...

Intellect is a curse.

To be misunderstood by those who
speak
your native tongue
but comprehend
only foreign gibberish

To be ostracised
demonised
and
otherised
by those you are trying so hard to
humanise

To feel
alone
in a crowded room
To feel
strange
amongst familiar faces

To be frustrated at the relentless misunderstanding
of every thing you are trying to make understood

How lonely,
how utterly demoralising it must be
To be
Cursed with intellect.

Busy is a bastard

It feels like every time I think I may have a handle on what 'busy' looks like for me, it does a bolt and morphs into something bigger, scarier and more overwhelming. The hardest thing about 'busy' is that it constantly interrupts. Constantly. I can't seem to get through a single train of thought or write down a single cohesive post without it forcefully hurling itself before me... In the last month alone, I have tried to blog no less than 4 times (I have as many drafts to show for it, none of them complete, some barely cohesive). So, I wrote off the rest of November. Today, the 1st of December, I will ignore busy until I've pressed the publish button, come hell or high water. 

Miss 17 has now well and truly transitioned into school-free life; she's landed herself a casual job, she's spending more time with her siblings and she's actually using the word 'bored' at least several times a week. 

 

Miss 15 is enjoying the fruits of her tireless and persistent labour; she's the recipient of many awards and she's deservedly basking in their glory. 

Master 14 is in holiday mode already and getting ready to sign up to a gym membership; he wants to use this time to prep for his next season of soccer, which kicks off early next year.

Miss 13 arrives here early in the new year and we are all excited about having her spend an extended period of time here; she officially starts WA high school next year, so its her last summer as a primary schooler.

Master 9 (almost 10) is set on learning how to code. Now that his yearly exams are over, we can start looking for an appropriate program to help him do that.

Master 8 is really getting into his books (at long last). He's been devouring every book I put in his hands so hoping that continues into the holiday period.

Master 5 is starting 'big' school next year, so I'm trying to enjoy his last few weeks at home. He is sooo ready for it, but it will definitely be a change for Master 2 and I, not having him at home. 

The main task for Master 2 this summer is toilet training. He completely gets it, but refuses to actually 'go' on the toilet. It might mean a week or two of us being housebound, but it will be worth it if the penny finally drops and I can be rid of nappies forever. 

As for me, well, I've been flat out. AMF, the usual mothering routines with layers of end-of-year shenanigans and plenty of UToE's has kept me racing around like a lunatic. The whole family has had tonsillitis at least once this past month (some up to three times!) and hay fever has wreaked havoc on most of us. I've eaten myself through the stress of it all, so I am now on a mission to get fit and healthy pronto. I've even started up a FB support group to ensure I don't give up before I've hit my target. 

So, predictably, busy just couldn't keep away, and I will regretably have to leave it there. A bullet point list of an entry, with very little depth and even less poetry. The story of my life of late.

Love Unequal

Love: 'a strong feeling of affection'. 

What an inadequate definition offered by the Oxford dictionary, for something that has, since the beginning of time, simultaneously intrigued and plagued us. The subject that has inspired the greatest expressions of creativity - (literature, poetry, music, theatre) and the ultimate acts of sacrifice (one need only look at a mother's love for her child to see this explicitly demonstrated).

Love. The word, rightly or wrongly, is used to describe an expansive array of emotions, spanning numerous forms and categories of relationships. Probably one of the reasons why it is just so darn difficult to unpack.

Another reason is because it is never rational- it is not an algorithm, nor a comprehensible philosophy, and yet it is the epitome of truth; there is no other entity that is more knowable, simultaneously registering with body, mind and soul.

Love is what sustains us; without it, in one form or another, life would be without purpose, colourless, flat. And whilst it is equally important to love and to be loved (one cannot thrive without the other), love is seldom fair.

There is no harder pill to swallow than loving someone who does not love us back proportionately. A mother's love, a friend's love, a partner's love...any form of love is susceptible to this. It is one of the follies of love that it does not automate an equal reaction: the act of loving does not guarantee reciprocation.

It is a mighty hard thing for the mind to reconcile that its heart, vulnerably brimming with love, is not necessarily loved back. It is this mismatch that can render people detached, cold, closed off, cynical, inaccessible, mad.

So how does one cope? I was asked this today by a friend.
There is no simple answer; some people have better coping mechanisms than others. Some people are more resilient, by their very nature. Nevertheless, my advice was this: distraction. Keeping busy. The busier we are, the less pain we register, the less space there is to succumb to the ache.

It's also a good idea to invest more in the relationships in our lives that are working. We are all intertwined in a great many relationships, all of which need time and attention. Give yourself to them. It's not a cure, but a robust and worthwhile treatment. Let your love manifest more evidently where it will be appreciated.

Another remedy: prayer. Or meditation. Or both. Nurturing the spirit is a remedy for most ailments. And when the spirit is at ease, it often calms the other faculties.

But, as I've said before, far better to have loved and lost, or in this case to love more than you are loved, than not to have loved at all.

The alternative, never permitting oneself to love (if that is even possible!), is surely an intolerable, meaningless existence. How dull, how utterly tedious it would be to be indifferent. It is the antithesis to so many great things: a quote from Elie Weisel -  "the opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference.”  

So, in spite of all its irrationalities, its inequalities, its cruel incongruities, when all is said and done, it will have been worth it. 


 

70 excuses? I'd settle for 7.

Our best is not always enough. Good intentions are all well and good with God, but they’re not printed on our foreheads, they’re locked away in our hearts and minds, invisible to those who would benefit from seeing them. People will assume and deduce and label and condemn based on their own limited interpretations.

 

We are all guilty of it. Even those who love us do it. And we do it to those we love.

As Muslims, we are told to give others 70 excuses. Idyllic, yes. Easier said than done though.  

Such a tragedy. So much pain, so much heartache results from misconstrued intentions...

 

Bad friend vs good friend: An analogy of here and there.

Today, I was speaking to my 14-year old son Mohamad about this world (as you do!). I wanted him to grasp the truth of the human condition, even if only momentarily, because its not easy for any of us, let alone a child, to fully comprehend our place in the world. It is exceptionally hard to step outside our own frame of mind, that which informs the way we view and interpret the world and all it contains, to look from the outside in, and see the minuteness of us as individuals and the fleeting imprint that will be our life here. It doesn't take long for our passing to be forgotten, and only a little longer for our memory to fade. We leave nothing here but particles of dust- and only a lucky few manage any sort of enduring legacy, and even that is finite and limited.

So I put it to him like this:

This world is like a bad friend.  It masquerades as embodied perfection, with its beauty and its invitations to pleasure. It is exciting, intriguing and mysterious - a recipe for keeping you permanently interested. It tempts you into trusting it, into thinking it is loyal and faithful. It woos you into abiding its whims, distracting you from those things that would serve you better in the grand scheme of things. It does not love you and will not remember you when you are gone. It is the epitome of fair-weather friend; you only see its true colours when you are most vulnerable; and often times, it is too late a discovery.

Do not fall prey to it. See it for what it is, a beautiful lie. Be aware, and with God's Grace, you will be able to live with it without losing sight of what really matters. Do not take it as a friend, but acquaint yourself enough with it to leave your mark. Live with it according to the Prophet's hadith, as narrated in Al-Bukhari:

“Be in this world as though you were a stranger or a traveller/wayfarer.”
Ibn ‘Umar used to say:
“When evening comes, do not expect (to live till) morning, and when morning comes, do not expect (to live till) evening. Take from your health (a preparation) for your illness, and from your life for your death.”

And remember the friend that genuinely loves you, the one that will be constant and true and hold not just your memories but your eternal soul. It is your best friend, because it wants what is in your best interest. It is not just externally beautiful, it is the real deal. It asks nothing of you but to see through this world's pretence. It wants you to expose the delusion and to seek it with diligence and sincerity.

It's no easy feat maintaining it at the front and centre of our human minds, because we've yet to see it with our own eyes. We are yet to have the pleasure of beholding its unparalleled beauty. We've read about it, heard about it, even imagined it, but we simply cannot grasp its magnificence until we've earned it. And once we do, it will remember us, welcome us and love us,  unwaveringly, forever. And we will finally be home.




 

She's graduating!

                                                                                               circa 2008

This week will be my eldest daughter's final week of school. A culmination of 13 years of schooling will officially come to end this Friday.  I speak for myself when I say that it has been a beautiful adventure (I'm sure she'd beg to differ at this particular point in time, given she is yet to sit her HSC). I'm sure, after that dash is done, she will look back with fondness and treasure the memories formed in the wondrous world of school. God-willing.

The most significant outcome for Wafa, and the one I am most grateful to her many wonderful teachers for, is that she now has a deep-rooted love of learning. Her kindergarten teacher, Mrs Thompson, planted the seed, which was lovingly tended to by many inspiring individuals along the way.

One of the more notable teachers and unquestionably one of the finest teachers I've ever had the privilege to meet was Miss Critchley, her year 2 teacher. She went above and beyond, not just for Wafa but for her classmates as well; consequently, there are few school-related memories that don't feature her in some way or another.

I pray that Wafa's love of learning is an enduring one that will only be fortified by the enriching learning environments of tertiary education and beyond.  And, in case anyone has missed it in my previous posts about her, I am extremely proud of this young woman. Alhamdulilah.

Congratulations sweetheart!

xxxx Mum

The Perks of Being a Wallflower

**Warning: spoiler alert**

This book has been hailed a 'coming of age' story, though I don't really think that's the most fitting description. The main character, Charlie, starts high school  and celebrates his 16th birthday in the book. But he is already, in a lot of ways, an 'adult', mature beyond his years, having navigated an array of psychosocial crises, some beyond his expected stage of development. He is different, sensitive, intelligent. He's perceptive, reflective, loving. He is the antithesis of egotistical.

He starts the book in many ways a 'loner', not because he is unlikeable per se, but because he is so far 'ahead' in his development that he doesn't fit in with his regular peers. Consequently, he is taken under the wings of some older, more experienced/developed individuals (a gay senior student in the 90's and his sexually abused step-sister) - they are better able to recognise how beautiful he is, albeit in his own way, and they accept him quirks and all.

Though perhaps quirks is not the right word either. He's special. That's the best way to put it really. I fell in love with his character.

I think the book is quite well written, and the character development in particular is applaudable- there is enough detail provided to scaffold deeper understanding for the reader, giving access to a whole range of audiences (from young adult to the more mature adult like me!). I was able to connect with the characters, especially Charlie, and mould him into a version that made the most sense in my reading of the story. And it was a version that maintained consistency throughout the story, so kudos to the clever craftsmanship of the author for facilitating that.

Saying that, I found the book gratuitously sexual in some parts - which was probably the only inconsistency where Charlie's character was concerned. The only redemption in that regard was that it was articulated in a very matter-of-fact kind of way, which is consistent with my reading of his character. Nevertheless, I think some of those scenes were unnecessary and did not add any value to the book. At the very least, they could have been less explicit-  the book would not have lost any of its potency at all.

As a side note, the music and the books that were referenced in the story are a great collection to get your teeth/ears into. I have read some (not all) many years ago, but will revisit them over the next few months.

There were some remarkable observations made by this 16 year old, which made you forget just how young he was. I will share a few that I really loved. I guess they resonated with me because I think/have thought in that way too...

'And all the books you've read have been read by other people. And all the songs you've loved have been heard by other people. And that girl that's pretty to you is pretty to other people. And you know that if you looked at these facts when you were happy, you would feel great because you are describing "unity" '.


'I walk around the school hallways and look at people. I look at the teachers and wonder why they're here. If they like their jobs. Or us. And I wonder how smart they were when they were fifteen. Not in a mean way. In a curious way. It's like looking at all the students and wondering who's had their heart broken that day, and how they will be able to cope with having three quizzes and a book report on top of that'.


'I remember going to sleep last night, and I realised something. Something that I think is important. I realised that throughout the course of the evening, I wasn't happy about Craig and Sam breaking up. Not at all. I never once thought it would mean Sam might start liking me. All I cared about was the fact that Sam got really hurt. And I guess I realised at that moment that I really did love her. Because there was nothing to gain, and that didn't matter'.

'But it's like when my doctor told me the story of these two brothers whose dad was a bad alcoholic. One brother grew up to be a successful carpenter who never drank. The other brother ended up being a drinker as bad as his dad was. When they asked the first brother why he didn't drink, he said that after he saw what it did to his father, he could never bring himself to try it. When they asked the other brother, he said that he guessed he learned how to drink on his father's knee. So, I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we'll never know most of them. But even if we don't have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there. We can still do things. And we can try to feel okay about them'. 

There are so many poignant observations but I'll leave it at that.

There were some things I thought could have been executed better- like the fact that he didn't recall his sexual abuse at his first sexual encounter but does so subsequently, with the girl he loves. Perhaps that was intentional, perhaps it took someone whom he was emotionally deeply connected to to trigger those repressed memories, but it's not clear enough. Plus, once it's revealed, it was not given its due diligence and the story was quite rushed from there on in. In my opinion, its a significant revelation that warrants more exploration. Perhaps that's my own personal bias colouring my perspective, I don't really know.

There were some other issues, minor ones I suppose, like how quickly and easily they 'got over' certain addictions/habbits. They could stop and start at will, which is unrealistic. But I guess it doesn't take away from the story, which makes it tolerable.

I cried in a couple of places. And I'm not even hormonal at the moment. So that says something positive too I suppose.

The movie, on the other hand, was a big disappointment. The characterisation of Charlie was all wrong. You could forgive incomplete or inaccurate characterisations for secondary characters but not for the main character. And what really bothered me was that it was directed by Chbosky, the author, so he should have known better. It was far too Hollywood for me. It lacked depth and as such, had zero emotion. It was an insult to the book as far as I'm concerned. I thought the casting was good but they simply didn't have an adequate script to work with. I loved Emma Watson as Sam. And Ezra Miller as Patrick. But again, they had very little to work with so it didn't really go anywhere for me. Perhaps some books are just better left untranslated to screen.

Well, I think that's enough to be getting on with.

If, by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream — and not make dreams your master;
If you can think — and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings — nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And — which is more — you’ll be a Man, my son!
 

A tribute on Father's Day

There's often very little focus on fathers in public conversation. Ever. Well, that's not entirely true- they are put under an excruciatingly bright spotlight when they are doing it wrong or not doing it at all (usually by disgruntled mothers who are having to pick up the slack, and rightly so).
But even parenting books are far more skewed to a female audience than a male one. They start out speaking to the 'parents' but inevitably end up speaking to the primary carer, and statistics alone would evidence that that is predominantly mum. So the poor dads don't get anywhere near enough recognition for the vital roles they play in this whole parenting gig, and it is vital, even if it isn't them choosing to be a SAHD. Whatever its manifestation, it warrants validation and recognition.

So here's a little tribute to you, dads. Because you deserve it.

I acknowledge that a father is the first male role model that a child has. You are the man that boys learn to be boys from and the man that girls learn about boys from. You set the tone for their future relationships - teaching the boys how to be husbands and fathers, and teaching the girls what to expect from husbands and fathers. And that's no small responsibility.

I acknowledge that given the choice, most of you would probably like to play a more hands-on role with your children, to watch them reach their milestone moments, to see their eyes light up when they learn something new. But you don't usually get that choice because society still expects you to be the main provider (or at least an equal provider) and so off to work you go.

You don't always enjoy what you do, but you often grin and bear it because you put your family first. You want to give them everything you had and everything you didn't. You want to ensure that they are afforded every opportunity possible. So you strive, day in, day out, for them.

I acknowledge that you have to be the hero, even when you aren't feeling heroic. Even when you yourself are vulnerable, and in need of love and understanding and protection. You have to be strong, to be 'masculine' (whatever that means!), to be a 'man'.
You grew up in an age where the definition of father was very rigid and unambiguous: the connotations were all based around being the protector, the provider, the rational, unemotional one. And even with all the changes that have happened in the definitions of gender roles in the last 20-30 years, there are still certain societal expectations that lay down parameters for what will be tolerated and what won't. So you put on your armour, hold your chin up and get on with fighting the demons within and without; you will be brave and courageous and an unwavering pillar of strength.

I acknowledge that sometimes, you need to hear some acknowledgement, some praise, for the sacrifices you make, for the effort you put in, for the good and noble intentions that inform your decisions and actions. I know that you are far less noticed as a father than us mothers and that's not always fair.

I acknowledge that your role as father is just as crucial as that of mother.

So I say, on behalf of all mothers and daughters, thank you.
 

My Oh My

David Gray has long been a favourite artist of mine. I first bought one of his albums, 'White Ladder' in 2002. It's probably been played more than any other album since. Highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys not just good music but great lyrics as well.


This one resonated this morning...


What on earth is going on in my heart?
Has it turned as cold as stone?
Seems these days I don't feel anything
'Less it cuts me right down to the bone
What on earth is going on in my heart?

'Cause my oh my, you know it just don't stop
It's in my mind, I wanna tear it up
I try to fight it, try to turn it off
But it's not enough
It takes a lot of love
It takes a lot of love my friend
To keep your heart from freezing
To push on till the end
My oh my

What on earth is going on in my head?
You know I used to be so sure
You know I used to be so definite
Thought I knew, what love was for
I look around these days
I'm not so sure



My oh my, you know it just don't stop
It's in my mind, I wanna tear it up
I try to fight it, try to turn it off
But it's not enough
It takes a lot of love
It takes a lot of love my friend
To keep your heart from freezing
To push on till the end

My oh my, you know I just can't win
I burn it down it comes right back again
What kind of world is this we're living in?
Where you never win
It takes a lot of love
It takes a lot of love these days
To keep your heart from freezing
To keep your spirit free



My oh my, you know it just don't stop
It's in my mind, I wanna tear it up
I try to fight it, try to turn it off
But it's not enough
It takes a lot of love
It takes a lot of love my friend
To keep your heart from freezing
To push on till the end

And my oh my, you know it just don't stop
My oh my, you know it just don't stop
Just don't
My oh my, you know it just don't stop...
 

'Slow down!'

Twice in as many weeks I've been told by friends that I move really fast. Both times, the context has been multitasking children and household tasks.

I'd never really noticed it before; whilst I am acutely aware of the multitude of things I need to do at any given time, I don't really think about the processes involved in getting them done - I just get on with it. It does mean that I have no option but to multitask because there simply aren't enough hours in the day to do things one at a time. But, on reflection, now that they've mentioned it, it also means I am often zooming around the place, stopping only to dodge furniture or small children.

Well, truth be told, its not a choice and not an easy way to live. But for the moment, when I have a million things I needed to have done by yesterday, its the only way to get by.

I apologise to those friends that find me a bit full on. You're lucky you can't see the state of my mind. I've no doubt you'd run a mile if you could!

The silver lining is that I don't need to go to the gym. I get a cardio workout just getting the children ready for school in the morning. Who needs a spin class, when you're chasing 4 under 10 to get them washed, dressed and presentable? And a pump class is no more strenuous than lugging a 2-year-old on your hip whilst bathing, dressing, cooking, vacuuming and hanging washing (that last one is probably more akin to circus training but I don't want to show off!).

I do have moments when I get to take a breath. But with those breaths I will inevitably inhale guilt and exhale anxiety. 'You could be doing this' or 'you should be doing that'.
This is the way it is in big families. Economies of scale might work for material needs but they certainly don't for every other need. Each child requires individual presence and attention.

So, for now, this is how it is. Fast, intense, chaotic. If its too overwhelming for you, give me a shout in 5 years or so.    

Just passing through...

In all creation
Nothing endures, all is in endless flux,
Each wandering shape a pilgrim passing by.
And time itself glides on in ceaseless flow,
A rolling stream—and streams can never stay,
Nor lightfoot hours. As wave is driven by wave
And each, pursued, pursues the wave ahead,
So time flies on and follows, flies, and follows,
Always, for ever and new. What was before
Is left behind; what never was is now;
And every passing moment is renewed.
- Ovid, Metamorphoses

Hypothyroidism be gone!

The verdict is in. A healthy, overstretched mum it is. Not completely healthy (vitamin D, calcium and ferritin deficient) but no sign of hypothyroidism at the moment. My thyroglobulin levels are still high (413- the normal range is 0-40) but apparently that's expected given my history. Very happy news as far as I'm concerned. Nothing that some supplements, sunbathing and red meat can't fix. 

Hello Spring! 

I'm coming down with the flu, just in time for my birthday (oh joy!). But I'm not going to throw a pity party (or any party for that matter, but that's by the by) because I am constantly being reminded of how blessed I am. Alhamdulilah.

Today, I visited a friend in hospital. Her daughter was admitted with pneumonia a few days ago. She's doing remarkably well now, almost being given the all-clear to go home, but its been a very trying week for her mother, a single parent of four. How she has managed to juggle it all without having a melt-down is awe-inspiring.

In the same ward, in the adjacent bed lies a baby girl, presumably sedated (wearing a mask). She has downs syndrome, but its unclear what her medical complications are. My friend tells me that she was abandoned, left outside the hospital. She's been here for more than 6 months (we know this because another patient's mother mentioned that she was already here when they were admitted 6 months ago). The only 'visitors' she has are the staff. No one is allowed to approach her. She is completely and utterly alone in this world, and she's not yet had her first birthday.

Hospitals are grounding. Whilst on one level, they are places of hope and healing, they are also reminders of just how mortal and susceptible we are. There is always someone worse off than you in a hospital. A horrible, depressing thought, but humbling nonetheless.

I thank God for my healthy children everyday and pray that he gives me the longevity to see them all to adulthood and beyond.

Happy birthday to me.

Before/Because

These words, flavoured by
'Before I ever met you'
because Banks' lyrical lyricism
fuels the fireless flames that still fester-
flagrant, fortified by reminders of your faithlessness.
They carve inscriptions on the underside of my skin
staining the surface with a
caustic, corrosive cancer. It reads:
'Because I met you'

Is a kiss just a kiss?

I'm rather unsettled by what happened at the Emmys this week. Bryan Cranston 'made out' with Julia Louis-Dreyfus. Not a peck, but a passionate, need-to-be-pulled-apart kiss (thanks Jimmy Fallon). Whether it was staged or not (it's been reported as being the latter, but who can tell in show business), the act itself appeared to border on the aggressive, with the aggressor being Cranston (male) - a demonstration of gender power imbalance at its best.

But that's not all.  The trivialization of the display by the media, whether inadvertently or otherwise, further normalises man's 'taking' of woman, condoning impulsive sexual aggression. It also tragically and shamefully cheapens the sacred act of kissing.

Whilst one can explore any one of these issues, for the purpose of this post, I'm going to focus my attention on the most obvious: the kiss itself.

Both of these high profile individuals are married. Both are revered by millions for their success in Hollywood. And as far as I am aware, both are perceived as respectable, with little controversy surrounding them in the past. So one would have hoped that they would take their roles in the public eye a little more seriously, and show a little bit of restraint, if not maturity. French kissing on a whim is not what one would consider befitting behaviour of people of their profile. Or anyone with a bit of decency really.

Nevermind anything else, a kiss is not something we ought to make light of. There has been much research around its function and significance; from hypotheses about it being a physiological mechanism for choosing the suitability of sexual partners, to it being a psychological expression of trust, intimacy and openness. Overwhelmingly, the consensus is that it is a profoundly intimate act between lovers, some would argue that it is the single most intimate act of all. 

So what sort of message does this send? That it's okay to be exchanging bodily fluids indiscriminately? That marriage is no barrier when impulse or attraction take hold? That there is nothing off limits when entertainment is at stake? What a sad, sorry state the world is in if this is the case.

So yes, I did find it unsettling. Not because I'm prudish (I'm not) but because it meant so much more than its seemingly 'spontaneous moment of insanity' veneer.

End rant.
 

Can you tell I'm excited?! :)

Super-excited to be off on a girl date tonight, with two of my lovelies, Cindy and Amyra.

The best thing about girl dates is that girls (women) completely get you, especially as they too are mums.

That's not to undervalue boy dates, because they are also good. But... yay! They're outside!

Got to love being picked up! Au revoir!


***update***

We watched The 39 Steps, a brilliantly executed stage production based on Hitchcock's 1935 spy thriller and John Buchan's novel. Loved it. Loved every minute of it. We were the only veiled women in the audience, and got quite a few odd looks in the foyer by the overwhelmingly white over-65 champagne-sipping patrons. I'm deliberately more vocal in these settings, because I find the inevitable looks of curiosity/surprise amusing.

So all in all, a great night. I haven't laughed so much in a long time.

Hypothyroidism

2009. I'd just had another baby (Jacob) and finished with court. So it was no surprise that I felt utterly wrecked in every way. My energy reserves were depleted, my mood perpetually low, my mind was foggy, my skin was dull and I just couldn't shake the weight.
I went along to my GP, expecting to be told it was perfectly normal  to be feeling like this after baby no. 6. He didn't say that. Instead, he ordered a whole host of tests , the results of which led to a diagnosis of hypothyroidism (underactive thyroid).


This doctor, however, was very switched on and he suspected that what I actually had was postpartum thyroiditis, a condition that occurs in the first year after childbirth, and often resolves itself in time without medical intervention. He gave me some supplements and asked me to come back for another assessment once I had stopped breastfeeding.


I did, and just as he'd predicted, my thyroid function had returned to normal.


Fast forward 3 years, Taj is born and again, the symptoms return with a vengeance. My doctor has since returned to his homeland, and so I have to see someone else. Again, my tests show that I have an underactive thyroid. This time, the doctor wants to medicate, and it takes quite a bit of pleading on my part to convince him to wait it out until I have finished breastfeeding to retest.


I have since stopped. Only now has it dawned on me that I am well and truly overdue for my follow-up assessment. Only now, as I sit here experiencing all of those symptoms still, 3 months after weaning, am I dreading the likely diagnosis of hypothyroidism.


I have never been a fan of medication. I will always opt for the natural alternative where possible, even for my family. So the prospect of possibly being put on lifelong medication really scares me. I believe that everything we put into our bodies have consequences, most of which we may not be aware of.  I hate the idea that I might be forever dependent on a drug that whilst 'fixing' some things, may be altering or damaging other things.


Vent over. I will be taking myself to the doctor on Thursday, when the children are in day care. Until then, I will pray that all is well and that these symptoms are just those of a healthy, over-stretched mum.
 

Reality Check

A sobering morning.

A dear friend of mine, who lost her mother to cervical cancer last year, has recently learnt that both her father and sister have been almost simultaneously diagnosed with bowel cancer. Her sister is not yet 40.

Her father's case is terminal. Her sister begins her treatment shortly.

Beyond comprehension.


 

Facebook and other Fickleties

The last time I posted on Facebook was on the 8th August, almost two weeks ago. In that time, I've blogged almost daily, sometimes more than once a day. Yet, I have still managed to be offline more than ever, which has been surprisingly liberating. I've had more family time, but I've also had a lot more me time. I've read two books,  had time to actively plan rather than just tread water (still need to put some of those plans into action, but hey, it's a start!). I've also had plenty of thinking time. Sometimes, that's not the best - I need to make a concerted effort to nudge the negative thoughts out with their positive alternatives. But, all in all, its a nice change from my usual cluttered state of mind.

I've also been made painfully aware, and grounded by this awareness, that my absence has only been noticed by a handful of people. And a very small handful at that. So, any inclination to return has been dulled even further.

I know I will still return, for reasons I've mentioned before, but I also know that I will not let it feature as prominently in my days as it has done previously.

...

The word fickle was first introduced to me by a well-meaning but blunt middle-aged American woman I met on my flight home from Chagrin Falls, Ohio, in November, 1993. I'd just spent close to 4 months there, living with relatives and going to the local high school, and the intention had been to finish school and possibly look at longer term options thereafter. I'd decided to pull the plug on it, mainly because I was desperately homesick, and the prospect of an indefinite time away was just too daunting. So here I was, on a flight back to Sydney, and I was already beginning to regret my rash decision.

I must have been visibly upset because this woman, who happened to be sat beside me, struck up a conversation - and swiftly jumped from the usual niceties to asking me if I was okay. That  prompt was all I needed to pour my heart out to her. I had made such wonderful friends, I lamented. I would miss them tremendously, I ALREADY missed them. I would definitely stay in touch...
She chuckled. I'm sure she didn't mean to make light of my feelings, but, she explained,
"Americans are fickle people".
"What does that mean?", I asked.
"I can guarantee that they will not have the same sense of loss that you have, they will soon forget - its all about the here and now with them.  It's sad but true, dear. Now cheer up."

So fickle meant inconstant, inconsistent, capricious. I was numb.
I didn't believe her. I didn't want to believe her, and incidentally, I really don't think it was a fair representation of American people, and certainly not of my friends.

But I'd learnt a new word.

I've since also learnt that there are plenty of fickle people in this world. A horrible trait, but a fairly common one nonetheless. It is, of course, possible to mistake someone's absence/inattentiveness (for genuine good reason) for fickleness. So best to assume the best and give seventy excuses. But when those have been exhausted, its okay to let go and accept that there are those who just aren't worth the investment. It's just the way it is. Better a few good friends than a bucket-load of fair-weathers.

See? I told you my break from FB was giving space for contemplation!

I need sleep.

Lucidity

...and then
she had to accept
her lack of control
that all was not within
her sphere of influence
that love is not enough
that there is no neat formula
that its easy to slip
that she is still scared
that she is still scarred
that life is for living
but living is testing
and tests are never easy;
that looking up may burn your eyes
but far better than treading in darkness
that hope informs purpose
and purpose is a reason
to accept another day
that a trial can be a blessing
and a blessing can be a trial
that family matters
because blood can't be made
that honesty is unequivocably
the best policy
that the truth can hurt
but better honest pain
that deceptive euphoria
that giving fills the heart
and taking empties it
that addiction is a front
for brokenness
that children are a gift
and gifts are not forever;
that God is the answer
always.

-Rafa, written June 2014
 

Happy birthday Mr 8

A very happy birthday to my dear son Eamonn. Eight years old today! So much charisma and charm for such a young lad (takes after his mum, he does! :P )

You've had a brilliant year this year, when finally, there was wider acknowledgement that you are not just a pretty face, but a brilliant mind as well. Alhamdulilah.

May you continue to thrive and grow and shine. And as my grandmother used to say, may you find on every road a friend (bi kel taree' erfee').

xxxxMum

Blog post - Dec 2013, just published from draft

I've been asked by a good friend of mine to re-exhume this blog. I'm not sure how successful I'll be because for the past 17 months I've been a mother to 7 instead of 6 (and sometimes even 8 when my step-daughter comes to stay!), which means I am the very definition of busy, always. Who knew that 7 would be so different to 6? Huh.

It also means I can barely string a chain of cohesive thoughts together never mind being able to transfer them to paper before they've promptly made their escape, leaving only jumbled up lists of things I need to DO, and NOW!

That seems to be my life at the moment- a series of things I need to get done, pronto. Not for myself of course, but for my family and on occasion, others as well. This leaves little time to think, do and even feel anything other than stretched, overwhelmed, old.

So, as I say, whilst success may be unattainable, I shall at least try. One more thing to add to my to-do list...

Date-filled shortbread

These have been a family favourite since I was a wee one.

For the shortbread:

3 cups plain flour
3 cups self-raising flour
250g unsalted butter, softened
600g cream

Combine in a large bowl and knead until a firm dough is formed.
Cover and allow to rest for 1 hour.

I use shop bought date paste rather than make my own...

Roll out dough to about 3-5mm thick. Using a round cutter, cut circles, then place about 1/2 teaspoon of date paste at one end. Roll dough around it to create a 'finger'.

Line a baking tray with baking paper. Place shortbreads on tray and bake in a preheated oven on 180 degrees until slightly golden.

Allow to cool before dusting with icing sugar.

The only certainty is change.

Today is not yesterday

Tomorrow will not be today

'This too, shall pass'

And so will this and this and this

Until it stops.

Until then - 

que sera sera.

 

How to Frame It

"Ta-da! Go on, open your eyes!"

He could not contain his excitement. He'd been working on this labour of love, in secret, for weeks now. Almost as long as he'd been taking art classes. It had occurred to him, shortly after reigniting this long lost passion, that a painting would be a perfect expression of his devotion to her. It was, after all, one of the few skills he unhesitatingly prided himself on.

He held the painting against his chest, facing her. He deliberately wanted to be positioned that way, so he could instantly gauge her true reaction. He knew that she would feign approval even if she thought it were rubbish, because that's who she was, always thinking about the feelings of others. It was one of the countless reasons he adored her so much. But this was not a time for tact. He desperately hoped she would be as enamored with it as he was with her.

"Did you paint this?" She was clearly impressed. "It's beautiful". Her eyes glistened - were they welling up?

"Happy anniversary, angel. It's an amaryllis. Eet ees an amaryllis belladonna lily to be exacte", he explained, in the most tragic, affected Italian accent he could muster.

"It signifies splendid beauty, a very fitting choice I thought", he looked straight into her eyes, holding her gaze, hoping to convey the depth of his sincerity.

She looked back, then briefly looked away. Open displays of affection didn't come as easily to her. He understood. Her natural disposition for as long as he'd known her had been, in a word, demure. Another trait he found intriguing ever since their first encounter in that Sociology tutorial, 7 years ago.

He'd noticed her when he'd walked into the room, sat alone and in silence, facing the front. It was hard to tell whether she was painfully shy and wishing the tute away, or if she was the studious sort, eager and ready to take on the discussion. He'd decided to find out for himself, choosing to take a seat beside her. She glanced over as he did, catching his eye. He was captivated. Truly, madly, deeply.

Her chestnut brown eyes. There was something other-worldly about them. He plucked up the courage to speak to her. He'd been wrong on both counts; she was not shy.  Demure, yes, but she could command a conversation, simultaneously articulate and witty. He even managed to get her to agree to give him her phone number. And while she had a far superior work ethic to himself, she was not so rigid that she wouldn't return his notes in class.

 'I completely agree with you on gender playing a pivotal role in shaping our attitudes and behaviour...' he scrawled, desperate to find a talking point that would take them beyond introductions.

 ‘I also think religion, ethnicity, socio-economic background and one’s name play an equally vital role, don’t you agree? she wrote back. Then, ‘what’s YOUR name?

They'd been inseparable ever since. He'd proposed a year later, and they'd married within 3 months of their engagement.

He would never forget how she looked on their wedding day, the most exquisite bride to have graced this earth, he was sure.

As he watched her take in the painting, he felt a sense of relief and elation. Seven years. Here they were, together, as strong as ever.

"I love it. I love you", she whispered.

Those eyes.

 They embraced. Today was a day for happiness.

.....

"Ta-da! Go on, open your eyes!" he exclaimed, beaming. Here he was, yet again, giving. He stood before her like an excited school boy showing off his work, seeking her approval.

He'd always been one for surprises. He could still take her breath away with his magnanimous acts of love.

"Happy anniversary, angel...”

Their anniversary. Seven years to the day since they'd met. Being the romantic that he was, he'd insisted that it be this initial meeting that should be celebrated, because that is when 'I really came to be alive, so it is, in effect, a birthday and anniversary rolled into one', he'd declared, poetically.

The painting was... beautiful. She could feel herself becoming overcome with emotion. Breathe, she commanded. This is not the time.

She adored flowers, and set aside a small budget to buy fresh flowers weekly. Sometimes, if it had been a particularly good week work-wise, she'd splurge a little, and buy lilies, her favourite. Most weeks though, she was just as content with a few chrysanthemum stems. The Japanese considered them to be particularly symbolic, celebrating them in their annual Festival of Happiness. What better way to express thankfulness for this happy union of theirs than by touching their home with these flowers?

He was her happiness. There was nothing abstract about it - no, it was deliberate, active, tangible. 'He 'happies' me', she thought, forcing a smile through the competing emotions.

Ever since he'd waltzed into class that day, all those years ago, meeting her gaze and boldly asking for her number, he'd been hers. Completely, devotedly, loyally hers. She knew this, and knew such devotion was no trifling matter. She cherished his commitment, and reciprocated it.

Love had not happened so instantly for her, but had grown, blossomed from a seed of pure intention, nurtured in moments of togetherness and fortified by the inevitable trials that life brings.

But nothing had prepared her for this. How can it? Youth was no immunity, it would seem. Perhaps it was unfair to be so happy.

Breast cancer was a post-menopausal disease, she'd thought, naively, as she drove to the surgical oncologist for her biopsy result. But not always, as it turned out. 

She took the canvas, carefully placing it on the mantle, for now. She would hang it in the dining room, across from the window overlooking their garden. That way, when they dined, they would be held by flowers, a beautiful image to behold in his minds' eye for the coming years. It would ease the pang of loss, she hoped, giving him idyllic points of reference for his travels down memory lane.

She stepped towards him, looking straight into his gentle blue eyes.

"I love it. I love you".

They embraced. Today was not a day for sadness.

 

Too excited to hold it in!

They won!!!

My son's soccer team won their grand final! Yippee!

Score: 3-2

It was their fifth year running to make it to the finals, but their first ever win.

Hip hip, hooray Mohamad! Well done my champ!

xx A very proud mum.

Hope

Hope comes in many packages.

Today, it is an 84 year old orthopedic trauma patient.

Hope greeted me with a smile as I entered the ward she was sharing with my sister. She was sat in a hospital chair, her plastered right leg propped up on several pillows.

A few minutes later, I peered over, and saw her applying some lip balm. Her shoulder-length silver hair was just brushed, tucked neatly behind her ears. I could see the glamorous, younger woman emerge. She noticed me admiring her. I smiled, nodding 'good morning'. She returned the greeting, visibly appreciative of the attention.

Hope was alone. My sister had been in the ward for 24 hours and had not seen anyone visit her. Her phone didn't ring either. 'My grand-daughter should be visiting later today', she explained, when I offered her chocolates.

Hope was happy to chat. In fact, she invited me to have a conversation; first about how she's been eating far too many chocolates since she'd been here - then about why this place had become her second home.

Hope had been admitted into hospital some 2 months ago, for a knee replacement. For all intents and purposes, the surgery had been a success. Days later, she slipped in the hospital bathroom and as she described it, 'it was as though a rubber band had snapped'. Her knee was in fragments again. More surgery. But that wasn't where it ended. A few days later, she broke the thigh bone of the same leg (femur fracture?). Her third surgery. She couldn't quite explain the last fracture, but it's meant that she won't be going anywhere for a while yet.

In spite of this series of unfortunate events, Hope's emerald green eyes still sparkled. They were gentle and warm and soft. Her demeanor elegant, her composure a reminder of a bygone era, when ladies were graceful and refined.

"Do you live with anyone?", I inquired, trying hard to conceal my concern.

"No, I live alone. I have done for a long time. Once I'm up and walking again, I'm sure I will manage just fine". Her tone was... hope.

"My daughter lives too far away to visit, all the way in Caringbah. The Shire. My grand-daughter will come though, she'll be in later today", she reiterated.

On her hospital tray, a jug of water (no cup), some hand lotion, half a chocolate bar, a pen and a pink, A5 hardcover notebook with GRANDMA'S NOTEBOOK in big bold letters on the cover. I smiled, relieved.

I offered to refill her water jug and to get her a fresh glass. She politely accepted. "Those nurses...they take away things and then forget to replace them", she chuckled, amused rather than annoyed.

"Your sister is a lovely young lass. Good on her for playing sport. Tell her she's going to be fine. She's young and she'll be up and about in no time".

"Tell her that old age comes before you know it. It seems like only yesterday I was a young woman- it's hard to believe I'll be 85 next year".


 

Today

Fourteenth of August. A special day for two reasons: Jacob and Maya's birthdays. Today, I added at least one more reason to that list. Taj's first day at daycare.

Let's start at the beginning.

A very anxious mother, who, despite having mentally prepared for this day for quite a while (he was meant to start almost a month ago, when he turned two) trepidatiously got her unsuspecting baby ready for his first full day away from mummy. I fully expected him to be okay for the first hour or two, because he'd been there many times before when we go to drop Jacob off, and he's always reluctant to leave (too much to explore, not enough time!), but once he'd be directed into anything other than free reign, he would be demanding his mother.

So, after dropping a very happy boy off, and hanging around to see if he'd come looking for me  (he didn't), I decided to stay local, just. in. case.

I went to the nearby marketplace with another mum, we sipped coffees and talked children, then I bought a bunch of new books to add to the collection that still await completion. I can never help myself where books are concerned. Its my one impenetrable consumer vice.

When I said goodbye to my friend, I sat in the car, watching the phone. I'd already tried ringing the school 3 times. No answer. Surely they must call soon.

I stared out of the window, my mind wandering to my darling 5 year old, Jacob. He'd been so affectionate towards his baby brother, so excited to be his caretaker at daycare. Even though this should be his day, being his birthday and all, he just wanted to talk about Taj. He's always been such a gentle soul, so loving.

I wondered what Maya would be doing. This was a milestone birthday, after all. She's a fully-fledged teen now, 13. Barely out of childhood, and already a young lady in so many ways. She towers over me, but that's not at all surprising- she always did take after her dad in that regard (her mother is about my height). She's really matured these last couple of years, and is beginning to come out of her shell. It appears quite pronounced, perhaps because of the time between visits. Such a delight to watch the transformation.

Today was also a vitally important day for another reason: my sister would be having surgery to repair her broken ankle. I phoned my brother-in-law for an update- she was still in theatre. Surat Yasin.

Then, I made a decision. I would stay put. I would read, in silence and lunch in the restaurant, alone. I wouldn't heed the burgeoning guilt, and reached for the first book I could get my hands on: Trains and Lovers, by Alexander McCall Smith.

Immediately, I was intrigued. It was at once clumsy and eloquent, incoherent and
dotted with profound observations.

'The heart has its fair share of ghosts, and these ghosts may be love, in any of its forms' (p7)
...

'Journeys are not only about places, they are also about people, and it may be the people, rather than the places, that we remember'. (p8)
...

'Trains are everyday, prosaic things, but they can be involved in, the agents of, so much else, including the part of our human life that for so many far outweighs any other- our need for love- to give it and to receive it in that familiar battle that all of us fight with loneliness' (p10)

I was hooked.

The phone rang.

Taj was refusing to nap.

Just as I'd expected. Direction, refusal. Of course he wasn't going to sleep. It's his first day in a foreign environment. He would just observe. He will quickly learn what the routine is, surely they didn't expect him to get it from day one. A little bit of reassurance and a lot less expectation please. And Jacob.

We agreed. I would be updated in an hour.

I went into the restaurant.

'Are you waiting for someone?'

'No, its just me (smile).'

I sat down, ordered, and continued to read, taking breaks to people watch, as you do.

It was the first time in a long time, I was completely in my own company. It felt incredible.

Text: Rayanne is in recovery. The surgery was a success. Visiting hours: 12-2, 4-8.

Alhamdulilah.

Time flew by, almost surreally. I skulled the last quarter of piccolo, and rushed off to collect Wafa from the station.

Then, home to cook and resume normal 'home maker' transmission. Before I knew it, it was time for school pick-ups.

My heart was racing as I entered the daycare doors. He was hiding, on the slide, his chocolate-covered face beaming in delight when he saw me.

He ran over for hugs and news.

'I eat cake!'

I was beyond relieved. After more reassuring feedback from his teacher, we collected the birthday boy from his room, and headed over to 'big school'. It had been a success by all accounts.

Alhamdulilah. I will, God-willing, be spending much of my day with my baby sister tomorrow, knowing that Taj will be okay.

Then, the afternoon rush. Cake buying, dinner, homework, soccer-training, birthday celebrations, bed-time routine.


Coffee. Book.

'People talked of the wrench of parting, and that, he felt, was exactly what it was. Take a metal object off a magnet and one would experience that - there was the draw, the tug, the flow of the bond even through the air, and then the sudden detaching as separation occurred. That was what it was like. That was human parting. You felt it; you felt the separation, just as you would feel the rending of tissue being pulled apart'. (p72)


Blog.

Bon nuit.

In memory of Robin Williams.

Another bruise. This time on her thigh, just above her knee. It was not as angry as the one on her hip that she'd noticed in yesterday's shower, she consoled herself.

Old habits die hard. Almost three decades on, and she still hadn't completely shaken her compulsive obsessing over imperfections.

She reviewed yesterday's list. Splattered in the face with oil when she cooked. He own stupid fault for rushing.  Clawed on the neck when she'd struggled to administer Aaron's antibiotics. He's only two, an instinctual fight reaction to what he perceives as a harmful event, she reasoned. Noticeably more grey hairs sprouting, probably triggered by this very act of fretting. Stop it!

The shower was set to 55 degrees celcius. Too hot to stand in for longer than a few moments at a time, though being the queen of calvary, she fought against the urge to adjust the faucet.

The scald transported her to early childhood. Her grandmother would bathe her in a temperature not unlike this one. Back then, she loathed the ritual. Her delicate skin would be fastidiously scrubbed with a course loofah, the suds washed off with scoop after scoop of simmering water. Afterwards, as painful as it had been, she knew she was the cleanest she could be, and that made it tolerable. In years to come, her mantra would be informed by these rituals: no pain, no gain.

She stepped out into the mirrored bathroom. The pre-dawn rays that fought their way through the frosted glass window were far kinder than she ever was. The lines that had been drawn into her skin by six pregnancies were barely visible in this light. Still, she could not escape their presence. She glanced at her reflection. Her eyes were tired, increasingly framed with imperfect creases. And her hair...

'Mum-mee, mum-meeeee!'

Sweet interruption. The shower's silence must have woken him. That, or little searching hands that couldn't find her to snuggle. A little earlier than she'd hoped, but not unusual for her co-sleeper.

She hurriedly dressed, as she called out reassuring words.

"I'm right here, darling. I'll be there in a minute!"

Aaron had other ideas. He was fast becoming accustomed to the way of instant gratification. When he wanted mummy, he got mummy.

He burst through the bathroom door, skidding on the damp floor towards his mother, immediately extending his cherubic arms into the air.

"Mummy, hug!", he instructed.

Not yet fully clothed, she scooped him up into her arms, covering him in kisses. She breathed in his sleepy fragrance, cradling his head on her chest.

Her reflection was transformed.

Framed perfectly, as if a Pino Daeni painting, a blemishless impression of a beautiful child and his mother. She gazed at this sublime image, welcoming relief.
The demons would not win today.

She smiled.

J'apprends le Français

I'm learning French. Because I can. And because it's a beautiful language. 

Je ne suis qu'un débutant. Je veux parler couramment.

Here is a french poem to inspire, by Paul Verlaine (1844-1896). When I can read this fluently, I will know that I have reached my goal.

Il pleure dans mon coeur

Il pleure dans mon coeur
Comme il pleut sur la ville
Quelle est cette langueur
Qui pénètre mon coeur ?

Ô bruit doux de la pluie
Par terre et sur les toits !
Pour un coeur qui s'ennuie
Ô le chant de la pluie !

Il pleure sans raison
Dans ce coeur qui s'écoeure.
Quoi ! nulle trahison?
Ce deuil est sans raison.

C'est bien la pire peine
De ne savoir pourquoi
Sans amour et sans haine
Mon coeur a tant de peine 

Fragments

A sign, defined, is any object, action, event, or pattern, that conveys a meaning.

But that's in a very simplistic nutshell.

The Quran features many verses that make reference to signs and the importance of recognizing them. Signs can be, and often are signifiers of something far more significant, often beyond the immediately discernible.

An example:

'We will show them Our signs in the horizons and within themselves until it becomes clear to them that it is the truth...' - Quran (41:53)

and

'...He has subjected to you (man), from Him, all that is in the heavens and on earth: behold, in that are signs indeed for those who reflect' -Quran (45:13).

Peirce's sign theory. He writes:

I define a sign as anything which is so determined by something else, called its Object, and so determines an effect upon a person, which effect I call its interpretant, that the later is thereby mediately determined by the former. (EP2, 478)

and

  a sign signifies only in being interpreted.

We, as interpretants, translate and develop the original sign, thus developing meaning in its object.
Further, Peirce believes the sign/interpretant relation to be one of determination: the sign determines an interpretant.

So, if I understand this correctly, everything can be viewed as a sign. But this sign is redundant without an object. The onus is on us, the interpretants, to make meaning of that object through translating and interpreting the sign. If I had time to explore Peirce comprehensively, I'm sure I would cringe at this oversimplication. I fully intend to do that when time permits. But for now, a brief, albeit important lesson: that we should rigourously and diligently utitilise our capacities, individual as they may be, to look to the signs and reflect upon their significance. It is an active process, and an vital one, if we are to live deeply meaningful lives, if we seek to grow in more than just numbers.

...

The loss of a baby. As a woman (and mother), I cannot envisage a greater loss. I can't imagine there would be much more that pushes one to the brink of breakdown than that. The hollowness that results is unfillable, the pain unparalleled. It is not a matter of 'getting over it', or even 'healing', but learning to simultaneously live with the hollowness and function satisfactorily. Another child will not replace the one that was lost. It will prompt love and fulfillment and (much-needed) distraction, but it doesn't fix it. The passing of time, and the waning of memory will also treat the ache, but never cure it. I have a friend of a friend who had a stillborn baby. It's been 8 months, and even with the blessing of 4 other children, the pain is still raw and she still mourns for her daily. 

I lost a baby at just 12 weeks pregnant. I still feel the loss. The loss of the hope that that child had brought, the dreams I had for it, the place in our family that was never taken. I cannot fathom the pain of having a stillborn. Beyond comprehension. 

Perhaps, a sign is that we ought to remember our blessings and be ever-grateful. Perhaps, a reminder of His Mercy, that our trials in comparison are more tolerable.  Perhaps, a mercy for the mother, for reasons unseen and unknown- a risk to her life, a lifelong disability, an untimely, premature death after birth and after new, lived, bonds have had time to take root.  Perhaps, a sign of the fragility of life, a reminder of our finiteness, our smallness, our inability, despite our best efforts, to control our destinies. Perhaps. 

...

Another sign. My baby sister, who's life is intertwined in sport, who lives and breaths physical activity, has broken her ankle, requiring surgery and months of rehabilitation. End of her sporting endeavours for the best part of a year (realistically speaking). Her AFL team, having qualified for the finals for the first time in 4 years, and now she would not be a part of that wonderful experience.  

We are told, every person is tested in the ways that push them to their limits. This is surely one of her biggest and most trying tests thus far. It is what she does with that test that will matter. 

But that's the thing about tests. They are so very unique and so perfectly and painfully tailored to the individual, that they cannot be measured fairly. Which is precisely why we should avoid comparisons. As much as we should observe and interpret and reflect, we cannot compare, unless of course, it is used as a prompt for thankfulness and gratitude. But sadly, more often than not, people idealise what others have, failing to recognise their own blessings. People may perceive someone else's tests as 'easier', again, without the full knowledge of all the particulars, all the circumstances, all the history and capacities involved. It isn't fair or accurate or helpful. 

I pray that my sister recovers fully and quickly. I pray that she has the mental resolve to overcome this hurdle without too much impact. I pray that she is back on that field, kicking butt, in no time. 

...

Fragments. Thoughts dispersed

in scattered moments, finding 

their voice intermittently. 

...

3 years ago, I started writing what I had hoped would eventually develop into a novel. I had set myself a task of writing 1000 words a day, at least 3 times a week and began very enthusiastically. 

Unfortunately, as if often the way of my life, things happened, I was busied with more pressing matters, another blessed baby arrived, and I was more time-poor than I had ever been before. So I stopped writing. But not before I'd written at least 15,000 words.

After much searching, I have only been able to find 4 of 15 entries. Perhaps, even in this, a sign. That it's not my time to write. That I should start anew. That I should choose a different story. 

In any case, here is one of the entries I found. I'm posting it so as to prevent it being lost again.

...

We walked across to the park in a slightly uneasy silence. He’s never been completely comfortable with small talk. But you always knew when he had something important to impart, and this moment had all the hallmarks of being one of those times.

I sat on the swing, savouring the freedom that comes with this childhood pastime; deep down I knew that its propriety would be questionable after tomorrow. I always felt like a child with my dad. Not in quite the same way that I did with my mum, but nevertheless, a somewhat inferior being and therefore it felt okay to swing.

“Sarah, I need to talk to you about something”, he blurted sombrely. Not the tone you would hope for on the afternoon prior to your eldest daughter’s wedding, but it didn’t surprise me.

"You know it’s not too late. You can still call it off".

I knew what he meant, but pretended to be ignorant, to dilute the inevitable tension that was about to ensue.

“What do you mean call it off?”

“The wedding. I don’t care about any of it. If you feel even an ounce of doubt, I will happily call the whole thing off and I’ll even contact each individual guest myself”.

I could see the desperation in his eyes. The urgent need he felt to protect me. The glimmer of hope he still held that this would all blow over, that I would give this little naïve fantasy up and remain his innocent little girl.

I had no intention of cancelling the wedding. Even if it meant I got married for just a brief period of time. Even if it meant that I would financially and emotionally inconvenience all my loved ones as well as other innocents in the matter. No, this wedding had to go ahead; I’d already made that commitment when I let him kiss me. And when I kissed him back. It didn't matter that we were betrothed. It may be selfish, but my honour was far too precious to me, and I couldn’t, I wouldn’t compromise that any further. My parents didn’t deserve that. 

“Dad!” I smiled, “thank you, but I don’t want to cancel anything. I’m getting married tomorrow and I’m very excited about my big day”, I reassured him.

But he was not appeased. He pressed on.

“Has he ever lied to you?” Pause. “Even a small lie. It may have seemed insignificant. It may have been about something trivial. Has he lied to you at all? Because if he can lie about something small, he can lie about big things too. Once a liar, always a liar”.

That’s a little extreme, I told myself. Surely a little lie doesn’t equate to a big one, right? I wasn’t entirely certain.

I said nothing, but shook my head, trying my best to look convincing.

He did lie. He had lied. On more than one occasion. But I had justified every one of those untruths. Because I was sure he loved me.

He lied to me about his HSC mark. By a fair bit too. I stumbled across his results weeks after our conversation when I was spring-cleaning his granny flat. It was neatly kept on the top shelf of his wardrobe. I hadn’t meant to see it. But it meant to show itself to me. More as an irritation than anything else, I thought. I had been content with his version. I had not questioned its accuracy. Why would I? I didn’t like having that challenged.  

At first, I couldn’t understand why he’d lie about such a trivial, irrelevant matter. It’s not like it was going to affect his career choice- he’d already made his chosen path abundantly clear. Nor would it affect how I would perceive his ability. But perhaps he didn’t know that. Perhaps I had failed to give him enough assurance of my complete unconditional commitment to him. Yes, it was probably my fault.

“I know dad”, I sighed. “No, it’s all good. It’s going to be fine dad, please stop worrying”.

“I love you”. His eyes welled. I got up and gave him a hug.

“I love you too”. We were both crying now, as you do when you are overwhelmed with the act of open affection. At least that was the way it was for my dad and I.

This time, the silence signalled closure. For now. God-willing it would last long enough to see me walk hand in hand with my husband out of the reception centre.

But I was all too aware of how volatile and unpredictable my dad could be. So prayer was in order. I needed to call in as many of my good deeds as I could to ensure that tomorrow ran as smoothly and peacefully as possible. At least as far as my dad was concerned. I wanted nothing to be on his hands, nothing to further burden his conscience, however well-intentioned it may have been. He didn’t need that. And I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the cause of that.

Please God, let this marriage go ahead.

Please God, keep my dad calm and silent and unburden his heart about this union.

And that’s where I left it. That’s where I fell silent. I don’t really know why…