broken night's sleep and was decidedly unwilling to suffer fools gladly for any amount of time, so I thought it best to keep the clan as busy as possible, for as long as possible.

We started the morning with the daily chore ritual- everyone pulling their weight, some more willingly than others, but everyone nonetheless. Even the 4 and 5 year olds did their bit to tidy their room to a relatively palatable standard. Breakfast followed, then online maths, narrative writing and reading in half hour rotations for the eldest four. These are holiday routines- though flexibility is allowed, especially given my spontaneous fits of 'let's go out!' Today, however, I chose to improvise, as you do, and added the unexpected 'learn a Rudyard Kipling poem by heart' (thanks Hasaan) and ' use that sewing machine you bought'.

The children did not disappoint. Wafa learnt 'If'in obscenely swift time; Raneem and Maya opted for 'Mother O' Mine' instead, recited beautifully by the young ladies to all and sundry. Danny chose not to do a poem, preferring to persevere with his 3rd edit of an adequately gruesome narrative about the Orc and Werewolf nations. Inspired by my working children, I wrote my own story, or rather, published an old lullaby I'd written for my children to Storybird, a collaborative storytelling tool.

Lunch comprised of a very quick and easy beans on eggy toast which of course, as always, was their 'official' meal (it had been preceded by a conservative half a dozen snacks).

All the while, Maya had been trying to phone her mother but it would just ring out. Still, it always feels good to be doing the right thing and encourage contact with her Perth family. In the end, (it turns out that her mum's phone had been unplugged, unbeknownst to her) she got her chat and even recited her poem, bless.

There were board games, playstations, computer games, outdoor play, cooking, fighting, teasing, and the occasional tantrum as well- all part of a day at home in the McNulty household.

Wafa also took me up on my 'use your sewing machine' and made me my very own summer tote bag. I watched her in awe, lending a hand when she asked for it, but mostly just watching and silently admiring the young woman's confidence and ability. Maya did too, asking lots of questions and keenly taking in Wafa's thoughtful answers in preparation for her own turn at the sewing machine, "I'm going to tell all my friends at school that I made it myself", she asserted eagerly.

And all this before the clock struck 5. Dinner at mum's, a swim in Aunt Feda's pool, then home again for showers, movie nights, wind-down conversations and kisses goodnight.

And they even made a few prayers!

Yes, it was productive. But more importantly, it made me feel very very blessed.