Prolific Immigrant

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.

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’.

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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.

I flew into Hong Kong on the back of a monsoon. Or perhaps a typhoon. Or just really hard rain.

Air Canada lost my luggage; I am work traveling for the coming three weeks, beginning tomorrow, and Air Canada lost only one bag on a flight from Toronto to Hong Kong.

Come to think of it, I believe I flew in on the back of heavy tears and the hiccups.

I arrived yesterday; it’s currently 4.30 am local time. I, in my hotel room, wearing a very thick bathrobe, overlooking one of the main streets of Hong Kong, and drinking coffee from fine bone china. The useless stress of the last 48 hours is lifting along with the fog which covers this City’s harbour.

Notwithstanding the wardrobe malfunction, Hong Kong itself has welcomed me in a most surprising manner. The drive in from the airport (to Kowloon’s The Langham Place Hotel) was above water, and so most everywhere I looked I saw either large apartment buildings by the waves, the cleanest and most organized shipping docks, and sheer rock cliffs drowning themselves in the water. Beautiful massive, green covered sheers which I only imagined owned with copyright by the UK.

Of what I have seen so far, the City is massive with excellent infrastructure. We are in the heart of Kowloon and it is extremely clean, the fashion know-how of most locals far trumping that of a visitor’s.

Note 1: The driver sits on the right side of the car. Hias, British occupation!

Note 2: The airport is the size of Ottawa. When I enquired about an ATM, I was told it was an approximate 15 minute walk, up on the 6th floor.

Note 3: It’s true! People wear pointed hats so the rain drips off. I didn’t bring a poncho; am without luggage; will buy pointy rain hat, and stay dry.

Note 4: In above Note 3, “people” = 2.

Note 5: “Arcade” here means something very different than in Canada, either “very large building” or “spend money here”. Will let you know as soon as I find out which.

Note 6: Upon entry into the hotel, we were greeted with live violin music and the scent of fresh roses. That made up for the missing luggage.

There is a painting in the main hall which I would like to thieve. It is a breathtaking allusion to modern China meets traditional China, rolled up in the strength and pride of both. (Of course a photo is going to be taken and posted. Speaking of which, your requests re NYC and Berlin photos has not fallen on deaf ears. All forthcoming.)

Note 7: I watched a Buddhist monk emerge from a Mont Blanc store with a large bag. Are there different rules on this continent?

Note 8: Everyone here is shopping for either makeup or perfume. Everyone here also smokes. What is unmentioned in the brochure is that being in Hong Kong is like being in Dubai, only with different facial recognition requirements.

Note 9: My favourite site so far were (what appeared to be) the broken piers, legs without bodies found next to the sheer cliffs on the drive into the City. They have all been replaced by state of the art highways and bridges, so they stand looking crippled and haunted. There is more beauty in them than anything sold inside of the plethora of fashion houses across this City.

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Note: Thanks to you all for the emails. Sorry I have not written back – I haven’t had much energy.

I have been in a funk of late and have not been able to think of anything worth writing. I am still in this weird little place of weak sunshine and am being gently pushed and pulled and nudged by BB to simply deal. One of the ways she gently prodded was by sending me a video that basically said “you’re alright kid – at least you have both arms and legs” and which had the desired effect of getting me to write again.

Several situations led to this funk, none of which are worth mentioning in detail. I wandered off for a bit, choosing to travel rather than deal; weird this because I have never been one not engaging in a necessary conversation. But this time? This time I was both too tired and too indignant to be bothered. (Sidebar: The sentiment “not bothered” does not have a long standing history in my world. As I am a Libra in Scorpio, I am equal parts asshole and kind, wrapped up in a whole lot of passionate. Ergo, I have a hyper-sense of justice and so when feeling wronged, my response is nine times out of ten extremely fierce.)

As expected, the travel provided a sense of ibuprofen relief and made for some excellent times away with folks I love.

I figured that I needed a way to strengthen just a teeny tiny bit the character of me that I loathe; the one who is affected all too deeply and painfully by the waves created from such above-mentioned situations. I don’t wish to be thrown for a loop as often as I am, like a weird little kid trying to put on her red lipstick, constantly being bumped from behind and smudging herself instead, turning around saucer-teary-eyed looking for the bumping culprit who is dressed as the Hamburglar.

So. How do I regain control over the saucer-teary-eyes?
Do something which forces me to reposition and swing in to ‘it’s all sensation’. (As I type, there’s a faerie sitting on my nose, clapping with glee.)

Ultimately, we have some control over how we react to outside situations – I may be a hard-ass, but I am not enough of one to bootcamp human emotion and flail about declaring we control ALL of our emotional responses, because we don’t (and I’m not entirely certain they would be called ‘emotions’ if they were 100% controllable). We can dull our reactions, we can manage them and we can understand them, but sometimes pain is pain and we don’t know where it comes from or how to turn away from it. I think the trick here is to ensure that we don’t let that pain take over for extended periods of time or else some greater asshole will try to stick your lesser asshole self on happy-times-until-you-committ-suicide medication.

What was this something, then, that I chose?
I have chosen to do hot yoga every single day for six weeks.
I call it Maha’s Six Week Challenge because I lack imagination.

I am on day four and I am – thus far – loving it intensely. Strangely, at the end of every class, I find myself crying like a little pansie-person, and just discovered that this is not unheard of. Figuring that my body was starved for that kind of release, it was that class and that reaction which solidified my commitment to The Challenge. (Quite likely, I would have made it 8 weeks, but I am outside of Canada later in November and for most of December.)

I understand I sound a little peace-pipe-y here, and so will close by providing you with the following imagery. When in class, I am often flanked by Slippy, Snoozy, Grunty, Farty, Make-Up Is My Friend-y and I Like Brazilian Waxes-y. Slippy is the (undoubtedly lovely) individual who slips and either falls alone or takes down another; Snoozy snores every time we are either in Savasana, Child’s Pose or Cobra; Grunty can’t get through the Savasana without mimicing ‘I am moving a boulder with my bare hands’ in noise; Farty is full of escaping gas either of the slow & long embarrased or fast & poppy embarrased variety, followed by an “oh. oops.”; Make-Up Is My Friend-y shows up to hot yoga with a full face of make-up on, and walks out of class looking like the Character Clown known as Namaste (I just made that up); and, I Like Brazilian Waxes-y wears her shorts small enough that we all know just how she likes to party down there, and is partially responsible for Slippy.

xo kids, and thank you for your extended patience re my long break from posting
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Image from The Seattle Times

We talk about it regularly, with relationships, but not enough in terms of friendships. Unusual this, as more often than not, relationships tend to be fleeting whereas one hopes that friendships aren’t so.

Friends to me are family. I have no brothers or sisters and so place a great deal of weight and worth on people I cherish and love. I am there for them at the drop of a hat, making time and finding energy even when I would rather curl into bed and not speak to anyone. If there’s one thing any one of my friends will tell you it’s that I am fiercely devoted and loyal to what exists between us. When I love someone, there is no end to it.

Sadly, on a few recent and different occasions, I’ve had to ask myself if I give too much of myself away to people. I don’t have an answer; maybe because the question hurts so much to ask and I can’t get past the asking. The mere posing of the question paper-cuts me and to even write this out has made me hurt because I feel a fool to ask it.

I’m not sure when giving too much of ourselves starts to happen, and I have only once before thought it was possible to do, and the result of that was pure poison.

The disappointing reality is that imbalance occurs and it may be most brutal in this realm.

I don’t reign myself in emotionally; when I feel something, I don’t snuff it or shy away from it, but instead open myself up to it and let it run me as this is one of the defining characteristics of who I am. This is the case with everything in my life, including friendships. That I have felt nothing but a slow shutting down of this recently makes too much of me ache, and the reality is that because of the ache, it may very well be the first time I have ever thought the following: the only thing I’m interested in doing is shrugging, saying f*ck it, and walking away.

Life is too far too long for us to choose allowing the ache into our lives.

Beautiful painting by Ginny Lee.

That at this same time of the years spanning 2005 – 2008 inclusive, there were moments of deep sadness in my life. Each year, there was a particular thing, for lack of a better word, which I had granted entry into my life (be it an individual or a situation), the consequences of which always ended in some sort of emotional blueness.

This year, nothing. No sadness and no drama, and most definitely no emotional upheavels.

It’s the fkng holidays and I am happy and satiated beyond expression.

Yay.

Also, I hope you are as well – and if I am any measure, trust that it will get better. It really, really, really and truly does…even if it takes a few years.

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So. Naomi and I have known one another since university – she was completing her undergraduate and I my M.A. and we both lived at the graduate pub on campus called Mike’s Place. As she so eloquently put it last evening, ‘there was one table that was always there with the same people. THAT WAS US!’…when excited, Naomi and I tend to overheat and speak more loudly than usual.

Although this amazing woman and I were friendly in university, we did not have the sort of friendship considered deep or even long-lasting. In fact, I think it safe to say that were you to have asked either of us if we could see one another in each others’ lives years down the line, we would have both shrugged and offered a response of non-committal in order to avoid the possibility of responding with “uhm. No?”

Interestingly, and almost-to-the-day exactly two years back, I was hit with a trauma the likes of which I had not encountered prior. Naomi was one of the three women who pulled me through. (Her, C and the amazing and brilliant BB.)

She was relentless in her kindness and understanding, staunchly protective of and committed to my well-being. It was amazing; she is amazing, and she remains a woman whose compassion breaks my heart. Last summer, I wrote: I went to visit Na.oh.mi in Edmonton and realized that there’s few people with whom we can share so much of ourselves so easily. Na.oh.mi is one such friend., and I am always reminded of this truth.

(It is important to here note that Na.OH.Mi has one of the most amazing and infectious laughs in the world. It is carefree, honest and innocent, three qualities reflected in her huge eyes and perfectly round-curled red locks.)

Tomorrow at 11.30 a.m., she will be standing beneath a hupa and wedding JASON (HI!). I am not one for weddings, and never have been. But tomorrow will be different and not only because I plan on sticking to Oma, Na.OH.mi’s nana, and keeping a watchful eye out for her glasses, but because of the hundreds of people in my life, there are only a handful I love and cherish. The people I plan on keeping in my life as I scoot across the floor with the help of a walker?, she is one of them, and I am honored to be a part of her day tomorrow.

P.S. Neither Na.OH.mi nor I have ever attended a Jewish wedding. Mama tells me they are as fun and as rowdy as our own Palestinian ones. Both Na.OH.mi and I are excited by this new experience.

(Aside: She is a brilliant novelist. Her first book, Cricket In A Fist, is published and it receives the highest recommendation I can muster. Had it been shit, I would have left out this short paragraph. Stop fkn around; put down Twilight and support excellent literature. Pick up Cricket In A Fist, please & thank you.)

The good news is that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

The bad news is that I discovered mama hides her large squash-like homegrown vegetables in the basement. This is not a euphemism, but rather is a fact I discovered moments ago when mama went downstairs empty-handed and came back upstairs carrying what is called a spaghetti squash, grown by her, the size of her bum.

As I type, she is showing off her back garden (again, not sexy innuendo) via web-cam to our family in Gaza. She is also wearing pistachio green sweater to “matching” lime green socks (yes, with pants; no, not any shade of green). She is as happy as a squirrel with nuts amongst her squirrel friends who have less nuts on which to feast and so is gladly sharing said nuts.

Everywhere I have looked recently, I have felt defeated, usually engaged in thoughts such as I hate people; why are they so useless?; why do they care so much that some pop singer’s small pet died / was carried away / is lost?; why aren’t they reading about Palestine?; paying attention to Darfur?; seeking out more info on the women in the Congo?; Why so mean?; Why such bullies?; Find balance outside of pill-aw-tees, you entitled useless twat, SHUT UP!

Then I look at the eccentric weirdo with whom I live and I am made better.

And I recently realized that when she is gone, she will take 95% of the love I feel in this often-times grotesque and hurtful world, and that turns me into a sad sobby creature with mascara around her nose. But in the interim, I get to appreciate her weirdness and her bizarreness and love every bit of it and for that I am grateful.

So, most especially for those of you who have had a tough Ramadan and who were trusting enough to share their experiences with me, I thank you and hope that you too have at least one person to whom you are able to turn and who is capable of swallowing you up in their innocence and kindness. If it is your mama, then get up and hug her, high five her, kiss her, tell her you love her before you wish her Eid Mubarak.

Peace and love to you all, including you asshats.

Hi all – I’ve decided to unplug for a few weeks or so. I won’t be photo blogging either, sorry. Be safe.

Hi everyone – I’ve been receiving all of the emails asking why I’m not responding to the many comments posted recently. I actually can’t access my blog from work (firewall) and so even though I can access blogger.com in order to post, I can’t access onefemalecanuck.com to respond to your comments during the day.

In the evenings, I am finding myself completely drained and have decided to let the comments take on a life of their own. I am writing and writing and writing because right now it feels like writing is my only saving grace. Please understand I am reading, appreciating and being moved (be it to laugh, cry or just feel warm and cozy) by each and every one of your comments and emails…but I will not be responding for quite some time. I hope that’s okay, and that you’ll cut me some necessary slack in the coming while

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