Prolific Immigrant

Once upon a time, there was a group of friends. Amidst these individuals was a girl whom we shall call “Maha.”

On a sunny Saturday morning, Maha left for a ten day holiday, bidding the beloved kingdom in which she lived a sad goodbye, eager to travel and equally eager to return home when the time came. And my oh my, did the time come…

At which she found that she could not communicate with any of those who called themselves “friends.” All of them, being of a particular Tribe — let’s call them “Eh-Rabs” — would not take her calls. Except for one boy. He took her call, playing the role of Judge, Jury, and Executioner.

On trial Maha stood, unaware that a girl, Cleptomania, had spun a web of lies so deep and so impenetrable, that all others in the group had left Maha for good. Cleptomania had found filth and run it across Maha’s words. The girl had found hatred and run it across Maha’s words. She had found judgement, and criticism, and ugliness, and smeared these things across Maha’s words.

Cleptomania wore hijab, and so those in the group misunderstood this piece of cloth for piety, eagerly believing that Maha — who wears curls instead of scarves — must be as filthy as was told by Cleptomania.

Not only did this little man crush Maha with his words, but so too did he take it upon himself to crush Maha Momma, believing it was his Muslim duty to let Maha Momma know that she had not done a proper job of raising her daughter. And that by default, he would be receiving God’s blessings because of the filth which had dripped from Maha’s mouth and onto his life story.

How could this happen, you ask? Maha was so distraught on the phone, that Momma came in to understand the ruckus, and when Maha could not hold the receiver because she was shaking too hard, Maha Momma held it instead, and the creature on the other end decided to have a go at Maha Momma.

Maha begged him: I will pick this girl up right now. I will bring her to your home right now. I will sit her in front of you and your mother, and you will see who is lying. Please. Please. Please. Please let me defend myself against these claims.

Only. He would have none of it. And he would not allow it. And Maha, weeping and incapable of comprehending what in the fucking hell she was facing, collapsed.

The collapse didn’t leave me for nearly six months. I was paralyzed emotionally, and crippled physically by what had happened to both myself and my mum. I was terrified of going out in public in case I ran into one of these people. I became a recluse of sorts, not really seeing anyone or going anywhere, because if these people — who I had welcomed into my heart and my home — could so easily set me adrift, then what guarantee did I have that others would not do the same.

Not one of these people defended me. Not one of these people called me. Not one of them reached out to me. Not one of them gave me the chance to speak to the lies which had been spun around my ankles and used to pull my feet out from beneath me. Not. One.

And I wish I could tell you that all of the lies told by this sad and demented girl had a hint of truth to them, because then at least, I would have owned it and accepted the consequences. Only, there was not even a hint to anything she said. But still, the individuals in this group were eager to believe that I was the sort who would say such things, and that — I understand 12 years later — is a greater reflection on how they felt about me, than anything to do with my sense of self in any way shape or form.

By an amazing twist of fate a few months later, my mum and I were lost in a building. And who found us, but Cleptomania’s very close relative. Who brought us into his office and shared some stories over coffee. He told us the truth of Cleptomania. That she was a thief, that she was a liar, that she had been cast out of her family’s home. In short, he called her “a Bollywood film,” a “pathological liar.”

In another twist of fate, later that very same week, I ran into one of the original “friends” in the above circle, who told me that very soon after Cleptomania had spun her web about me, she also began spinning webs about all within the group. And within less than two months, everyone came to hate everyone. And this woman was sorry she did not stand up for me when she heard what was being said about me. So sorry and could we please be friends?

My answer was no. I accepted her apology, but rejected her friendship with honesty: “You let me hang out to dry. You know I would have had your back, and I would have never walked away from you, but you let me hang out to dry. So no. You don’t ever get the pleasure or loyalty of my friendship ever again. That was a decision you made long ago.”

When these people see me now, I usually turn my face as I am not interested in reliving the trauma their actions inflicted on myself or my mother.

Amazingly. The boy in question? Well…I ran into him recently on the street. I had not seen him in years, and he has never apologized neither to myself nor to my mum, though I know that he has admitted to others that he was wrong. Or so others say, which means nothing so long as he doesn’t say it to me.

We ran into each other and he treated me like an old friend. Like a warm, old friend. And he invited me for a drink. If Shock and Awe had a face, it would have been mine. I declined graciously, and managed to escape as fast as I could because I had to call my best friend and say: “You are not going to fucking believe what just happened…and let me tell you…life has clearly not been kind to this dude…”

The moral of the story is? Don’t be a fucking asshole. Especially not to a girl with a blog. And if she has a blog, hope that she has enough class to not call you out by name, no matter how many years later. Especially where her blog ranks really high up on Google search.

These last few days have confirmed I have a fetish for male hands.

More specific, and because I have recently been witness to little wee man hands, I realize that: I have a fetish for large male hands. (#notaeuphemism)

For me, a man with wee little hands has pulled the genetic short stick.

Whereas large man hands say I will protect you and your uterus, bear down the right amount of pressure on your body, be strong, and perform regular household chores with efficiency, little wee man hands weep I might need you to cut up my steak, I will likely drop our seedling on its head, and in case of emergency please call a man with large hands.

Look. I didn’t make the rules, rather I just appreciate and respect them.

This preference is entirely and completely primal, having started the moment our daddy placed his hands on our shoulders and we were made to feel safe, to the moment that the men in our lives cupped the back of our head in one palm, and covered half of our back with the other.

Purely, totally, and unequivocally: Base primal instinct.

If you’d like to pop psychologise this a little further before you head out on your Friday evening, recall that whereas troops of male baboons are drawn to the physical body parts of the female, the female is in fact drawn to what we call the Alpha Male, with characteristics: leadership, confidence, dominance, and humour (the ability of a man not taking himself seriously is characterized as “alpha” because when one is truly confident, one can handle self-deprecation).

Although some argue that we have “evolved,” the reality is that the root of these characteristics are entirely physical. In hunter / gatherer societies, the Alpha becomes as such primarily through physical strength. Little man hands might be great in some instances (like crochet work), but do not lend themselves to the requisite strength of hunting with brute force tempered within strategy (required to maintain your status as leadership).

To recap…

Large man hands: Good.
Wee man hands: good for some things, but I don’t want them touching me because they’ll feel like a spider and I will get goosebumps for all of the wrong reasons, though I am sure you are a lovely man and would make a lovely friend.

Ladies: Am I right?

Hey y’all.

A very short message to let you know that I have been run off my feet these last two weeks, both during the day and well into the evenings. In short, I am completely spent and it’s looking like this will be the case for the next couple of months.

In private email, I have promised several of you that I will write something this weekend, and am making that promise to the rest — thank you for asking after me. Apologies that I am not able to respond to all emails. Please understand that while I am reading everything, I absolutely can not respond to all.

Since things are looking a slight bit hectic these coming couple of months, I am planning on doing my best to write one article every week and a half, just to keep on top of things. Fingers crossed that my busted ass doesn’t lose sight of this and fail my own promise.

I will be back this weekend! (Until then, see What Is On Your Desktop, because I will be doing another similar one shortly, three years forward.)

Much love,
M

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Image found at Slave2MyNeedles(dot)com.

We were there for 48 hours and here’s a scrunched itinerary for those of you on a tight schedule.

First, don’t go in the winter unless you’re interested in experiencing the wild tsunami that glides off of the Atlantic and Larry, Moe + Curly slaps into your face. After my first walk along the pier by the world’s largest fiddle, I couldn’t move my mouth to speak proper. This is not an exaggeration.

Lucky that balancing out this exhausting cold is the warmth of the Cape Bretoners** who occupy the City. Everyone says hello, and everyone smiles at you. EVERY.ONE. It is so very lovely to be greeted with smiles at every turn, and like a true City girl, I wonder what the murder/suicide rate is.

On Friday morning, my boss/colleague/friend/I-don’t-know-what-to-call-him-exactly-just-yet and I jumped into a cab at 6.30am and made our way out to the closest lighthouse, which was an approximate half an hour out of Sydney, and to be found in the neighbouring town of “New Victoria.”

Sitting at the tip of Sydney Harbour, she seduces all manner of sailor to shore. I had never seen a lighthouse up close and personal, and so tried to open her door because who wouldn’t?, only it was locked. Sad and dejected I circled the base willing her to open to me. She did not. I froze my face. I returned to the car.

But not before I went down by the water and took this gorgeous photo which makes me wonder if this is some sort of a plank from which Cape Bretoners chuck the bad people.

Sidebar: Though we had hoped to watch the sun rise, Sydney was expecting a storm and so all we saw were rolling burbling clouds. That said, I strongly encourage that you make your way here to watch the day break over the Atlantic on a clear day.

On the way back into the City, we stopped at Fort Petrie where the ground is covered by these beautiful skeletons of a particular flower (anyone know what it is?), and something else which checked my gag reflex. Claws! Or legs! Of cockroaches of the ocean!

We then went on to see lobster traps, before having a lovely and full day at work. Must admit that I was a little panicked I would find lobster feet/claws/toes/fingernails/I-don’t-know-what-to-call-them-either, in the traps. Luckily, there were none, though I would later have nightmares that I had dinner while a lobster sat next to me, staring.

That same evening, I popped over to the world’s largest fiddle. For a while, I was convinced that I was at the wrong place, because I only saw a massive violin, with no fiddle in view. Lucky for me, my other colleague is v smart, and explained: it is the same instrument, but called a fiddle when used to play jerky music. (I am the one who calls it “jerky,” not her. Because I am not a fan of jigging.) I took photos but accidentally deleted them, because apart from my phobia of cockroaches of the ocean, I am a little brain addled.

After dinner that evening, I cozied down by the window to enjoy the storm, before heading out the next day. Here I am trying to say goodbye while on the Sydney Boardwalk, and failing because the wind was far too strong for my parka…

All in all. A super trip I would strongly recommend for a little bit of summer fun.

Additional must eats + sees:
- Anything and everything at the Allegro Grill.
- Pop by the Cape Breton Fudge Co., grab some fudge and a coffee before making your way down to the violin masquerading as a fiddle. The gent at the shop wouldn’t let me pay for my fudge, surely because I was verging on hysterical when I saw their selection.
- Buy something at the Cape Breton Curiosity Shop.
- Marvel at the number of evening gown dress shoppes along Charlotte Street (and try to get yourself invited to wherever it is that these Haligonians party).
- Have the grilled + chilled shrimp at the Governors [sic] Pub & Eatery.
- Take a walk through the neighbourhood situated across Esplanade from the fiddle.
- Have a latte at The Bean Bank Cafe, but only if you sit in either the Don Cherry room or the piano room (where you must play).

…then, make certain to come back and let me know how much fun you had.

More photos here.

P.S. Dear K + F, who took the time to paint the base of the lighthouse: I hope that you will live happily ever after.

———-
** Because Janey is from Halifax, and Halifax is the center of the Nova Scotian community for me, I was calling Cape Bretoner’s “Haligonians” until Ben put me straight.

Dear Cape Bretoners,
Please don’t issue a fatwa against me for this now corrected mistake.
Thank you. Love you.
M

Very often, women are pitted against one another, so many represented as not being “a girl’s girl.” You know these women, we all know at least one woman around whom we are uncomfortable when they get too drunk and start show-boating for male attention. The woman who would justify sleeping with the man on whom you are crushing because “it’s not like he was into her, and why shouldn’t I? If I avoided every man who every one of my friends liked…, there’d only be 30 billion more…”

You know her. And she turns your stomach. And you should pity her because usually, her self worth rests entirely in the realm of how men react to her. And woah is her when her looks shift.

Listen. I too need attention from men. When I don’t even know I need it, and I suddenly get it, I would be a lying liar who lies were I to lie: It doesn’t affect me, I don’t even notice it. And when it’s from a boy I actually like, even better. I am overrun with a hysteria that amounts to a mass email / text to all of my female friends, and where my phone is broken, I will send smoke signals that HE SMILED AND SAID HI AND DO YOU THINK MY OUTFIT IS OKAY, SMOKE SIGNAL LOOKS A LITTLE BLOATED, etc.

But for a normal healthy woman with her self-esteem recipe in good shape, this comes in measured doses. It is not a daily thing, but rather a once in a while thing. Our self-worth is composite of an awareness of what we bring to the human table, rather than what we bring to — specifically — the male table.

That girl mentioned above, contrary to what media keeps trying to shove into my head, is not the norm. Or maybe I have just been blessed with most of the women in my life. (And I hope that you are, too.) She is not the norm.

The norm is women who love one another deeply.
Women who love one another even when we want to punch the other one in her stupidity.
Women who support one another when there is nothing left to say, but only the deepest most heart stopping pain to manage.
Women who tell one another that they are better, that they deserve better, that they can do better, that they will do better, and that they don’t have to show their boobs to get there. But if they did, “then I’ll help you get the right bra, but I would just like to raise my hand and say that I don’t think you need to show your boobs to get this. Let’s go shopping! I love you.”

That is the norm; these women, are the norm.
And if you don’t know these women, then you need to seek them out, to learn from them, and to become one of them. Trust that they will enrich your life, as they do mine.

All of the above to say, please read this article by Emily Rapp, an ode to the beauty and power of female friendship, the love story that all too often goes unsung. A snippet: I was that desperate mother now; it was my baby who was going to die, and soon. It was already too late. I literally could not bear it. I asked for help and I got it. My friends stood with me in the middle of the scary, sky-howling road I was on, knowing they couldn’t take away the pain of the experience, but promising to be there when I emerged on the other side of the grief tunnel when my child would be gone. I feel them, every day, standing there as I stumble through the blissful, heart-breaking hours with my son whose brain and body fail him a little bit more each day. It is not an exaggeration to say that I would not have survived – that I will not survive — without my women friends.

Share it with the women you respect and hold dear. Share it with your daughters to lead by example, and to remind them that their strength is not in how men react to them, but also — if not more importantly — in how women who know them, are women who respect and love them.

Thank you for your friendship.

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**As balance to the earlier article about when to pull support from friends, this is a necessity.

I hold myself to an extreme standard of behaviour, and although I do my best to soften this where others are concerned (because who in the sh/t am I to hold anyone to any standard?), if I don’t check myself, I can be insufferably judgemental. (Even in my own head, I need to check my ass.) I have come up against some interesting scenarios over the last several years, where tested was my threshold of support, and identified was my level of comfort with the behaviour of friends.

Looking at the scenarios separately provides more clarity, because their core motivations differ.

When a friend behaves in a way I would not support in a stranger

There are certain and very few lines which even my friends can not transgress. Absolutely no one is immune to this. Usually, these are selfishly motivated behaviours, and once in a while we are all allowed to make such a completely and totally selfish choice. Just once in a while. (Because someone who behaves in this way repeatedly, is someone who lives by this code, is someone I would never engage in the first place. See? JUDGE-Y. But it’s simple, no? It’s not rocket science: don’t put out into the world what you would not wish to reap. If we all lived by this code, this world would be a much nicer place, God damn it.)

Right. So, I have learned that I must excuse myself immediately. The best way to do this is to actually let the friend know — with love — that I am tapping out of the conversation because I believe their behaviour is shit and I refuse to support it. Quite honestly, I’m not sure I say it much kinder than that, and where the conversation turns back to that scenario, I don’t pull any punches.

On this, I expect the exact same in return. Where I behave in self-involved possibly hurtful to others manner, my friends have called me on it, and I am a better woman for their gentle yelling.

When a friend repeatedly engages in self-destructive behaviour

This one is a trickier one because too much support becomes a form of enabling someone you love to emotional — if not worse — self-mutilation. And if you don’t support them, the fear is that their isolation will further push them into the situation from which they have asked you to help them leave. The only way to deal with this is to pay as close attention as you can to a friend, to love them unconditionally, and to be very clear with them at every step of the way. Usually, this happens because of a combination of environmental factors: childhood experience, abusive partner, and challenged self-worth.

Only twice have I had to tell someone I love that I am no longer engaging, because my engagement is enabling their behaviour. And because I tend to make everything about me, let me confirm that: I was devastated, because I was so very worried for them. Devastated to the point of physical nausea and the shakes, in fact, just like the quintessential drama queen. Blessed be, and in due time, both of these individuals who daily break my heart with their amazingness, were able to eventually self emancipate. Hurrah them!

Like I said, this scenario is the trickier of the two, and usually filled with more heartbreak. The two most important things here are that (1) you tell them you love them. You tell them how much you love them and that the reason you need to disengage is precisely because you love them; and, (2) you up the ante in all other dimensions of the friendship. Never ever cut them off, but rather no longer discuss the one (or several) items you no longer support. If you have a healthy friendship, you will have twenty topics to discuss on any given day; with one or a few less, you should still have about ten more things to engage.

Simply, and in both scenarios above, what we are essentially doing is loving and supporting our friends, but not loving and supporting one or a few of the choices which they have made. Also, displaying that we have enough respect for them to tell them the truth.

If a friendship can’t be sustained with differing opinions, then the foundation — which should be built of mutual respect — never had time to dry and set itself properly into place. Friendships aren’t just about fellating one another in order to make ourselves feel good; they are a means to growth for both of you, because as so beautifully stated by W. Somerset Maugham, “When you choose your friends, don’t be short-changed by choosing personality over character.” Character builds both itself and you, and we could all use a little character building, especially the judge-y bitches like me.

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Photo from SomeEcards, the absolute best ecard shoppe in the history of the internet.

Often times on this blog I’ve written about Mama. I’ve never quite taken a moment to write about Baba because up until recently that would have been relatively difficult for me still.

Baba and I had an extremely volatile relationship during my adolescence. When him and mum divorced, I was young enough to understand the surface ‘why’, but not psychologically mature enough to disassociate myself from the divorce itself. At such a young age, my identity was wrapped up with that of my mother’s. I didn’t understand where I ended and she began, and so when my father left my mother, my mind’s eye watched him walk away from me.

For a little while following, my father and I would see one another infrequently. Inevitably, we would always fight. I have his temperament and am much closer in character and personality to him than I am to my mother. When he and I clashed, it was always a full-on battle. His leaving had set something alight in me and I took every opportunity to lash out and cut as deeply as possible. Looking back at some of the things I said and did, I am shocked by my capacity to be cruel.

Among the many unfortunate memories that seem to have surfaced as I write are the two following. First was at the end of my high school years. I had taken three weeks to collect the down payment on my high school graduation ring. I walked into baba’s office and handed him the outstanding bill. He told me he wouldn’t pay the outstanding amount because I’d not taken his permission to purchase the ring and that I shouldn’t merely expect him to drop money at my whim. I explained that I would lose my down payment and he matter-of-factly said “that’s a lesson [I’d] have to learn the hard way”.

It may seem bizarre to those of you who don’t know the long and short of the history between he and I, but that served as the end for me and I decided that our relationship was finished. I titled that time in my life The Ice Age because I have no imagination and also because it really was an era that ran the course of too many years. I figured if every time I left him was in tears, it would just be easier for me to bury him, and so he was dead. I would see him at parties and weddings and walk past him without so much as looking at him.

Some time later we had one further interaction over email. There was an ‘incident’, and he took so much time and care to explain something to me, sending me pages of explanation. I responded with the horrendous: “Sorry you took so much time to respond, but you’ve mistaken me for someone who cares. I can’t be bothered to read this.”
He came back with: “You’re not my daughter.”
And I ended it with: “Thank you for finally articulating how I’ve felt for the duration of my life.”

Quite honestly, I thought I was okay then. I didn’t realize how much I needed my father because I’d never really had him in the first place. There was nothing to miss except a sort of misery. My mother and my family tried to push me to change, but I would have none of it and I made it clear that it was no one’s business but my own. Eventually, everyone stopped trying, but only because my response was so visceral.

Ultimately, it was my mother who sacrificed everything to raise me; she was the one who held me up and picked me up. She was the one who shaped me and helped me define my personality. She stayed up late nights waiting for me, and she was the one who read Quran to me when I couldn’t sleep. Mama will forever be my anchor because she is the only individual in this world that has the capacity to keep me grounded. We say it all the time, but I don’t think I can express it any better than this: Without her, I would be lost.(1)

I graduated high school, finished university and then received my M.A.; my father was at none of these ceremonies because I never invited him. I staunchly believed that because he was the adult, it was his role to seek me out. In my mind’s eye, he had to fight to be let back in. After all, he abandoned me when he divorced my mother. Didn’t he?

In hindsight, I understand that I wanted him to know he wasn’t the only one capable of inflicting great pain. I also understand that he never tried to hurt me, but had merely become disenchanted with his marriage. I understand that my anger was partially to mask the sadness which comes with a child living divorce. Most important, I finally understand that baba never fell out of love with me.

I finally understand that both of my parents are also individuals and that often, their hopes and dreams are not intimately related to the fact that they’re parents. The identity of parent is only one aspect of who they are and sometimes it conflicts with other desires they may have as people. The moment we have children, that map of identity changes and the fabric from which it’s made becomes the finest of silks. Unfortunatly, it happens that sometimes “parent” isn’t careful and children fall through to great pain.

The reconciliation
I’d set up rules where baba was concerned. There were certain “stipulations” which had to be met by him if he was ever going to be allowed entry into my life again. I had a script that no one knew about, not even him.

The Script was absolutely insane. It went against every aspect of who my father was and his behaviour to date. I now believe that I scripted it as such to ensure that he would never be allowed back in, because that was my way to self-preservation and protection. To my surprise, baba not only knew The Script, but he went above and beyond the call of duty I had imagined.

When seedo passed away, mama’s father (Allah yir7amu), my father called to give his condolences. Setting aside everything that had transpired between my mother and father and their respective families due to the divorce and its aftermath, my father loved seedo deeply. When my father called, he was crying. I’d not even heard my father cry when his own father passed away and so every second of that moment is deeply entrenched in my memory.

We went to dinner the following evening. Seated across from one another, there was no room for niceties or small talk because I didn’t really know or understand the man before me.

I’d previously imagined that moment, and I had imagined myself being merciless toward him, mocking him, not forgiving him but rather enjoying his need for forgiveness and me refusing him. In my imagination that was such a powerful sentiment – denying him – because he denied me the only thing I needed as I grew up: My baba. My imagination was so vindictive and so cold and I was prepared to lash out after so many years of him not coming after me. I thought I would have been able to laugh and say: I don’t forgive you. I don’t forgive you. I don’t forgive you. I will never forgive you.

But as soon as I sat down and looked across the table, I saw baba. And he was looking at me as though he’d never seen me before that moment, and I saw the recognition in his eyes. He understood how much we’d both lost, how much he’d lost in the way of knowing me and the young woman I’d become. He couldn’t speak for a few moments and I spent the duration of the dinner crying.

It was at that moment that I realized just how deeply I loved him and why I had been so angry. There’s a connection that exists between parent and child that seems – although relatively simple to bruise – impossible to break. The ease by which my own pain disappeared left me spinning, and unless you’ve experienced it, it’s very difficult to describe. I think the only time we can forgive more easily than a child toward a parent is a parent toward their child.

Hearing him tell me he had been the adult and he had failed me, repeatedly, blew the lid off of everything that had been pent up and painful and hurtful. It was so overwhelming and there were moments of anxiety, I think, where I couldn’t see or breathe during dinner.

I had been gifted the opportunity to tell him everything, everything, everything he’d done to hurt me, and he accepted it all. He didn’t deny anything and he didn’t offer a defense, but merely accepted that his actions had ripped my heart to pieces for years. To me, that evening will always be the measure of my father.

After hours of conversation, I accepted his apology. I was terrified and apprehensive because I feared that he’d walk away again…but he’s still here, ten years later, and I’m still getting to know him. I can’t possibly imagine my life without him and it shatters my heart to think of the many many years wasted.(2) Since I trust that Allah knows best, I have come to accept that this heartbreak had to happen for the best of reasons.

One week after that dinner, he gave me my high school graduation ring, still in it’s bag, still with the receipt, a portion of which I’d highlighted: ‘Outstanding Balance Owed’. This ring has since hung on a chain next to my heart, and has never been removed.

———-
(1) Ten years later, I can say that without my father, I would be equally lost.
(2) Originally written on the 3rd of November, 2006 at which point it had been four years. I have updated it to reflect today’s reality.

The most important lesson I took from 2011, and which I have taken from every single year past is that life really and truly is precious cargo.

I am not one to begrduge another person’s hangnail, but rather prefer to nudge them to look at all of the amazing and incredible things they have, least of which is: life. Every single moment within our lives, even the most brutal pain has to be accepted as precious.

Sidebar: Some people reading this have been sexually assaulted as children. I can’t touch that, nor would I ever say that those moments are “precious.” What I can say is that YOU are precious, I am so grateful for your presence in my life, and I love you with every bit of my being. And if I were there when this was happening to you, I would have taken a crowbar to the men who inflicted such pain on your precious selves.

The darkest moments of this past year have been emotional, and I have been able to lift myself out sometimes alone, often times with the aide of the incredible individuals I have in my life. I do not live in an abusive environment, nor an oppressive one, nor a monetarily challenged one, alhamdulliLah. So really and truly, I am blessed, and everything above and beyond what I have is icing on the most decadent cake I can imagine.

A lot of the time, people send emails asking me how I do it. Specifically, “you seem so happy. How do you do it?” In short, here’s how…with the most important caveat that: it’s not fkn easy…
1. Most of my time is spent laughing at myself.
2. I am fiercely devoted to those I love, and with that comes a reciprocity (if not from them, then the Universe brings it back my way in some other incarnation). None of us are sovereigns, except the assholes.
3. I am genuinely happy for the success of others.
4. I give myself no more than three days to deal with a trauma. I figure that if we are to mourn death only three days, there is nothing in this world which should extend beyond that.
5. I struggle to ensure that there is neither hate nor bitterness anywhere in my heart. (Not even to those who hate me and tell me that my Faith is anything short of its beautiful self. Where these people are concerned, I only feel sorry for them, because hate is an ugly disease of the heart whose toxicity imbibes all aspects of who we are and how we see the world.)
6. I learn. Not knowing about something is another way of saying “I have been presented with a choice” to either fear it, or to learn about it. I choose the later.
7. I am never made happy by the pain or hurt of others, because I’m just asking for trouble if I do this (but this shouldn’t be confused with being pleased that someone has gotten theirs, deservedly, because everyone reaps what they sow, in time.)
8. I never allow my happiness to hinge on the hurt or pain of someone else. I am always amazed at how sick people are, who do this.

And most importantly…
9. I believe that Allah has my back. Simple. Even in the darkest recesses of pain, and even when I am angry with Him, and shaking my fist at Him and demanding WHY? and only coming up with “Because Allah knows best,” at the end of the day, within the corner of my little heart, I know He’s got me in the palm of one hand, and covering me with the other until there is no more from which to be protected. (And I floss.)

If you would like to share your own pillars of happiness, please do, as I would love to learn from you.

With the above, there are always things to change, to learn, to hone, to learn, to learn, to learn and to learn. As you enter into 2012, I am going to leave you with a lecture from my most favoured teacher. He speaks about our responsibility to our lives as precious cargo, and also our shared responsibility to our fellow humans, and to animals. You will be riveted. Trust.

Happy 2012.
You all are loved.

Is one of my favourite questions to field.

When was the last time this question was put to a man? Think about that for second…

Right. That’s what I thought.

Where etiquette is concerned, this is a rude question and it’s not yours to ask, you ignorant hysterical interloper.

Please. Let’s not confuse the question with the statement. From those who love us and hold us in warm and cushioned places, it’s never ever a Question, but rather, it is a statement. Like, “I just honestly can’t begin to understand how it is that someone as amazing as you is single.”

I say this all of the time to my girlfriends. And I mean it every single time I say it.

For clarity: to ask them why they are single is in fact my asking them to (1) justify their single status; and then, (2) to expound on the real root of the Q, which is: what’s wrong with you that no one has gone near you yet? (I.e. what is/are your flaw/s?)

I will be the first to recognize that this is a highly sensitive matter. Sensitive enough that I have thought about it to the point of needing to write about it. Trust me: I am not immune to the tone of this Question. Every time I face it, I think love of God, haven’t you read Bridget Jones’s Diary?, before offering my standard completely and totally serious response: “I have a tail.”

1% of the time, this elicits a laugh. 99% of the time, people genuinely look surprised, and curious because if they’re dumb enough to pose the question, they are not smart enough to catch the humour of my response. To the 99%, I usually follow up with a “why are you not single?” posed in the same tone, intended to mean what’s so special about you?

It’s one of the very few situations in which I allow myself to be completely rude (with guilt-free enjoyment and abandon).

Like that one time:
“Why are you single?”
“I have a tail!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well. It’s small. Fleshy. Makes a squeaking noise every time I sit down.”
“Really?!”
“So. You’re married?!”
“YES! With children! You’re never completely a woman until…”
“Yes. I can tell you’ve had children. Extra weight around your tummy looks so cozy!** Tee-hee.”

(Look. I’ve never pretended to be an angel, so chill.)

The reality is there are a million reasons why someone is single, ranging from not meeting the right person, to not having the inclination, to not giving enough of a shit to actually put in the effort. No matter the reason, you, Interloper, will not receive a satisfactory answer, because there is no right answer to this question.

All that will happen is that the smart person to whom you put the Q will think you an idiot.

Bottom line is that the smartest men and women I have met, have never put this question to me, and the men and women who have, have always eventually proven themselves simpletons.

To conclude: Kindly take the above advice with you into the new year.

==========
**To my beautiful sisters who have had children. Don’t take this personally. Knowing your fierceness, you would have just punched her in her Mommy and not allowed me to interact further. Trust.

Sometimes, I would really like to say:

“I un-friended you because your ego-driven behaviour is so very unfriendly.

I un-friended you because 9 out of 10 times, I believe you’re lying, and I have walked away from communicating with you feeling like shit.

I un-friended you because I don’t believe you’re as nice as you think you are.

I un-friended you is not passive aggressive, but rather hard-core extremely aggressive. (In case you were wondering.)”

New Year’s Resolution? No more ego-driven “friends” who behave in unfriendly manner.

I recommend you do the same.

‘Verily, the most honored of you in the sight of God is the one who is most righteous.’ (Quran 49:13)

Each one of us defines “righteous” in a variety of ways, right down to the simplest thing, like helping someone on the street, or taking care of a best friend. Some people will argue that people should fend for themselves, and if someone is on the street, it’s because they deserve to be on the street, and so to help them is not to behave in righteous manner, but rather it is to enable.

The people who would argue the above are definitively: assholes.

Do you remember when you were growing up and people asked you what you wanted to be when you were older, and you said: “living on the street” or perhaps “sleeping beneath a bridge”?

No? Me either.

What about when you answered: “being alone!”

Yeah. Me either.

My mum tends to travel over the holidays, and most of my friends are usually out of town or at family Christmas dinners drunk and working out their issues. Basically, I have always been — more often than not — alone over the Christmas holidays. Almost everything is closed and a girl can only read so much and see so many films over the course of a few days.

Thing is, even though we don’t celebrate Christmas, I do love all of its accoutrements. On some level, the holiday resonates with me, and so when I’m alone, that resonance turns into sadness a little bit. I still remember last year, no one was even on-line or on bbm or over text. And I am someone who is very comfortable being alone, so imagine how bad it had to be for me to actually feel like it was too much.

A couple of tips for the holidays, which you should carry with you throughout your year if you can. (And please note, I am not at all comparing being inside, safe and sound and warm but alone, with being on the street. I am merely trying to make a connection for those of us who would never see a connection between ourselves and those who too many of us ignore on the streets.)

First, it’s the easy one: don’t leave your single friends alone. Surely, you must have room for one more. Surely.

To clarify: Possess enough emotional fkn intelligence to note that if they’re there for you 360 days a year, now is not the time to leave them alone. Even a simple “thinking of you” text message is better than nothing. And unless your fingers are broken, you need to do this, you morons.

There’s something really sad and alienating about being left alone at a time of year that’s meant to be about family, love, peace, and forgiveness. There is a reason that the highest rate of suicide happens around this time of year. And this is the time of year you are meant to be thankful and loving — that doesn’t only hold true for your blood kin. Don’t forget about us who may not have family in the City, or who may not normally celebrate Christmas and so are de facto outside of the circle of Noel.

Go through your friend list in your head, and you will find at least one person who fits this description. Now, make a point of reaching out to them and engaging them. Trust me on this one. Please.

Second, it’s the harder one, the more important one of this article: if a regular everyday Maha with a full social schedule and a loving circle of friends can feel so alienated and sad over the holidays, imagine someone who lives on the street. Imagine someone who is already alienated and troubled. The majority of homeless have come from childhoods of abuse — more often than not, it is sexual. Another great majority has mental health issues.

Don’t ever kid yourself about this fact: No one wants to live on the street by choice.

Here’s something I came across recently, which is amazing, and what better way to teach your children about righteousness, than by leading by example? (Thank you, MJ.)

“Guerilla Giving,” started (and still happening) by a garbage man in Edmonton:

Each year his family & friends fill backpacks for individual homeless people
In each backpack they include:
A wallet with $25.00 cash (optional if you don’t have it).
A personalised Christmas card, signed by the family.
Christmas treats and snacks or granola bars & lipton soup.
Things like long-johns, gloves, hoodies, tea light candles, thermos, toiletries.
They target individuals, not those in groups.
They avoid churches and shelters, as they want to give with no pre-condition.
They always shake their hand, or hug them, and wish them well before they leave them to open their packages.”

You don’t need to do this at Christmas. In fact, you don’t need a reason to do this at all, except maybe the active choice to be thankful for your shelter. To be thankful for your food. To be thankful for your ability to have a Christmas tree, at the foot of which your family sits. To be thankful that you were not abused. To be thankful that you do not have a reason to be on the street. To be thankful that you can purchase a backpack and fill it.

And aren’t these reasons truly in the spirit of Christmas? More so than the twenty gifts beneath your tree?

You don’t need to do this at Christmas. But I am placing my bets on this time of year, when people are meant to live within the spirit of this holiday, and I am betting that you may be a little more open to the above suggestions today than you would be on a random day in April.

I guess this coming year, maybe our resolutions should be on a foundation of: I resolve to not look away.

Happy holidays dear readers. Thank you for sharing your stories and your hearts, for uplifting mine when it has been prostrate on the ground, confused by Heaven’s will. May your season be filled with love, light, and warmth. And may you have the generosity to share these things with those less fortunate.

==========
Photo from FinancialJesus(dot)com.

It’s the only guaranteed fact of life.

I have just learned that a woman with whom I went to high school has passed away due to cancer. We were acquaintances, not friends. I remember her smile, her gentleness and her crazy beautiful milk-coloured skin.

I am in some kind of shock, because she is the first of my graduating class to pass, and she is too young.
This is just. She is too fucking young. We are too young.
We are too young. We are too young. We are too young.

RIP, Barbara.

Editorial Note: The following views have nothing at all to do with either the official staff or volunteers of The Ottawa Hospital, but rather are entirely One Female Canuck’s. Because it is only the later who is dumb.

Yesterday was my Orientation. Some of you may be thinking that everyday in my world is “Orientation” which, I mean…fine. I accept that.

One takes said Orientation with all new employees of the hospital. Everyone, including Physicians. And you would think that they are keeners who sit at the front of the class, right? No. The only keener present was me. On my side of the auditorium, I was the only one who propelled herself at high speed right to the front of the class.

I was walking so fast I almost fell and broke my face.

I WAS SO EXCITED TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY.
I AM A SERIOUS VOLUNTEER.
SO SERIOUS I AM YELLING BECAUSE I AM STILL SO EXCITED.

They gave us the rundown of everything, which basically amounts to:
Be nice.
Treat people like you want your loved ones to be treated.
Don’t date the doctors.**
Only the surgeons.**
Wash your hands because otherwise you will kill people with the gross bacteria you are transporting from one to the next.
Pay attention to people.
Never run away from them.
Don’t wear denim.
You can’t see all disabilities. In fact, you can’t see most disabilities.
Disabilities don’t cause hardships, but rather an inaccessible environment does. (Said the wonderful man, at the bottom of the auditorium, which only had stairs.)
Service animals are working. Don’t play with them, dumbass.

And always remember: To provide each patient with the world class care, exceptional service and compassion that we would want for our loved ones.

I watched and learned and I was riveted. I am now officially a part of this incredible team of people — setting aside the Doctors and Surgeons, let me say the following about nurses: They are amazing. They are AMAZING. And they are underfunded, and undervalued, and under appreciated. Exactly like teachers because we have our fkn priorities ass backwards, if you hadn’t noticed. Because we pay those who play pretend exhorbitant amounts of money, while we cut funding from our caregivers and educators. F/ck you, System. F./ck you, hard because what a disappointment you continue to be.

And now, I am a little buzzing volunteer who can maybe help take the weight off of the shoulders of these incredible individuals. And maybe I can make people smile, and I can definitely hang out with them on Christmas and New Year’s and pay attention to them.

But not before I know what in the shit I am doing. Because I had nothing else to do but to wait for an hour before I could have my photo ID completed (wherein they squashed my head, and I am contemplating legally changing my name to BlockHead SuchAndSuch), and while waiting, I attempted to complete the Self Guided Campus Tour. Which is another way of saying I got lost for an hour and couldn’t find anything because the architect is a man named M.C. Escher.

Truth be told, it was fun to get lost. Because now I know where every toilette is, so anyone needing to go to the Washroom, I’m your gal! The Volunteer coordinator told me I was funny. I don’t think she meant like comedic funny, but funny because I was so excited.

WHAT’S THERE NOT TO BE EXCITED ABOUT?
DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I AM GOING TO BE HELPING PEOPLE?

Speaking of which, I had to have a criminal record check completed. Totally awkward and weird. But I am as clean as a whistle. Hurrah!

I have one more step to complete before I may work directly with patients, and it is to have my second tuberculosis test completed. InshAllah, they will inject my arm with this on Friday, and by Monday we will confirm that all is well (since the first one came out negative).

Until then, tomorrow specifically, I am relegated to the Gift Shoppe. I can’t deal with patients, but I can smile at them and wave at them from the Gift Shoppe. While waiting for Banksy, I plan on fogging up the glass and drawing them hearts.

==========
**They didn’t say any such things. I am the as/hole who just did, for your amusement. Because, precisely like a monkey, I am here to entertain you.

Editorial Note: The following views have nothing at all to do with either the official staff or volunteers of The Ottawa Hospital, but rather are entirely One Female Canuck’s. Because it is only the later who is dumb.

I love my day job, and for the most part, I admire almost everyone with whom I work. That aside, not all of it is what one could call “soul fulfilling.” Because of this, I have at times become extremely disillusioned, until I can once again lull myself into a state of numb and forge ahead pretending otherwise.

I have some time off this coming month and thought: what better way to spend it than with people who are sick and scared and might be alone?

To begin with, the holidays are a c/ntpunt for many people anyway, and when you add illness and hospitals to this mix, it can be devastating. Even though I have a stupid social schedule, Friday and Saturday night outings are not a must for me. I don’t need to spend Christmas eve with my family, and I am not so much of a party-goer which is amazing because I am so pretty that I have to celebrate the new year anywhere but with a good book.

So, I decided to volunteer at one of the hospitals, and to work with the patients.

I had requested work with either oncology or special needs babies, but they prefer that anyone volunteering with these patients be someone who has proven their worth and volunteered for a while. Which makes complete sense, because these areas are extremely demanding; so with them, inshAllah, I will be volunteering in due time.

At the moment, I will be volunteering with the regular patients. I will be reading them books, and maybe playing games with whomever is interested. I will be chatting with them, making sure they’re comfortable, and just generally: being an attentive new friend.

Honestly? I’m so excited, I could come out of my skin.

Because I am good at helping people. And I think that maybe my gift is — maybe maybe maybe — it is to be kind. And I think people who are alone, and scared and who are sad, they could use kindness. So. I am excited. Like, I haven’t been this excited about anything since I can’t remember when. And I just really hope I do a good job and make people feel like they’re not alone and that there’s one more person who cares about them.

Yay for volunteers!

———-
Photo from CareGiversFrienc(dot)net.

Said Oscar Wilde: “I am so clever that sometimes I don’t understand a single word of what I am saying.”

I wonder, do you take yourself too seriously? Like, do you sit around and ponder the fate of the world and think that you will be the one who saves it and changes it for the better? That every word you say holds the weight of gold?

I do. TOTALLY.
In my head, I am usually wearing a crimson cape and with a raised fist. Often, I have a very serious look on my face, and a box of crayons in my lowered hand.

In case you haven’t noticed, I take myself seriously enough that I have A BLOG whereby I can share my brilliance, because where would the world be without me?

Well. Maybe not exactly, entirely.
Though I do like that this place has as its epicenter: ME…and I need an audience like a modern day court jester. Obviously.

That said, I have noticed an abundance of people who really and truly take themselves far too seriously. So seriously, in fact, that I enter a state of hysterical shock when I read what they have written. So seriously, in fact, that I have had to stop reading what they write. And let me tell you that since years, I continue to have regular, personal, in-the-flesh dealings with people who have every right to be full of themselves in this world, and yet they are not. When push comes to shove, they will make fun of themselves because they know it’s one of the only ways to keep their egos in check.

These other ones though, they’re fascinating creatures, no?
We all know at least one.
And if we know one, we know a few, because when they self-fellate, they want someone to hold their hair back and who better than someone for whom they can do the same?

They mobilize in packs (because normal people can’t stand them) and feed off of one another.

So what happens when we take ourselves too seriously? Most of the time, if not all of the time, where we refuse to genuinely laugh at ourselves, we instead lay the groundwork for others to laugh at us as they walk away. Even the nicest among them.

———-
Image thieved from NYPress(dot)com.

Updated 8 Dec 2011: I will not be posting the photos on Prolific Immigrant, but rather here at my flickr page. For quick access, I have added a link on the middle side menu titled #365photos because I don’t have an imagination.
———-
Since the mobile became an appendage, we have all been forced to witness our friends hysterical art projects, often as painful to sit through as story time with infants not of our own wombs.

Most notable  is the “365 photos in 365 days” project, where photos 7 – 363 inclusive are of their dinner. Because I am a sheep, I have been considering subjecting you to this same “project” for a while. Baaaaaa.

Due to my crippling sloth manner and terror of commitment, I merely thought about it but never actioned it. Until today.

Behold the first of 365 “inspirational” photos:

1/365 — Morning coffee shoppe: “The ceiling is not a place to look for inspiration. You’ll find the ideas in your head.”

In the coming 364 days, expect many eye-rolls, some snark, and the very occasional gem.

PLEASE GROW YOUR HAIR, SAMSON.

Love of God, you’re killin’ me.

xxo
Maha

PS Recently…
M: I need to buy a pair of night goggles.

“Friend”: What? Why?

Why not?

Seriously. Why?

They seem like so much fun. Like…if I could get a unicorn, I’d get one of them too. Not for any discernible reason, but just because. Who doesn’t want a unicorn? Or, like, a Care Bear to always give me hugs?

What are you talking about?

IMAGINE THE FUN I COULD HAVE WITH NIGHT GOGGLES!

Only if you’re planning on taking out insurgents…
(pause)
You need help. Like, so much.

You. You need help. You? You are never allowed to play with my goggles. When I get them. Which…I don’t even know where?

Please stop talking. Adults are coming.

Awesome. They’ll totally know where I can score a pair…

etc.

In The Hands of God from Mustafa Davis on Vimeo.

At a time when y’all are preppin’ to throw down some cash in the name of Baby Jesus (♥ + peace be upon him), please consider extending your definition of family to include those whom you have never met, like Leford Kamoto. If you donate over the coming near three days, via the The Big Give, they will double your donation.

Also, please remember that while you spend many a night feasting this coming month, there remains a famine in East Africa. For those of you in Canada, you may donate through:
Oxfam
Human Concern International
or
CARE

Peace and love to you and yours.

Recently, BB (as always) gave me excellent advice. Basically, it was for me to chill the fk out and stop asking “Why?” because it is an utterly useless question to pose.

Why this and Why that and Why is this happening and Why did that happen and Why isn’t this working?

Arguably, it is this as first question to which our minds default when we are facing a heavy emotional situation. Someone mistreats us, someone tries to cheat us, someone tries to pretend they had nothing to do with our pain, and our immediate response is “why?” Why did this have to happen (to me)?

I think we ask this question because it’s supposed to explain away our pain. Meaning: You are feeling crushed and ripped to pieces because (insert answer to “why”… And where we do not have the answer to this question, we enter into an exhausting near nihilistic state of: You are feeling crushed and ripped to pieces because for nothing… and holy sh/t when this is our answer at a time we are crumbled on the floor incapable of picking ourselves up. The inability to answer this question and all which are derived from it? It’s us, laying on the floor, with the weight of the pain keeping us flat, and then an additional 27 tons of metal randomly plunked on top of our heads.

Basically, not the greatest place to be.

The painful reality is that there is no really concrete answer to why, when it comes to human emotion. Because we are not math equations, and we do not 2 + 2 = 4. In fact, I would say that we, as humans, are maybe an approximation of 2 / 17 = (0.56 + red – a salt and pepper shaker x 712) to the 0.19th power. Or something.

To the extent of our rational capacity, sometimes shit just happens more often than not, and for no discernable reason. This is not to say that I believe in coincidences, because I do not. It is to say that I recognize that humans call things random only because we do not possess the capacity to see and understand and calculate all at once, the kabillions of variables which affect human action and choice.

Then what’s the alternative? The alternative is a variation of BB’s eloquent: Stop asking WHY? and my not so eloquent: Chill the fk out. A variation because the mere act itself is a cushioning to the blow we have just been dealt (and so necessary to a degree), and it is within the space of “why” that we can reflect on our own actions which may have led to the situation in which we find ourselves (and so necessary to a great extent).

I believe that it might be as simple as recognizing the dangers of asking “Why?” Being cognisant that becoming mired in it, obsessed with it, and losing yourself in it is potentially far more devastating than the pain which gave rise to the question. Flagging yourself every single time you ask it and subsequently cutting yourself off when your time spent asking this question is longer than the experience questioned, when you spend more time looking back than looking at how you move forward into a healthier space.

I’m going to try and do this, which means that I will have to actually cease and desist my relied upon behaviour. And because I am slow on the uptake, this will be a little bit of a challenge.

Godspeed to me, and to you with whom some of the above has resonated.

———-
Photo from the gorgeous family of Atikinka.

This is one of the most amazing things I have seen in a very very long time. I just can not tell you how hard I love this, or the message within.

For me, the messages being:
1) You can not judge a book by its cover (which signals the very critical belief within Islam that only Allah is the Judge, as He is the only one who sees into the hearts of wo/man).
2) That all roads lead to Allah.
3) Islam as inclusion rather than exclusion. Which, I believe, is the message of each of the great faith traditions, until they are manipulated at the hands of humanity to meet political, class, gendered, and / or power ends.

“Since masculinity is defined through separation while femininity is defined through attachment, male gender identity is threatened by intimacy while female gender identity is threatened by separation.” -Gilligan

Women are defined through attachment.

Yesterday, I wrote that there is this thing which weighs me down. And yesterday, this very thing crushed me. This is something that happens from time to time, only yesterday was the first time I chose to write about it. Always and unequivocally, it is triggered by a conversation about marriage with my family. The last time it happened, I didn’t write about it, and instead spent eight days, evenings in bed falling asleep at 8pm. I promised myself I would never let that happen again, because my life is so f/cking blessed as is without a man and a stretched uterus and what a luxury that this is what depresses me, right?

Now. Because it is only when I understand things that I can put them to rest, and because I understand things best after I have written about them, I put fingers to keyboard and wrote about it.

Subsequently, I was overwhelmed by the love that people chucked at my head, and the incredible amount of women whose private messages amounted to shared war stories: “I hear you. I understand you. I too have had to fight this battle,” and also to the slightly more hysterical ones who wrote: “I hear you. I understand you. PLEASE DON’T GET MARRIED BECAUSE OH MY GOD I WANT YOUR LIFE AND TRUST ME YOU DON’T WANT MINE!!!!”

Two particular shout outs: First to SW who sent me statistical information on how most women who are murdered, are murdered at the hands of their spouses. Second, to JJ who very clearly hates her own children, and managed to make this hatred hilarious.

The bottom line is, I am relatively accomplished.

Measured by the same stick used to measure a successful man:
an excellent job and publications,
an exceptional higher education in an extremely difficult M.A. program,
property,
savings,
etc
I am well beyond accomplished.

Measured by the same stick used to measure a successful female:
wife,
mother
I am not so accomplished.

Couple the above measurements with my culture (not to be confused with my Faith), which says that completing our Faith is half of our deen (religion). Said another way: If unmarried, you are incomplete.

Here’s the reality: Islam does not discriminate.
And because I am a Believer, and God knows best, there is no way in hell that God would create such a discriminatory hierarchy within Islam, because Islam is the un-gendered discourse. There is the male, there is the female, and then there is the divine which is genderless.

In fact, there are 99 names of Allah, and the one to which Muslims refer to most, is al-Rahman (the most merciful), within which is rahm (womb). Reflect on that for a second, then get back to me.

To discriminate means to sideline and marginalize those of us who — for whatever reason — have not yet been married, or who never get married. And this is not my Faith.

And if the above logic isn’t enough for you…then how about…
Those who get married and then abuse their partners?
Or those who get married and then cheat but never get found out?
Or those who get married and then divorced and never marry again?
Have they completed their deen more so than those who simply never get married?

The f/ck it does.

As to the “science” which places all women at a disadvantage sooner or later, then to you I send a big fat hey! Remember the time you thought the earth was flat? Or the time you proved that “white people” were better? Or when you were adamant about the classical elemental theory? Or that time you believed ether was a carrier of light waves and radio waves?

One last time: Allah does not discriminate, and on any day, I will gladly take on anyone who speaks to the contrary.

Society however? Men and women will gladly create such a hierarchy, if only to make themselves feel better, while making others feel less. And men, as has been proved time and again, will decry it as their fitrah to shun the women with whom they are most compatible for those whose t/ts sit higher. But God, my God, the God who does not discriminate, and the God who does not favour one gender above another? He would never.

Those of you who believe that He would, then you need to re-situate and re-evaluate. And you need to ask yourself what part of your nafs it is that your perspective feeds, because my guess is it ain’t your piety.

So on most days I believe that, and I internalize it at a much louder frequency than the other side of that coin. But yesterday, the other side took my feet right out from beneath me.

Usually, unlike yesterday, and because I do believe that Allah knows best, I believe that whatever He has in store for me, it will be precisely so that I might reach my full potential. And the reality is, that my full potential may have absolutely nothing to do with marriage or having a child.

To be even more frank, looking at nine out of ten couples around me (Muslim, Arab, and not), on most days, I am pretty relieved I am not married. Because men? Well…they’re not all they’re cracked up to be when they perceive a woman disrespectfully as their property. And I would hazard that less than 5% of all men carry women in their hearts as Allah intended and instructed.

I wanted you to know this, because so many of you are worried about me. And though I was desperately sad yesterday, I am like one of those Bozo the Clown inflatable bop toys, filled with enough air to bounce back harder and faster than most. Only, I am prettier. Obviously.

Thank you.
Love you.
Owe you.

This morning, I woke up an underachiever.
Who still has not accomplished much of anything worth discussing or worth feeling good about.

This morning, I woke up worthless.
A useless bit of space not contributing to anything, or adding any sort of value to the lives of those around me or to my own life.

This morning, feeling like sh/t, I walked to work wiping tears, and catching my breath and repeating over and over and over “Allah knows best.”

And this morning, I thought about how I every day fight to live my life doing good and being good and respecting the rules and living within a toxic-free heart, and I do it out of nothing more than a love for Allah. And when I fail, it is because I am short on strength, not because He is ever short on Love and Guidance.

And this morning, I woke up confused by those who have not lived well and yet, they have been graced with the one thing — the only thing — I wish to have.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking about that one time my cousin told me that women who don’t have children? Something changes in the composition of their brain. That they’re not “normal.”
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking about the biological imperative that men wave around: That they are naturally built to be attracted to young women.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking about the fact that I have loved wrong but at the right time, and loved right but at the wrong time.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking about all of the times I have been told don’t laugh so loud, have less of an opinion, pretend you don’t know, don’t argue even if he’s wrong, be less of what you are, look to the floor, do not aspire, stop at a Masters degree. Because most of the men of my culture? They do not like these things in women.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up thinking how everything above culminates into one single reality: That I have not yet found a partner with whom to play scrabble. And because I do not want a man of my culture, but rather a man of culture, because the men of my culture have made me feel less, too old, too strong, too opinionated, too Western, too this and too that, then this must mean I do not really and truly cross my heart and hope to die want to find my scrabble partner.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up recalling the advice that I should just get married, get pregnant and who cares about the rest? Because there are only two measures to successful living: A partner in my bed, and a used uterus.
Because Allah knows best.

And this morning, I woke up fighting all that I hate and all that I have internalized, thinking how I carry a weight so heavy that it crushes me on days like this, and on top of my own expectations I must also bear the weight of the expectations of my family because I need to be crushed a little more.
But Allah knows best.

Because Allah knows best.
Because Allah knows best.
Because Allah knows best.

So this morning I woke up battling myself, half as written above and half encased in “Allah knows best,” a suit of armour, a mantra of internalized glue to hold me together.
AlhamduliLah.

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The follow up article to the above is: Alright Bein’ The Single Non-White Female. (Trust.)

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Photo from employscoop(dot)com.

Do you love women? Do you respect women? Are you against sexualized violence? Abuse? Hate? Manufactured realities? Profit over people?

Then you need to watch the following riveting two part video, and you need to internalize every single thing said by the brilliant Jean Kilbourne, and then you need to share this with everyone you know.

Please find Jean Kilbourne here.

At the tender age of seven, I was treading water during a swim lesson, staring at a man standing in the doorway of the men’s change room watching us, while diddling himself.

He had his Boy Part (BP) out above his shorts and he was playing with it, much like one would play with a small cat. A child, I didn’t understand what he was doing, but was fascinated by his choice in swimwear instead, for he was wearing matched baby blue turban (a la Seikh variety, not Arab – although am certain there are many wankers there, too) and baby blue shorts, serving as sharp contrast to the darkness of his body. While trying not to drown, I wondered if his mama had sewn them for him, so they would match.

In my early teen years, I was out for a run through the Experimental Farm. Running toward me was a hairy fat man without a shirt on. Some ways away from me, he stopped running and pulled his BP out of his shorts and declared “Tu-DUH!” While sprinting past, I made a mental note to ask the same of my husband as I do believe the “Tu-DUH!” a funny and worthwhile conversation starter behind closed doors.

In my later teen years, two things happened. First was during a crisp Fall evening while Natasha and I were walking down Elgin Street. We approached the platform of one building and looked up to see a man with his pants and underwear around his ankles and his shirt completely undone, blowing in the wind. With his BP released into the fresh air, he too was wanking. I feared that at my normal pace, the wind would carry the items soon to shoot from the BP and hit me directly in the head. So I ran, while Natasha stood back to take notes on technique. JUST KIDDING, TASH!! I’LL CALL YOU!!

The following summer, I was walking down Bank Street when I looked into a car and saw  a convulsing man, eyes rolled back in head, seizing. I would save him and be a real-life Heroine. With terror gripping my heart, I edged over to the window contemplating whether I would break the window with a punch or a kick, and how I would pose for the photo accompanying the story of my heroine ways. Sadly, it was only when I was standing with face pressed against the window that I noticed he had his BP in hand, having just had a go at himself.

There is no punchline to this entry. Rather, it is Movember, and if you know a man growing a stache for his prostate, better you support this month’s endeavor than leaving him to his own devices. Literally.

Once upon a time, an Arabic family was scared I was going to use my feminine wiles to steal their son right from underneath their noses. Scared because I was the daughter of divorce, and well…you know what that means. After this gent and I met, and clearly hit it off, his mother took it upon her self to call my family at the crack of dawn the next morning and tell us that they had the perfect man for me. He was the son of divorced parents. We’d have a lot to talk about.

Once upon a time, a lovely Arabic man professed his care for me. He was a few years younger and he was wonderful (still is). When he told his family he wanted to marry me, his mother and sister — then someone I considered among my dearest friends — told him I was too strong for him and too old. So his sister contacted me a few weeks later to tell me she had the perfect man for me. He was approximately 20 years my senior. She remains blocked on Face book, her and her laughably pathetic and backward ways.

Once upon a time, an Arabic fella aged 28 to my then 30, asked me if I had ever been in love. Because he hadn’t. Because that was a sin. His follow up question was: Have I ever kissed a boy. With tongue. (Are you screaming? Because I still am.)

Once upon a time, an Arabic man aged 34 asked me if I was a virgin. Because he was. Even though he had never been single. And I really can’t wait to play Blind Leading The Blind.

Once upon a time, an Arabic dude put in an order for a beautiful woman, with a higher education and good morals. He was sent my way to tell me that he wanted me to marry him so that we could move to Saudi where I would then take care of his ailing parents, hang my diploma and “just be smart” while having “smart babies.” Also, I’d have time to maintain my looks, Thanks God.

Once upon a time, right after Uni, an Arabic Muslim fella formerly married to a Christian American fem asked me if I had ever had a teenie tiny smallest sip of alcohol. When I told him I had, he shook his head, huffed and puffed and said “we’ll talk about that later!”

HA HA HA HA!!!!!

Once upon a time, an Arabic fella with whom I was coffee-ing for the first time, showed up 30 minutes late because he was too busy “gaming” and his right hand hurt. When I refused to see him a second time, he had his momma call my momma to ask me out on a date. Also, to tell my momma that he wanted to live in his room, in his parents house, with me.

Once upon a time, an Arabic fella asked me if I was comfortable in the same room as men. When I said “uhm. Yes?!” he said “I seeeeee,” DUN DUN DUN DUUUUUN!!

Once upon a time, a Sheikh from Montreal called me because he was told I would be a good match. I don’t know, either, dear reader. But he was pretty much letting it rip in Arabic and I was terrified and he kept calling back while I would hang up and ask him to please not call again and then my mother finally came home to find me in tears. Way to be pious, brother.

Once upon a time, a man asked me if I stuffed (“bti7shi?” in Arabic). When I asked “whaaaaaat?” he responded with “like, grape leaves, and carrots, and eggplant?”

Once upon a time, a boy was after me for years, but I didn’t much like him, because al-ma7abba is from Allah. When I finally accepted to go out for that one coffee, against my own sense of taste and comfort, he decided to clarify — for my benefit so that I would not be hurt — that he was “just browsing.”

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

Once upon a time, there was a single girl who never shared her stories, instead burying them deep inside because she always wondered what was it about her that made her single. Until she realized that it wasn’t her, but rather Allah getting rid of all of the riff raff to make more room for the right bloke. InshAllah.

ALEX O’LOUGHLIN!! CALL ME!!

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Photo courtesy of CORBIS.

I have known some women who — while in the throes of preparing for their weddings — have praying mantis’d their partners.

I have never been a fan of weddings. In fact, I am among the few women who loathe weddings.

As a little girl, I imagined crossing the world with a partner in adventure; I did not imagine a wedding, but rather being a part of a team. I imagined calling my parents with the great news, and then assuring them I was not pregnant as response, that I had in fact waited until marriage to get down.

Truth be told, I have never been drawn to wedding dresses either, though maybe the tiara (which, I mean, I could wear anywhere). When I thought of partnering, I thought not of the wedding, but rather of the beautiful man who gets my mind and wants to raise babies with our shared value system while we make one another laugh. Occasionally we fight, and then he apologises. Obviously.

That said, I have always wanted a ring. I have always wanted that plain boring traditional gold band. Which I love so much, and which I have always wanted to see on my hand, knowing that it is from a man who has chosen me to be his booty call for life, because that’s just the kind of romantic ideal to which I aspire.

But then recently, my world was dislodged.
B informed me that the ring situation? It is not a Muslim tradition.
My father confirmed this, and then laughed when I became visibly upset.
In fact, really very devout Muslims do not wear bands.
(CATHOLICS!! CALL ME!! (I am totes single, and I heart Jesus (blessings and peace be upon him).)

Listen, I know what you’re going to say, that just because it is a Christian tradition, it doesn’t mean we can’t adopt it. And we have, in fact.
But I am still stressed out entirely by this news, because I can not un-know it, now that I know it.
It’s not a sin; so it’s not like if I request a ring, I will burn in hell. But still, this really upset me.

I can not explain to you the ‘why’ of it, only to say that now that I know it is not a part of Muslim tradition, I feel dumb for wanting it. I feel foolish in my hope for a little slim gold band given to me by my partner, and I can not get over this impasse, because I want to carry something tangible from my man. I want to always have something on me, an anchor if you will, which grounds me to the man who calls me his woman. That may sound Neanderthal to some, but this is a solid want in me, one of the few physical things I have ever consciously wanted, in fact. And trust me, I am not a “wanter,” I have never been a big consumer, opting instead for experiences rather than things. But this? This is different.

And it may have to do with my parents being divorced. Before which, my father gave my mother a little golden ring with a heart on it, inscribed on the inside was that he loved her. This ring she gave to me after the divorce, and I wear it on a chain around my neck; a chain which is never removed, a chain on which there is one other ring and Allah. For the longest time, I wore this ring hoping that one day I would be able to give it back to my mum.

Even though their marriage has dissolved fully, and even though there will never ever be reconciliation between them and I will never be able to hand this ring back to her, the ring still represents something extremely visceral and tangible to me, the daughter of this divorce. Bottom line is, at one point, this ring was real, and so were the sentiments inscribed within.

Although perhaps? Perhaps I should aim for a date with a man before I start worrying about the specifics of what he will / will not let my infantile side have so that she may not pout every time she looks down at her left NUDE hand. And we all know — nudity in public is haraam.

Boo.
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Photo courtesy of the brilliant Cathy Thorne, who gave the world Everyday People Cartoons — Cartoons about women, and the people who love and annoy them.

Due to certain circumstance, I have – in the last perhaps month – been having bouts of complete and total rage. Wicked anger the likes of which I have never before felt and hope I never feel again. Often, I am with mobile to ear with Naomi on the other end talking me down. Talking me down. Talking me down. For that, I would like to thank her publicly as apparently she has been quoting direct from my blog to her partner Jason. A big hello to Jason also.

The first time she did this we spent nearly three hours on the phone with me in the middle of a field next to Lulu at different times crying, being pissed off, being fair, being unfair, being ridiculous, being filled with resentment, being demented, and being completely on the mark.

When I’ve come off the phone with her and am calmed, I look into my mind’s mirror and demand a response to: “Now list all of the mistakes and stupidities you committed to find yourself in this situation. Also, place yourself in their shoes and try to see what they see and understand their hurt. Because you are not innocent in this.“, because the only way to deal with rage of this sort, I think, is to never allow it a scapegoat. To instead know that it takes several to tango and impart the reasons for that rage to all parties, including – and possibly before anyone else – yourself.

Otherwise, hate takes over our hearts and leaves no room for all of the other great emotions we’re capable of feeling. We become stuck like sad little turtles on our backs, waiting for a hero to save us.

Only, there are no heroes in this world outside of ourselves. If we will it, anger serves as an ugly corner in our minds and the longer we allow it to remain there, the more solidified the corners become. Then sooner, rather than later, they cease being corners and start becoming our very centres around which everything else is built, against which we measure everything and the points from which we begin every movement.

So. I refuse to be Angry Girl, and luckily she left some time last week and was replaced by Happy Girl w/ Crayons. My life is too good and my heart is too big and I will not shrink it for anything. Not a thing. In fact, I’m working to make it bigger. Stronger. Nicer. Kinder. Prettier. And give it more crayons. (I understand I sound as someone with water on the brain here, and that’s fine.)

I recommend you do the same. Only the weak of spirit and heart will shy away from this. A line’s been drawn and you have to decide on which side you stand; Your heart and mind are either courage filled or cowardice led. Choose.

It’s far easier to project and hate (insert item / television show / individual / colour scheme) rather than to face the facts. So consider this a dare. I dare you to: Sift through your mind and find the corners – or for some, cores – where hate lives. Then face that hate, wrestle it, understand the ‘why’ of it rather than the ‘who’, look at the actions you took to make the situation turn into one of rage and then squash it. Squash it whole. Refuse it’s poison into the rest of your body – most especially your heart – and search for the good instead. It will make you cry and stamp your feet and want to kick the sh*t out of something, but you need to stop your whinging and do it. DO IT. For the sake of you and everything about you, believe Nike (slave drivers for profit) and Just Do It (insert swoosh).

I’m not done just yet because this dare has a second part. As soon as you have completed the first dare, I then dare you to forgive as determinedly and as wholly as you did facing that anger and that hate.

Forgive the one who inflicted it, forgive your actions that facilitated the situation. Forgive completely. And then breathe in the enormous relief your heart feels when it instantly discovers the massive amounts of room you’ve just cleared out within it. In mine, I will soon be able to place a gigantic colouring table the size of which no one’s ever seen.

Now Go; You have dares to meet.

I love you all.
—–
07.09.05.
Photo courtesy of HuffPo’s Further Proof That Parents Like To Laugh At Their Offspring.

Wow. WOW. Iraq Vet, Sargeant Shamar Thomas, faces down Officers from the NYPD and tells them straight up: “There is no honour in hurting unarmed civilians.”

I hope that he softened some NYPD hearts, because this movement is also in their benefit. They are among the 99% and this movement is for them as much as it is for every other American citizen.

*My apologies for being a little absent of late; I have been spending most of my time on learning about the #OccupyEVERYTHING movement and so not much in the mood for writing anything else. I promise to write something new soon…forgive the slowness until then.

Thank you.
Love you.

Y’all remember S? He’s been MIA for some time because he’s finishing his screenplay. Though S has been working a great deal on his writing, I am humbled that he still finds the time to pop in here for the occasional quickie read. (Hi S!)

In an email he sent, he asked: PS — I do, however, have one question: When a woman lists “protection” as a prime attraction attribute she looks for in a man, what the heck does that mean? Protection from what? Wind? Rain? Roving packs of dingos? Great White sharks? Bonks on the head? Do women really feel so unsafe they prize a bodyguard above all else?

…so below, I answer the above.

It’s not that I feel unsafe (at least not here in North America where I don’t have to worry about rape as genocide and my man murdered due to his chosen religion) or actually need protection. It’s more that I want to make certain the man I’m with would – should the occasion arise – be capable of protecting me both physically and where exercising his brain happens.

This doesn’t mean I can’t protect myself (though in some instances it most definitely does), nor does it mean that I would not protect myself should the need arise. It also doesn’t mean I can’t speak for myself or stand up for myself; but rather, it does mean that I believe he should afford better physical protection and equal mental faculties as well (as the ‘metaphorical’ bloody knuckle is equally an exercise in fierce intelligence).

Ultimately, I like me a fearless, and aggressive man, both in mind and physicality.

In return, there are things which he could find inside himself (to a degree), but are better received from me. For me equality does not mean ‘sameness’, but rather, recognition that the differences inherent in both must be equally valued and revered.

The best way to explain this is to reference two of my favourite movies, the quintessential chick flicks: Fight Club, and Gladiator.

The former rips into the notion that men live in gyms and sculpt their bodies for the aesthetic (read: Mr. Universe) rather than out of necessity (read: war & hunting), and that this changes the very nature of masculinity. In the later, Crowe’s character embodies all of the characteristics I look for in a man. Especially the short skirts.

As we don’t live in the age of Maximus, I find that I lean toward the aggression of Tyler (who > had he lived in the time of Maximus, would have been a less romantic version of).

Tyler Durden is the anti-Metrosexual. I thought I used to dig the Metrosexual, until I was placed in some situations where the Metrosexual proved himself the Superpansy. The Tyler Durdens of this world are primal and aggressive and they bleed and they don’t manicure their nails (though they do keep them short and clean).

When faced with challenge and fear, they are anything but scared…which, I think, is a rare quality these days because it seems that nothing is easier and more pedestrian than a man on the run.

As an aside and beyond the above, let me get to the nitty gritty of Tyler Durden. As basic instinct dictates, Tyler seems to possess both incarnations of swaggering rightfully-cocky sex-bomb & animal. Keeping in mind that I think Brad Pitt’s kind’a ugly, the swagger which his character carries in the film is based in both his intelligence and his physical ability.

On a personal note, I’ve only ever met two men who fit the above profile(s). They are the archetypical alpha males and always, there is an aggression that sits right beneath the surface and in to which they could tap (and both have) should they need to.

Many women like the soft-spoken and tortured soul, someone I got over when I was 22. I prefer the guy that’s metaphorically spitting blood and with knuckles ripped, defying and challenging anything which stands between him and what he wants, between him and what he stands for.

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A variation of the above was originally published: 06/03/21.

I was recently going through a friend’s bookshelf and among a deeply disturbing volume of this genre’s nonsense, I stumbled upon: Why Men Marry Bitches: A woman’s guide to winning her man’s heart.

I paused.
Took a very deep breath, and proceeded, because I am a masochist.

Meet the two caricatured genders within the book:

A: Men are one-dimensional insecure creatures who will never be honest with a female and who only react to mistreatment and game-playing.

The proof is in the pudding:
1) Men are manipulative even though they don’t really know what they want. Case in point: Men like a good cook in the kitchen. You can feign being a good cook by buying a lot of pots and pans and always leaving them out. He’ll marry you and he’ll never notice that you can’t cook. Instead he’ll start cooking, because he is an idiot who can’t see or deduce past his own nose.

2) Men are simple and only need the following: sexual escapades in the bedroom (and please do not tell him the truth about your past. And if the ‘truth’ is in fact…true…then he won’t believe you anyway. A 36 year old virgin? WHO ARE YOU KIDDING?)

3) Men are disrespectful and must be ‘put in line’ by your glorious ‘bitchiness’. When this happens, you will then be able to change the true nature of the man , turning him into a pussy because that’s what he secretly wants.

4) Men are not honest and are mean-spirited so you must always be on the alert for such behaviour and you must always be able to ‘give as good as you get’. This is called ‘information gathering’ and it is called ‘being sassy’. Please don’t be direct and ask him if something’s up – instead, play games. Better still, go to Hawaii for a weekend of fun in the sun with your girlfriends and feed off of one anothers’ unbelievable pathetic-ness.

5) Always take a man at his word. I love that you’re too dumb to notice that this is one of the many blatant and opposing viewpoints within this book.

6) Men are weak and on this weakness one must play in order to hook and sink said ‘man’; this is the true nature of ‘love and marriage’.

7) Men only want a ‘fun’ girl so never show him your ability to bring down the hammer when necessary; don’t ever have a difficult moment, just be ‘fun’. Furthermore, you must refrain from behaving “emotionally”, since that is your weakness, Female. Finally, please remember that it is in Male nature to be difficult and when that happens, accept it and roll with it while you place a beer in the fridge for him. Give him time to cool off; he will respect your level headed response because he doesn’t expect that from a female. (Sub-section to point 7: Always keep him guessing!)

B: Women are one-dimensional insecure creatures who are not allowed to be engaging, passionate, honest and real. Instead, they must only be reactionary and strategic in their approach to ‘the man they love’ (because when you’re in love with a man, your natural female instinct is to be a ‘bitch’; don’t fight it because it’s inbred since Eve).

Generally, a female must:
Play games.
Manipulate.
Lie.
React.
Entrap.
View men as both the enemy, as well as prey.
Believe that Dolly Parton, she of the unnatural body and face, is a role model to which one must aspire.

Specifically, a female must:
Never tell a man she misses him (or risk being a downer and needy).

Stroke the man’s ego by saying things such as ‘I feel safe with you’ – don’t worry about the truth or merit of that statement. He’s stupid enough to never see through your games. You are brilliant; pat yourself on the back.

Never tell a man you like him. Make sure he says it first, and then that way you will be the one who has control and power over him, rather than the other way around (because there’s no room for equality between a male and female, most especially not in a relationship. Remember: You’re at war, so keep your eye on the ball: INSEMINATION!).

Always remember that every action he takes is about you, and you must react accordingly. While you’re at it, please ask him to reiterate his fondness of you by constantly providing you with reassurance that you’re The One…just like in The Matrix.

Important! NEVER ASK A DIRECT QUESTION. (Or maybe I’ve already mentioned that?)

Critically, a female must:
Never tell a man she likes him, finds him interesting or is looking forward to learning more about him.
Just don’t do anything that would be engaging. Instead, let him do the work because that is the only way he will appreciate you.

Because he, in the same fashion as you, is a mindless insecure freak of nature.
Because he, just as you, is a fkn incompetent socially inept individual.
Because he, just as you, likely spends all of his time fixating on everyone else’s actions and trying to then react to said actions…
Because. Because. Because it is easier to follow and to react than it is to possess confidence…know what you want…and make a point of going for it.

After all, who needs self respect and honesty when one can play games?

Glaring Aporia Within The Plot
The premise of this book is to ‘make yourself gone’ and know that ‘you don’t need to be married to be okay’; to have a full life is when you will ‘make him chase you…until you catch him’.

Which begs the question: If you have a full life and don’t need marriage to feel complete, then why are you buying a book that is all about entrapping a man? Because last I checked, you don’t eat a cupcake to reduce the size of your ass, and you don’t go to the gym, to thicken that same ass. And you most definitely do not purchase a book about entrapping men if you’re not interested in said fkn entrapment…unless, of course, you are in fact a degenerate who believes that 2 + 2 = 17.

Curtain Called
Set aside the above blather and the glassy-eyed nature of the caricatured genders about which this book was written.

Clean your palette and pay very close attention to the following, please…

The only ‘rules’ you need (and this only pertains to the truly confident among you – male and female) are: A quality individual who is worth paying attention to and one worth engaging with will never be entrapped. More importantly, they will see right through the game playing (and if they didn’t, would you want to be with someone so stupid, anyway?).

A quality individual will never think you’ve called too many times or said too much or been too honest. A quality individual will be honest and will expect honesty, and if they can’t handle either, then you will find someone who can take you for all of you. (This should not, by any stretch of the imagination, be misunderstood as a green light for either the male or female to be psychotic; You can love and be loved and respect one anothers’ borders. In fact, this may be the only way to love.)

Specifically, to women, let me say that in your efforts to be ‘strong’, you do not need to be an asshole and you most definitely do not need to be disengaged from the man who has peeked your interest because trust me when I tell you that it takes a strong woman to be weak in the right man’s arms. And if anyone tells you that wanting someone is a form of weakness, then you’re speaking with a needy individual and neediness is a far cry from wanting.

Though you’re a smart bunch, let me clarify: Wanting someone amounts to a realization that they are, indeed, someone who brings added value to your life. Wanting someone is extending a warm set of arms to a person because you wish to do so. Needing someone is because you feel incomplete alone; unfortunately, if you feel incomplete alone, no one will ever be able to fill that gap, marriage or otherwise. (Essentially: Loners are sexy for this very distinction, as they fall into the former category.)

Finally, I will say that being strong is not being a bitch. What it is is a clear awareness of the person that you are and what you bring to the table. No one can touch or shake that if it’s solid within your own mind. Period.

Unlike the bile spewed by such books, the reality is that both men and woman are emotional creatures. The reality is that both men and women have their own brand of crazy; the nuanced approach is to learn about the crazy, embrace the crazy, don’t try to change the fkn crazy, and let the crazy run its course when it needs to. And love and respect your partner all the same, if not more.

All of the above to say: Please stop perceiving the opposite (or same, or either) sex as the enemy. The sisters will thank you, as will the boy bands.

“Love” is not a word alone, but rather it is one composite of respect, honour, mercy, gentleness, kindness, and unconditional grace. Live accordingly and believe in your partner, always.

To Mothers
By Baraka Blue

To those mothers who buttered sandwiches
and lit loves lanterns when
sweet dreams turned into nightmares-
and cloaked us in radiant safety net bear hugs under covers and
sacrificed many a-night sleep like a coat over a puddle so our pillows stayed dry
and evaporated tears when we would cry, and
smiled at the clouds till they bowed gracefully to a blue sky
and answered all the times we asked, “why?”

to all those mothers who allowed faces to hide in pant legs
when we were shy
from strangers or neighbors or distant
family members who just wanted to say, “hi”
and who explained with true amazement
the transformation of a caterpillar to a butterfly

to those mothers who peanut buttered sandwiches,
and read books… over.. and over… and over again.
until she could noose Dr. Seuss
but when that, “please, mommy, please” eyes plead mouth squeezed chubby cheeks… gapped teeth
her heart melts and she reads….
just one more time.
and those words become sweet in her mouth because that warm
ball of innocent trust in her
curls up on her shoulder and she knows no sound sweeter than hearing him breathe.
and when the breathing gets deep… she looks deep into that glowing innocence and her heart weeps with overwhelming mercy-
for she is accessing the feeling nearest to God a human being can experience.
Love.
unconditional mercy… compassionate love.
true selfless, gentle, nurturing, life giving, soul cleansing, spirit raising,
Love.

for all those mothers who buttered sandwiches
and taught young boys in a society so sick and deprived of Love- to Love
and young girls to find Love deep within themselves and watered seeds to full flown flowers unfolding petals gracefully in concrete habitats and old rusty ramshackle shacks in any desert or countryside anywhere and everywhere that mothers…
butter sandwiches
or split coconuts, or make curries, or milk goats,
or steam rice, or warm bottles on stoves, or microwaves,
or hang clothes on lines in the sunshine

this is for those mothers…
who raise children to be lovers
and let youngins hog all the covers
and go to sleep last
making school lunches
and wake up first making breakfast and assembling outfits
who struggle and strain and bear the pain and don’t complain…
but smile.

this is for mothers
who had to be fathers…
and mothers….
and had to hide tears because there was no time for her own
when she was wiping away everyone else’s
this is for mothers… who never knew selfish
and never felt they deserved a congratulations, or a celebration, or a high station, or a standing ovation
but you do….
all of you.

and this is for mothers who bore abuse…
both physical and mental… from men who…
had mothers too… who raised them like you
but forgot what you taught…
and this is my pledge.
I promise I will not. ever. forget.
for every woman is a potential mother… and is a daughter who was an innocent ball of trust
who was held by a mother
who buttered sandwhiches…
if she was lucky.
and if not, all the more reason to treat her
like a mother would treat her….
who loved her
and peanut buttered sandwiches.

and this is for my mother. the one i owe love to.
because you are the one i know love through.
you are the closest thing I’ve ever known to purity.
to sincere over-whelming, overpowering, unconditional love and mercy over flowing
from your heart through your eyes when you look at me.
everything good in me
is from you.
and it is such an understatement to say….
but it is the most powerful thing language can display….
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.

Every day is mothers day. Happy Mother’s Day

Love,
your baby boy

Over the years, I have watched a metamorphisis of those who do not forgive; they are hardened, they are incapable of trust, they are ever licking their wounds because their wounds are filled with poison still.

Reality is, though others may poision our hearts, we must be able to remove the poison where they refuse. And this removal is a choice.

I believe the reason we struggle with forgiveness when someone has not asked for it, is because we are lost in the wrong question. Rather than asking how can I forgive?, we should be asking what is it that I have to forgive?

I know what you’re thinking: that there are some actions which are unforgivable. Your self respect – never here to be confused with pride – kicks the shit out of your stomach every time the thought of forgiveness enters your mind, your rationale rages against the forgiveness, your heart sobs when it even considers it and your entire body is shaken by the mere thought of the acts in question. The consequences of these acts can only be described as what a nuclear bomb would feel like if it were to go off inside of our bodies.

That’s what happened to me; that’s what I was trying to forgive, made uglier by the fact that the individual who committed the act had not acknowledged, had not owned, had not addressed the act in question. And they had been presented with the opportunity to do so. They had been presented with it and yet, they had ignored it. They have not apologised, for whatever excuse they have found to justify their lack of involvement. They believe they are above the apology. And by default, that then makes you unworthy of that apology. And that default, created and sitting somewhere in the back of their mind has absolutely nothing to do with the reality of you.

So then, how do we forgive someone who has not asked for our forgiveness?
Simple.

Disassociate the action from the antagonist.

Forgive the later and dismiss the former because what you are forgiving is their weakness of character rather than their action.

Forgive them because we are not born with this intention to hurt. Afford them that allowance, and nothing more ever again. Because this allowance, this allowance is huge and it should be the last one they ever receive from you.

And then: you must cut them out of your life, completely.

Why? Because it’s the combination of the act and their lack of apology that amounts to their losing the very real privilege of having you in their life in any capacity. That they were given the opportunity to apologize – short of you screaming into their face I NEED YOU TO APOLOGIZE TO ME – is what makes the situation and the environment one to which you can never return. And this is so difficult to face, it is so difficult to swallow, even if you’re the one doing the walking. But you have to do it or you will always be incapable of demanding the respect that you are owed; and if you couldn’t demand that respect after someone detonated a nuclear bomb inside of your body and the individual didn’t have the decency to apologize, then nothing is owed to you. And this is the consequence of your behaviour if you choose to go back to that environment in any capacity.

There is only so much we can take. And there is only so much room we can use to make excuses for others and for ourselves. Because, when they ceased understanding responsibility and accountability and honesty where you were concerned, that was the moment that you no longer became accessible, whether you realised it or not. Because, you are always deserving of an apology and when that apology doesn’t come, then that lack of accessibility to you becomes tangible, and this is where you realise it. It’s in this moment that sheets of ice water come at you and you are forced to face the disrespect that has been levelled at you. It is in this moment that you have to take a stand. And trust me, I have fought this moment and I have tried to argue myself out of this moment, but the ice water has become unbearable and my self respect is beating on my insides.

To those of you who would harbour ill will toward someone after you have made the choice to forgive them, just remember that people aren’t born with the intention to inflict pain. It’s not how we’re built, but rather what we become because of the choices we make. And it is what we can cease to be in a moment if we so choose. In a moment, if we so choose.

Harbouring that bitterness only edges you closer to a world of greater pain, resentment and defensives. You build walls because you’re too scared to be hurt again – but you will be hurt again, no matter what you do. It’s a part of life and it’s a part of the pleasure of this life because it’s in these brutal moments of pain and hurt and in the way you overcome them that your character is defined. And here, you have a choice. You either face this life or you run from it. You either challenge it or you succumb to it. You either rule it or you are ruled by it.

Why apologise?
Because, we are beholden to one another and the apology is the respect we show that reality and those we hold dear.

Because, we don’t have the right to belittle the pain of others. And if someone is hurting because of us, then we owe them that apology. We owe it. And only the cowardly, self-involved and arrogant would argue against that reality, and I don’t much like for Ayn Rands in my life. Nor should you.

Even when we don’t think the apology makes sense: We. Should. Issue it.
Because kindness to one another is all we have in the end.
And it is what allows us to sleep with pure hearts; it is what allows others to be at ease in our presence; it is what allows us to open our hearts to others.

Most importantly, the apology is what tells us that that individual has taken a moment to place themselves in our shoes. It shows that they care about us enough to think twice about what they have done. And when someone doesn’t do that, then it means they don’t care. And it means you’re not worth the second thought and it speaks volumes about your character if you let someone like that back into your life when they have crossed too many lines to name.

But. But, the only way you can make the above statements without any level of hypocrisy is when you issue your apologies without hesitation, when they are immediate and unadulterated. It is only when you respect the pain of others that you are allowed to make the above demands of them. Note the word ‘respect’, because those who don’t apologize are the people who don’t respect us. (And I will always hold fast to my belief that the level of respect we show others is a direct extension and reflection of how much we respect our selves.)

And that is the way that I have always operated and it is the way I will continue to operate because it is one of the things that makes me a good person. I own my actions. I own my situations, each and every one of them. And I do not shy away from my responsibility to others.

That’s not to say I haven’t fucked up on colossal levels, because I have. What it is, is it is to say that I issue my apologies immediately, because I don’t have the right, I don’t have the right to hurt someone and then not issue that apology. I don’t have that right. And neither do you.

And so: it really is this simple.

Just like the choice to own your shit and apologise for it. You either own and define it, or it owns and defines you. Choose accordingly.

==========
Two final notes to those of you who would not apologize: First, that the only people who are capable of hurting us on the level of a nuclear bomb are people who are close to us. Sometimes, they may be the closest to us – and so you know. You know us and you know that your actions hurt us. You don’t today and you will never in the future have the luxury of saying “I didn’t know”. Second, understand that you are not perfect and your refusal to apologize has a particular stink of arrogance about it. Issuing an apology would be admitting to a mistake and a mistake means that you are less than perfect. And to be flawed is not what a ‘perfect’ person is, but trust in the fact that you were never perfect, that you are currently far far far from it and you will always remain just that far away. You might be well to not confuse confidence with the emotional retardation brought on by too much pride.

Image from A Boundless World.
Originally published: 08/02/07.

If you are Muslim, I need you to today please read Al-Fatiha for a little baby named Youssif, only three months, flown up to heaven this early morning. If you are not Muslim, please send your love in an easternly direction to Gaza, to first-time mum named Ola and first-time dad named Salaam.

Ola is my baby cousin, and I didn’t think my heart could break this hard or this much for a little person I had only seen in photos. This is my family, and I need you to give her your heart today. Thank you. Love you each and all.

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I have noticed a disconcerting increase of late, an unprecedented display of self-pornification. Young women sexing the camera, or sexing one another. Mouths are open and inviting, tongues are licking, eyes are bed-roomed, breasts and asses are popping at interesting (and I can’t imagine comfortable) angles.

Any way you slice it, each of the images is a message of sex. It is not heart, nor conversation, not warmth nor intelligence, but rather pure and unapologetic pornification which reads “I’d like to get fkd by you, or her, or them, or that camera, or that homeless guy in the corner, or I’ll even take on The Republicans because I hear they’re pros at fkng people.”

They are pornified, and have not been told the two simplest secrets between a man and a woman: (1) there is nothing sexier than what happens behind closed doors; and, (2) sexy’s acme is when brain chemistry is set off before our bodies are.

Imagine how a young woman must feel when the bottom line is that much of her identity, if not all, is premised on her own self-pornification and self-objectification?

Imagine how a young woman must feel when the bottom line is that much of her identity, if not all, is falsified in order to please the gaze of men?

Imagine what we are teaching our young men, when these are the images we continue to project of ourselves?

This is where — though we have so much to thank of the North-American feminist movement — the feminist movement has failed us. At the very intersection of itself with the sexual revolution, it was derailed, and as central focus took the female body, rather than the female mind.

Pursued relentlessly was a woman’s right to do with her body as she pleased. Which, don’t get me wrong, is a necessity. I believe very strongly that a woman should have the right to choose what she will do with her body, while fully aware of the consequences and possible repercussions to these choices. Equally, I believe a woman should have the right to choose how she will exercise her mind, and where she will work, and what she will study, and whether she will raise a family.

What I do not support is a world wherein a woman feels that representing herself as pornified object is her only means of self-expression. That it is her driver, her identifying factor, the only face available. Because this? This, once again, alienates women from their right to choice.

And women’s rights must always be about choice.

Reality is, there is nothing more facile than getting laid. And where we once fought the male gaze as it pornified the female, we are now doing it to ourselves on their behalf.

For a moment, ask yourself why it is that young girls aged 6 have eating disorders because they are dissatisfied with their body “image.”

Ultimately, presenting oneself as nothing but a sex object is not self-respecting oneself (please. Please argue with me, if you will. I would love nothing more than to take up this point with someone foolish enough to argue that sexualizing ourselves is the road to self-respect). The flip-side to which is how can we demand respect of men if we can’t demand it of ourselves?

To recap: Fk and pornify yourself all you want; just don’t kid yourself about the reality of the world in which we live. Also, don’t tell me it is ‘empowerment’ to get laid. Empowerment is a body of multiplicity; it is having the right to education, to work, to safe and clean living, and to do with your body at a physical level what you wish.

Empowerment is the freedom to choose, while knowing that an alternative to this choice is ever available. And where young women are learning that self-pornification is the only road to self-actualization, there leaves no room for empowerment.

A little girl, asked where her home was, replied, “where mother is.” ~Keith L. Brooks

Often, I have teased my mum about the weird seeds she saves in her fridge. Every once in a while, she’ll pull out a little baggie filled with stuff and share a story that usually begins with a fruit or vegetable in her family’s garden in Gaza.

On October 25th, 1999, her mum passed away. I don’t remember what happened, I can not tell you where I stood or how I learned of this news, because I was too terrified to let it register. I was too terrified by the pain inside of my mum, which I could not remove.

The blocking runs so deep and so extreme, it is as though an entire few weeks of my life have been omitted. In this, there is heartbreak for me. Because no matter the trauma we experience, and the hurt we carry, from everything there is a lesson to be learned, and I didn’t learn mine.

What I remember is what I see still.
Sometimes, even 12 years later, my mum cries over this loss, and tonight was one such night.

Oct 25, 1999.

The photo here is of dried mulukhiyah, ‘jute’ in English, leaves cooked quite often in a Middle Eastern home. Tonight, my mum was in search of this little baggie filled with dried mulukhiyah, and was sent into a panic when she couldn’t find it. I didn’t pay much attention to her fuss and casually directed her to a drawer, in which this baggie was safely tucked.

She pulled it out and held it to her own heart, catching her breath, calming herself.

The leaves were picked, cut, and dried before October 25th, 1999. The mulukhiyah was prepared by her mum for a meal she would never cook, but which her daughter would savour 12 years later.

Have you ever tasted anything better than your mum’s cooking?
Neither have I; nor has she.

Having gone to Gaza very shortly after her mum’s death, she found this small bag inside the fridge, and asked if she could bring it to Canada. It has survived the Rafah Border crossing at Egypt. It has been been transferred across from our old apartment, to two refrigerators in her new home.

I didn’t share in this dish tonight, rather thinking it was best to let mama have a private dinner with her mum.

Allah yir7amik, ya teeta.

I’ve always believed that the reason Paradise is at the feet of mothers is because when they are gone, they take with them 99% of the love felt by their children. I am not yet a parent and so can not confirm whether becoming a parent shifts that 99%, but I can’t imagine it does; as a daughter, I know that kids can be severe pain-in-the-ass traumatic fk-jobs to their parents. Rare, however, that we hear of the opposite.

All weekend, I had been thinking of Hannah, thinking how I hadn’t heard from her in a couple of weeks. Unnerved by this quiet I had scribbled a note to ring her during the week.

She beat me to it, with first email message received this morning relaying the news of her mum’s passing.

The third parent this last month, her loss brings with it the greatest hurt. Both because I fell in love with her the moment I met her, but so too because she was the one who led me to Hannah.

In such circumstance, I am utterly useless via the spoken word. Witness when I rang Hannah and left the voice-mail: Hannah. It’s Maha. I’m just. I’m just. Just. Because. Just. I’m calling because I’m so sorry. (Insert a variety and flurry of sobbing, choking, and hiccuping sounds.) I love you, Hann.”

I had barely hung up when I started to have a really very ugly cry. Were I standing before Hannah, she would have had to console me; I am that pathetic. Charlie, who normally — with love — hides in the washroom, book in hand, when Hann’s upset? Would have been sent diving head-first into the tub.

That noted, where I am helpful is Action Items. Cooking meals, picking up groceries, cleaning an apartment…screening her calls, picking out her outfit, fixing her hair, holding her hand, tucking her in, and standing in front of her to take a rogue cotton-ball in the eye. Basically, situations wherein I am physically occupied.

Only, what I am good at, I can not do while I am not in London. Though we have emailed a couple of times today, I am sitting in Ottawa feeling utterly impotent.

Right now, I can not shoulder her grief, but only share in it.

I can also write, so here I am asking for your contribution.

If you have a moment to say a prayer for Hannah’s heart, please do so. And take with you…

Because I’ve lost my strength to stand
Without the prayer of your day
I’ve grown old…return the stars of childhood
So I can share with the sparrow chicks
The way back
To the nest of your waiting

Thank you.
Love you.

Headed for the Great Adventure is one of the warmest, gentlest and kindest women to ever let me into her home. She is responsible for bringing together myself and her daughter, now one of my most cherished and most beloved friends.

With a heavy heart: Thank you for giving me Hannah.

Your crystal blue-twinkled eyes and your perfectly bobbed hair will always be missed, mum.

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It was the first morning that Dianna and I awoke in Scotland. Since we were to travel overnight, we’d not made any plans for that first day, instead getting to know Glasgow at our leisure. We were at Mrs. Morrison’s Craigielea Guesthouse (highly recommended: 35 Westercraig’s Street) in one of the second floor’s largest rooms.

The floor of the entire B&B was covered in soft furry plaid carpet and there were at least 100 different pieces of artwork lining the walls from ceiling to floor, because Mr. Morrison is an artist.

With a stand up shower, sink, fireplace, dining table, two queen-sized beds pushed together, several dressers, a massive Chinese lantern hanging from the ceiling, two reading chairs, a television, 11 hung paintings, and different coloured walls, our room was confused as to its purpose.

And for this, we loved it.

Unless sleeping next to an open window, I become claustrophobic. During all times of the year, the window remains open. Mrs. Morrison’s window had no screen and was enormous, with a thin sheer white curtain beneath three heavier ones.

Having left the window open, we pulled aside all heavy curtains and left the sheer to roam. It was the sound of rain which woke me, but it was something else which kept me awake. Incredibly, our room had become filled in a mist so thick, I couldn’t see the wall across from me. I had never before, nor have I since seen anything like it.

I stayed in bed breathing very quietly, eyes wide open, and with very little movement as I didn’t wish to scare away the mist. Lush Scotland was giving us a warm hug hello with her most notorious character, and I have never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

==========

You may find Mrs. Morrison here; it appears that she has (sadly) redecorated.

Over the holidays, I had the pleasure of catching up with an old friend who is currently walking through the hallowed halls of a very painful breakup. Four recurring points threaded their way in and out of our conversation, and which I believe are critical to any decent relationship. (Aside from great sex which is contingent upon an emotional and spiritual connection, a lot of fun, and a genuine curiosity about one another, obviously.)

First, recognize the difference between ‘need’ and ‘want’. If you’re drawn to needy people, and it is from them you find your value then you must ask yourself why that is and learn how to earn your self-worth elsewhere.

Why? Because needy people, by default, aren’t seeking you, but rather anyone. They are needy with their right foot in and their right foot out; they’re needy when they shake it all about.

The needy has nothing to do with you when you are replaceable, and this is a tragic measure of value. I hope that’s not too crushing, but if it is, you’re best to get over it and instead use it as a stepping stone to finding the one person who when they want (very different this from ‘need’), they seek you out and no one else. That is, unless they’re stalking psychopaths.

Second, be your partner’s number one fan and biggest supporter. Most importantly when they make a decision you don’t like. I write ‘most importantly’, because it’s easy to support a decision with which we agree, but not so with the ones at which we are at odds.

A = The decision / behavior isn’t something which is fundamentally at odds with your moral value system; and,
B = You were afforded the opportunity to air your dissent respectfully; but,
C = They still proceeded; then,
D = Take it like a wo/man and support them.
(Additionally: don’t be the person who reminds them of this every day, nor the one who gloats if their decision implodes. If you’re this person, then A = you’re an asshole + B = you’re disingenious, which = variable C, aka ‘Gross’.)

Third, never be devoted to the idea of who someone could be or what a situation could potentially become.

Remember that you should hear what you see, rather than what you feel. Base your decisions solely on the facts, rather than on your feelings (don’t project!) or alleged potential (don’t phantom limb something that never was!).

Finally, always look to the heart of intention. With your lover, you should always believe that their intentions are pure and honest, coming from the best of places; if suspicion rules you then you should either (a) seek therapy for your Crazy; and / or, (b) leave the relationship if the Crazy is specific to this individual (there are some sociopaths whose solar power is run on the suspicion of their partners, actively ensuring it is always present because the sociopath’s self-worth stems from their partner’s insecurities).

Either way, perception is not void of choice; with every situation, you are presented with a million different ways to view said situation and if you default to the assumption that their intentions are anything but good, then you need to re-evaluate both your own positioning re all matters in your life, and the respect you have for the individual before you. To assume that someone is always suspect means that you don’t hold them in any sort of high esteem, and the best relationships are those built on first-and-foremost: respect.

Godspeed!

(Photo courtesy of Wrights Law.)

11/01/04

I recently wrote something, of which the following is a small bit. I never made it public because it felt too raw and because I was arguing with myself while I was typing it out as in essence, I didn’t really believe what I was writing:

I just don’t care anymore. Not about any of it. Nothing really matters > not who we are, or who we aspire to be or how hard we try and how much we care. Nothing really matters, not anywhere and not anytime.

I’m exhausted and struggling and I’m exhausted of struggling.

Tonight, I’m shaken to my core and I’m terrified.

I woke the next morning still arguing with myself re the above sentiments and I decided to go a-mosque-ing because I felt as though I were being fragmented awake.

I went early and the doors were locked. I banged and banged and went from door to door but no one came. I prayed outside behind the mosque and laid my forehead to the pavement and cried. I felt so alone and I was terrified and shaking and incapable of taking a proper breath because I didn’t know what – if anything – could start to heal the fragments floating within me.

It began to rain while I was praying, and in this way, He guided me back into my car. As I was pulling out of the parking lot, a gentleman was unlocking the door to the mosque. I rolled my window down and he greeted me with the friendliest ‘Al-salamu alaikum, sister!’, his voice dropping at the sight of my tear stained face, and red scratches across my forehead. Immediately, he gestured for me to ‘go go, park, sister, and then come in. You will have the mosque to yourself. Come, come!’

My exhaustion had nearly left me incapable of the physical capacity to stand, but I managed to pray five 2 ruk’as as I had intended.

Something happened while I was doing this. Something that’s never happened before in any of the times or any of the places I have prayed. Something that worked to carry me through the rest of my prayers and something that has carried me since.

I was moving to stand between one of the ruk’as and in that singular moment, I felt grounded. I actually and quite literally felt rooted. The mosque was my home; I was home and I was at complete and total peace. I understood who I was and what I was and I was finally calmed.

The night I was writing frantically the fragment I share with you above, was a night that found me defining Me not by who and what I was, but by exactly what I was not. I was mired in misery. Having experienced that, I can say that I don’t think there’s anything more challenging than not knowing who we are except, perhaps, when we define ourselves by what we are not. A negative positive, if you will. I never want to relive that night and I plan on fighting those sentiments tooth and nail if they ever turn their ugly faces my way again. Because of their hate-filled, they were crushing my insides.

Reading the sentiments that saw me move to mosque the following morning, I feel an overwhelming sorrow for the terrified girl who wrote those words, but…after praying, she was leaving the mosque and was met by the brother who ushered her in.

He was waiting, concerned, wanting to make certain she was okay and when she smiled, he said ‘Alhamdulilah’ before he introduced her to his four year old son who, through the smoothest chocolate skin, turned his curly eyelashes up her way and smiled to mend her heart.

When she got into her car, she started crying for a whole other set of reasons, for each of which she could only say ’Alhamdulilah’.

———-
If there’s anything to take away from this post apart from boredom, it’s that we all fight and we all struggle and we all most definitely hurt, but…we’re all, at the end of the day, are actually okay (in North America, where we need not worry about bombs and water and famine, etc). If not today, then tomorrow. Give yourself a break and the room to be fragmented; you will come out prettier on the other side, as t is through healing scars that we find our strengths and there is no greater beauty than that.

Originally published 07/07/17.