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…