Home away from home

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

There was a time when home was more like a hotel. I'd drop in for some food, sleep, and to change outfits. On the rare weekends I would resign myself to self-imposed exile, it was to synthesize an essay or two from stacks of books.

I was typical of most young students who had yet to move out of the cocoon - for economic, social, or cultural reasons. And that was fine. I had my freedom. Sort of.

"You need to learn to stay at home," my father would mutter, yell or growl, depending on the time of day the comment had risen up. I'd shake a well-coiffed head and head out the door, with a "what for?" trailing behind me.

Ironic twist of fate that a budding career would be voluntarily cut short by marriage and babies. Voluntarily because I wanted to emulate a mother who was always home, always there. After all, it meant that someone valued me and my brothers enough to have a warm plate of food waiting for us when we came home; and valued us enough to be sure that it was a mother's smile that would pick us up after a long day at school.

I taught myself to stay home for several years and it wasn't easy (the Internet kept me busy enough, with work on the side to keep things interesting). And though I'm once again working, my mother's smile must remain on my face when work is done, supper is required, and homework beckons. It's my turn to be the responsible one, the calm one, the one that can do it all.

So it isn't surprising that the home I used to get away from eagerly, is now the one I return to with as much enthusiasm. It is in my childhood home where I truly find solace. While I didn't appreciate it so much back when I was young and free and careless, I am blessed to still have a place where I am coddled and cared for, and can explore being me. Even now, at 31, my dad does all he can to make sure I'm happy - and my whole li'l family, too (thank Goodness I have cute children, albeit messy and noisy ones!)

Anyway, I have to say that you were right, Dad. Staying home isn't so bad. Especially when you are there.

Sickness purifies

In the name of God, the most Merciful, the most Kind,

* * *

When the Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, would see someone ill, he would often greet him with the following words;

“Do not worry. It is a cleansing and purification, if God so wills.” (Saheeh Al-Bukhari)

As I shrink within chilled skin, my body seemingly unattached from a head that pulses when in prostration to the Creator, I know that all I can think of is existence. No desires, no pride, no hope - nothing but existence and ultimately that I exist only because I was Willed to exist.

"Blessed is He in Whose hand is the Sovereignty, and, He is Able to do all things. Who hath created life and death that He may try you, which of you is best in conduct; and He is the Mighty, the Forgiving. [Qur'an 67:1,2 ]

It is in these moments, where energy is collected from recesses unimaginable and I am able to tend to a request from a child that has little thought to what her mother is going through, that one is amazed at the resilience that can exist, despite the battle being waged by invisible collections of microbes and viruses inside.

The determination to fulfill one's duty, when all that beckons is a blanket and mattress and silence, can spur mountains of cold and flu, and yet, when one submits, and lets it go, and sleeps . . .

"In Your name O God, I lay my side and in Your name I raise it. If you keep my soul, give it (Your Loving) Mercy, and if You release it, care for it as You care for Your righteous servants.”

Tell me

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

Tell me you have something to do,

Tell me you'll be back later

Tell me you've got a job somewhere

Tell me I've got to get supper

Call me after it's all done

Call me when there's nothing more

Call me when the clutter's gone

Call me when I've controlled the roar

Wait until I'm ready

Wait until I'm calm

Wait for the moment my anger and rage

Have been soothed by Faith's balm.

Wish I was there

"Labaykal lahuma labayka. Labayka la shareeka laka labbayka. Innal hamdawan ni’imata, laka wal mulk, la sharikalah."

“Here I am at Your service, O God! You have no partner; Here I am at Your service, O God. Verily, all the praise, the grace belongs to You. And the Kingdom, You have no partner.”

Body of a bird

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

Surrounded by mist,

That is clearing,

and

The softness of a

rain,

I am here

while my soul longs

to merge with the simplicity of

God's creatures

Flying

in the body of a bird

But not

in that of a crow's.

Missing mom

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

It was nice to be with you tonight,

To see my reflection in the black

surrounded by flecks of green that turn blue

Bright

And I tried to share a life so remote

from your existence.

I held up broken mirrors to a past

that still pokes through

the disconnected thoughts

that jumble

Making it hard for you to say

words that

stop somewhere

before they can be heard.

I liked being with you

Just me and you,

Like before marriage

and children

and work

and all of this chaotic business

separated us.

Though we've been separated before

And by God's mercy

You are never alone.

But you and me

we have

butter and honey sandwiches,

french fries,

sizing up dresses that would make Dad's bills overflow,

and running for the bookstore.

We have that and so much more

and mom

I love you.

I love you.

And I pray that we really will go shopping in Heaven,

both of us,

33.

_____

"In Paradise there is a market to which the people will come every Friday. The northern wind will blow and shower fragrance on their faces and clothes and, consequently, it will enhance their beauty and loveliness. . ." Narrated by Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, in the Book of Muslim.

From the summer: On the water's edge

Yesterday, I would have come

here with you,

And you would have been here, next to me

as I stepped from

rock to jagged

rock.

Searching for flat surfaces, but longing

to reach the

edge,

Where I could turn my back

and hear only God's creation,

Splashing against the shore.

But

buckets of emptiness

create similar sounds

and I wonder

if it is my fault?

Is it because I choose not to conform to another

standard that

I fail to make this 'us'

work?

Does letting my mind drift to where

bubble wands and rainbows unite

mean

I am not ready to embrace a stronger,

better

reality?

Am I holding foam?

Does this mean my surrender has too many conditions,

and so isn't really surrender?

So maybe all the gates I've gone through have only allowed me

to circle a wide

expanse that I still have not entered and in this march towards

my Creator,

my innermost desires, and my deepest, hidden faults are manifest;

acting as a barrier

to the wide, clear expanse,

I long to reach.

Wish I was there (anywhere)

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

At the risk of sounding ungrateful - I am thankful for the sunlight streaming through our windows this morning, of the promise of a fresh, fall day (even though I will not be able to enjoy it much because of two very sick kids); thankful that my children will, God willing, get better, and that we have many, many blessings .....

I still long to be smack dab in the middle of this photograph. The point is that right now, I am not eager to be here, where I am, because of the chores that are already filling every nook and cranny of this Sunday; the realization that all the pounds that fell off in Ramadan are piling on once more (my exercise machine still folded neatly in its box; who knows when it will come out and if I'll be able to use it to total satisfaction without infuriating someone), and the fact that I have so much school work to do (oh, never did update my profession on this blog - I am now a full-time grade two teacher - more on that another time!!!! How did that happen?!!!)

So, my intellect is starving for mental stimulation. Yesterday, there were three workshops at the writer's fest I longed to attend, but no luck. I managed a 10 minute jaunt around the neighbourhood while Dad and Brother watched the girls, one cranky, one bubbly. I am grateful for that.......

But a winter that looms is hardly a comforting thought. Shuttling back and forth from school in the blizzard like conditions seems rather uncomfortable and then of course, the question - are we here to be comfortable? Of course not, discomfort, if tied to the remembrance of the One Who Can Remove all discomforts may actually be a good thing. We are not masters or mistresses (sigh) of our own universes. We must submit to the Will of the Creator. Hence, I have not exercised in over two months and it is driving me batty.

Hence, so much that I long to do but the acceptance that it is not for now, maybe never. Remember, mom. The symbol of patience in the face of God's Will - and the realization that I can't be in the photograph, because that isn't my destiny.

I thank my Creator for all that I have or don't have. He is the Most Wise, and Knows what's best for this miserable heart.

Random thoughts on fall

I was listening to the radio yesterday, and they interviewed a writer who had come very close to dying twice (he was in a semi-coma for 11 days at one point). At the end of the conversation, the interviewer asks him if his experiences shed any light on what comes after death. He quoted June Callwood and Carol Shields who both said that there was nothing after this world, and that the point was to just enjoy life to the fullest and expect little more than fuzzy gray after its over.

I couldn't disagree more, and this is why:

"Blessed be He in Whose hands is Dominion: and He over all things hath Power; He Who created Death and Life the may try which of you is best in deed: and he is the Exalted in Might, Oft-Forgiving;.... " (Qur'an, chapter 67:1-2)
We're here to be tested - to see who will struggle for goodness - the goodness within his or her soul, and who will struggle to see the triumph of good over evil in the world around us. As simple as a cartoon, but far more real.
"Nor can a soul die except by God's leave, the term being fixed as by writing. Many do desire a reward in this life, we shall give it to them, and if any do desire a reward In the hereafter, we shall give it to them. And swiftly shall we reward those that (serve us with) gratitude. "(Qur'an, Chapter 3:145)

Gratitude is another big factor of our existence. Are we grateful for the bounties we have? Are we grateful to the Creator who Provided us with all of this - we could never make the rain fall on pastures where the crops are. Not me, not Bill Gates, nor Obama, nor anyone but the One who put us on earth to “Eat of the good things wherewith We have provided you, and render thanks to God if it is (indeed) He whom you worship” (Qur'an, 2:172).

I wrote about dying with a quiet dignity, with a beauty that reflects an inevitable phase throughout the entire natural world - but it must be said that the transition from this world to the next is also a painful one. Even the Prophets suffered; Prophet Muhammad, may peace be upon him, had fever for several days and was sweating in pain as his soul departed - all while he was asking God to be in the uppermost Heaven. He died in the arms of his beloved wife, A'isha.

* * *

Once I witnessed the quiet passing of a man who was living in the hospital where my mother lives. He had been there 17 years, ever since being in an accident that paralyzed him almost completely. His name was Frank. He couldn't speak, he could barely move, and he stayed this way for all those years. His mother was his constant companion. Whenever I used to visit, he would smile. In fact, he would smile to anyone who said a nice word to him.

The week of his death, his breath became slower, heavier. Everyone knew it was coming. Whenever I would visit mom, I would pass by his room, to see how he was doing. I would find his mother, his sister, sometimes other family members; all waiting for the moment, wanting to be there, to witness it.

But when it happened, only a few nurses, his mother and sister were there. And me. We all watched as his slow, labouring breath got shallower and shallower. Like a frail bird, his body was almost twisted on the bed, frozen as it had been frozen 17 years ago. I prayed with the others as we waited - not sure for what, but waited.

And then, after a breath, and nothing, his mother leaned over his face, and said, "he is gone, I think he is gone." It happened in such a tiny, minute instant, that the realization of what we had all just witnessed could barely set in. A moment ago, his soul was still amongst us - now, it was somewhere else, somewhere we couldn't fathom.

All I could feel, though, was peace. Frank had submitted to God's will. He left this world without bitterness, without desire, without wanting what was not his. He left this world in submission.

This is the blazing colour that stains the dying leaves. The beauty of death. Our skin will be pale, our bodies might be frail, but I pray that we depart from this world in pure submission to the One Who Created us. This is the ultimate success.

“And let me not be in disgrace on the Day when humanity will be raised up, The Day whereon neither wealth nor children will avail, But only those that come to God with a pure heart; it is they who will prosper”. (Qura’n 26: 87-89)

When the reality dawns

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * *

The crisp night air

surrounds me

Cutting through thoughts

of worldly concern

It isn't unfamiliar

My skin has felt this before

Many times

But I didn't really notice

Worldly concerns too thick around me

But this bite that turns leaves

red

Marks the passage of time

And once more

I am alone

As the leaves swirl

And my concerns twist with them

But the wind settles.

And the leaves are lifeless.

Brilliant colour

fades.

Detours, deep uncertainty

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * *

Sometimes I just try not to think anymore. It helps ease the moment to moment disturbances that stir waters seemingly calm but which conceal deep currents, carrying creatures with potential venom.

At the end of the day one wonders if doing what others want you to do can and will achieve peace -- if you do it to honour family members and such. Or, does the inner voice that oscillates between trepidation, intense interest, passion, passivity need a custom response - sometimes beyond the comprehension of those you love. Does that inner voice take precedence? Or not?

The great women of this faith -- they were living, breathing, human beings who had tendencies that were not flawless. Just the other day, I heard a story about one of the wives of the Prophet, may peace be upon them, who had followed him one day, thinking that he was going to visit another wife and responding to the jealousy that coursed through her. She followed him and found him at the gravesite, praying for the souls of those who had passed away. Without letting on her presence, she returned home quickly, pretending to be asleep when her husband returned. He knew that she had followed him, but played along --- "where were you?" she reportedly asked; one can imagine the wide-eyed innocence."You don't know?" asked the Prophet, likely with his beautiful smile. 

Real. Those women were real. Why then, are we expected to be beyond real? To be super-women - responding to house, family and internal struggles with a smile that is as present as the sun in a Southern summer. Clouds are forbidden - a sign of ungratefulness, of course. No chance for exhaustion - because one hardly does what the others do, and if one is exhausted - it is your own fault for trying to do so much. Okay, where's the meat and chicken then? Nothing to show for the coming week's meals, and I was too silly to think to pick it up on the way home. Yeah, okay.

So all of this is about people who expect too much. Perhaps me first, but I can't shake the feeling that others refuse to acknowledge my capacity and instead try to shape me and perhaps others into a mould that was never meant for me.

My eyes droop as I write. I swear I work hard for my family. And I'm sure so do others in it. But why must we participate in a tit-for-tat? Why can't we respect each other's space? Why can't we share successes and failures - mutually, full of support?

I don't know if this is a local - global thing, or just my challenge to solve.

Anyway, I'll think about it later.

Wisdom's age

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind

* * * 

The sun 

has set

and yet

The light still lingers in a sky

holding on

The fading blue

like 

clear water

against a blue 

pool

carries 

tinkling laughter

Perhaps the moment will not

fade completely away

Enveloped in the darkness

Instead carried on dots

that make it all up

Though

Even when

the glory is gone

the transformation 

will be deep, 

pierced with silver.

Melancholy thoughts on mom, submission and a polar bear

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

The need to get words down and out of mind became urgent yesterday. After visiting my mom at the hospital where she lives, I felt a deep sense of sadness taking hold of my senses. 

Her eyes were so huge as I told her I had to go - we'd just spent 2 hours with her, trying to comfort her about not being permitted to go for a whirl in her wheelchair because of an infection on her back from being in the wheelchair too long on most days.

"Noooo, nooooo," she moaned softly, and I even had to get her nurse - a wonderful gift of a woman- to her bedside. That didn't help either.

Finally, adjusting her in bed by pulling the sheet gently beneath her so she would slide and face the other wall, she seemed settled for the disappointment. Cottage cheese and other soft foods managed to lift her spirits. A bit.

As I pushed the girls out of the room in their double stroller, I felt completely wrong for wanting to spend so much time on other things when my mom is so obviously in need of constant companionship these days. I tried resolving to visit her every night - but that would be hard with children who need to be slowly eased into bedtime from about 8. And besides, she needs someone to help her escape the sameness of a room that occupies her mind for most of her days - and that is only possible during the day.

* * *

I took the long but scenic way back to our neighbourhood, finding so much comfort in the shades of green that were starting to push their way off branches, dressing the trees for the first time since the fall.  No matter how strong our souls are - or how strong we think they are - being in the heart of the beauty created by a Creator far more gentle and kind than any human, is the surest way to reinforce our convictions and feelings.

" . . . for in the remembrance of God do hearts find rest" (Quran 13:28).

* * *

Two different scenes have carried significant weight in my mind's eye this past week; scenes from on screen, that I came upon quite by accident.

The first was of my mother in a home video during a trip we had made to Canada while we were living in Indonesia. It was at the beginning of her illness, when the MS had only gone far enough to affect her balance, requiring she hold on to a cane.

Seeing her chatting with friends, talking to the camera after prompting from my dad (and grabbing onto the car door as she almost lost her footing); seeing her so full of ideas and thoughts and - life - made me feel strange. Almost like I was looking at another woman, at her past that is no more part of her reality.

She is different. Twenty years, over 10 spent in hospital, have changed her - as I suspect they would change any one of us. None of her vivacious personality remains - although, once in awhile, I see remnants of what once was when I joke with her about her love of fashion --"you're always the most chic, mom" - or when I muse about having more children and her eyes light up. Sometimes a few extra, big kisses will bring that warm smile to her face - a smile she still shares but that now takes a lot of effort to muster.

And then, I superimpose all of this on the scene of a polar bear, struggling to survive, swimming through frigid waters, half his body weight gone from a long winter searching for food while his family remain well-fed but far away. He spots some walruses and out of sheer desperation, lunges at the black, heavy mass of noisy flesh and fat and hasn't the energy to fight for a bite. They are too strong, too insistent that he is a mere annoyance. He moves away from them, head low to the snow-covered ground in this Arctic scene. He puts his heavy head on a rock and, after all the struggle he's made to live -  after swimming for who knows how long, searching for land; after trying to find anything to sustain him in this cold, stark place - he closes his eyes. . .

Submission. The struggle has lifted.

On Behalf of my Mom: Living with Multiple Sclerosis

It's 2:30 a.m. and I'm still up because my daughter's sick. I'm afraid to sleep and miss the beginning of another coughing fit so that I can hold her over some steam to clear up her airways. Or, maybe her fever will come back overnight and she'll need someone to bring it down right away. I'm fretting and nothing except her recovery will allow me to sleep easy. 

My mom used to worry her nights away over me, too. Whenever I was sick, she'd be at my side, wide awake, pressing cold compresses to my forehead, or holding my head over the toilet while something wretched came up. Her soothing voice meant it was all going to be alright. 

But now, I can barely hear that voice when she wants to tell me something. Multiple sclerosis, a debilitating disease that strikes the nervous system, has taken away much of her abilities – from walking to eating, to talking, to being. 

It has changed our lives, and there is little hope she'll ever get better – though we're still waiting up. 

* * * 

The MS Read-A-Thon was a big deal back in grade three. I had to ask people for money for every book I managed to get through over several weeks. My earnings would be sent to the local branch of the Multiple Sclerosis Society and the money would be used for research.

I still remember carrying around the rumply sponsor sheet in my pocket, asking my friends and neighbours, and of course, Mom and Dad, for a quarter, or – gulp! - a dollar. They always gave a lot more. 

I didn't really understand what the disease did but I figured it was pretty important, especially since the adults tried to make it fun to learn about. When the school called a special assembly to launch the fund-raiser, there was a cheerful cartoon dog talking about the mystery of the disease. I never forgot his description of how MS affected the body:

“imagine a telephone wire that's all chewed up – that's the nerves trying to send information from the brain to the body. MS chews up the wire so the message can't get through.” I had no idea then how many times I'd fall back on that imagery to explain to people why my mom could no longer move. 

The read-a-thon happened years before we found out that mom's immune system was attacking the tissue around her nerves and that there was nothing anyone could do about it. It was a disease that struck suddenly and at random – though it was primarily women, between the ages of 20 to 50, living in colder climates that were the majority of its sufferers. That could mean that anyone of us could be hit with it, just like my mom, no matter how active and healthy we are right now. 

* * * 

Once, when our neighbourhood mall was about to close, and I had my heart set on a particular novel from the bookstore, my mom told me to run so we'd make it just in time. I was only eight or nine years old, but I'll never forget how much it meant to me to be running in the emptying corridors with her as we giggled like schoolgirls. Her laughter still lingers in my heart.  

But then, the image starts to change. 

The beautiful, agile mother who seemed to know just when to let go of the bicycle so I'd finally know how to ride; the mom who always had a warm plate of French fries waiting for our return from school; the mom who would often stop by class to sneak cookies into my waiting hands; she starts losing her balance, needing to hold on tightly to a family member whenever the distance stretched ahead. Then, her eyes start bothering her, and no one knows what's wrong, and then they tell her what's wrong and everything changes. But oh, so slowly. Both painfully and mercifully slowly. 

* * * 

I remember the canes, the walkers, the wheelchairs; The subsidized caregivers who would drop by to help with the housework, the cooking, and just taking care of mom. I remember her sadness at not being able to closely watch over my younger brothers and not being able to carry the youngest of them, as the disease began ravaging her body. 

For a mother so used to doting over her children, watching them grow up from the sidelines was so obviously hard to bear. Her faith kept her going, though. 

* * * 

Our family coped as best as we could, but it was hard. We didn't know how to help, how to make the sadness go away. It took a few years for the disease to make it impossible for her to live with us, and she was soon surrounded by the four green walls of a drab hospital room, that still somehow radiated with her light.. 

As the years of suffering rolled into decades, her ability to cope improved, as did her physical surroundings – they renovated the hospital to bring cheer to countless patients who were imprisoned in their own bodies. Her days of doing things were becoming a distant memory, and it was actually the “little” blessings that she missed the most: Taking care of her personal needs, eating for pleasure and not just survival, lifting a child into her arms. But nowadays, when Mom is really, really sad, all she will say is, “I fear God”. 

* * * 

The nurses and doctors who bustle about her bedside all day and most of the night know she is special. They remark about her gentle smile, her patience, her devotion to her family. They seem touched by the steady stream of visitors who fill her room with smiles, and flowers, and children and hugs. Everyone who meets her, loves her, reminding me of the days my five-year-old classmates would look at her wistfully as she handed me my cookies and say,“I wish she was my mom.” 

I understand why they felt that way. Even now, as she lies in bed for most of the day, struggling to get her words out, her smile remains sweet and constant. I pray that someday she will find rest – and Paradise - after this sleepless, seemingly endless, night of waiting. 

Fighting natural forces in an unnatural world

In the name of God, Most Merciful, Most Kind,

* * *

What do moms fight about?

This one fights about the right to be more than a mother - to have an identity outside of the so-called mould.

I'm frustrated because I was raised to have many (perhaps too many) ambitions, and now I've got to tuck them into bed every night - as I tuck in the l'il women who have supplanted those ambitions.

I don't mind having to tuck the girls in, but I do mind having to suppress elements of my personality. Perhaps they hearken too much to a time long gone; but why must it be one or the other?

Some parents put their all into their children's up-bringing, and I'm truly impressed with the results. But I have a hard time doing it. Does that mean I'm a bad parent -- that I want about a third of my time, for myself?

Okay, so Islam is about being altruistic, true. And motherhood, is about sacrifice. Yes. But don't I have a right anywhere?

Is this a Western-influenced upbringing talking? A diatribe of the well-to-do mommy who has too little of substance to truly worry about (thank God); or do I have a right to have some time to recharge?

If only I could please everyone, equally, and not have to apologize for the li'l voice that struggles for a bit more than mommy duty.