Thurs 9th - Sat 11th September 2010
Ok, so I said there would be no more. No more Ramazan, no more blogging right? But a girl’s allowed to change her mind. A girl’s allowed to stage a comeback. I just could not resist recording how these three celebratory days of Bayram have gone for my little family. It kind of feels like a big full stop on the whole affair.
In exactly the same style as my efforts during Ramazan, Bayram has been very much adapted to suit our situation here in Scotland. Imagine if you can, spending Christmas in a place where not only is nobody else celebrating it, but they haven’t even heard of it. But you strive forwards anyway. For the love of your husband, as opposed to the love of God, you strive forwards into blissfully ignorant celebration.
It all started in the best way it possibly could have. With giving our son presents. When we heard him wake in the morning, Mustafa and I skipped into his room, camera in hand and watched him discover a mountain of new stuff. A Bob the Builder figure with its very own toolbox, a Bob the Builder car making ‘We Can Fix It’ pledges, a Bob the Builder construction helmet for times of high risk construction work and a Bob the Builder coat for the upcoming Scottish Winter (have you spotted a theme yet?). He was delighted. And even more delighted when Mummy and Daddy joined him for breakfast.
Now I did say that one of the first things I wanted to do with my new-found freedom was eat something breakfasty. But do you know what? Now it came to it, I just wanted a coffee. I stood next to the kitchen window, mug in hand, listening to my son and my husband exchange gurgles and giggles at the breakfast table, and I took my first sip. And by God, it was good. This was completely different to any after-sun-down coffee I’d had during the last month. This was the first taste of the day. This was the first taste as I stood in a patch of golden, early morning sunshine streaming through the window, my eyes closed, the warmth of the sun and the warmth of the coffee fusing so beautifully that I didn’t know when my skin ended and my taste buds began. This was what I had missed.
And after that the morning just got better. After the incredible coffee fix, I moved onto my very own, first ever, home-baked Baklava. If you’ve ever been to Greece or Turkey or perhaps Egypt, you may have sampled this amazing stuff. Layers and layers of butter-coated wafer-thin pastry, interlaced with chopped nuts of every luxurious type and soaked in a mixture of honey, sugar, lemon and spices. Yes, it is as lethal as it sounds. It is no small wonder that people in Eastern Turkey suffer from a variety of heart-related problems. But if you’ve ever tasted Baklava you will understand why they run that particular risk.
I’d baked the stuff the day before, following an idiot’s guide recipe from the internet. Big gamble for someone who’s husband is pretty much a Baklava connoisseur. And I couldn’t believe my luck when I took it out of the oven and it looked exactly like the real thing. Surely my luck had to stop there. Surely there was no way I could have created something that actually tasted like the real thing too. Maybe I should coat it in varnish and make it into fridge magnets like they do with those mini loaves of bread in souvenir shops. Could there be a market for that? Maybe I could hang out with a suitcase of them at Bodrum airport and target tourists who’d perhaps forgotten to buy gifts for people they didn’t really like. Baklava fridge magnet Madam? It looks just like the real thing.
But lo and behold I could cross varnish off the shopping list. As Mustafa tucked into the first bite of my lovingly-prepared sweet treat, a broad smile spread over his face. It tasted good! Hence, it became our first ever breakfast after my first-ever Ramazan. Not the most nutritious start to the day who cared? We were celebrating the breaking of our fast, with an actual break-fast worth shouting about. Yey!
As if presents, coffee and baklava on the same morning weren’t enough, we were all jumping and jiving at the fact that Mustafa had the whole day off work! So, pyjamas were donned for much of the morning whilst Baran introduced his assortment of Bob the Builder items to all his other toys. Mustafa dominated the phone for a good while, bellowing ‘Iyi Bayramlar’ (Happy Bayram) to a plethora of friends and family in Eastern Turkey, and I tried to shove the thought of the resulting phone bill to the back of my mind.
I too spouted my very best Turkish at the in-laws, which isn’t all that great owing to the lack of recent time spent in Turkey. It was wonderful to speak to Mustafa’s mum and find out that she was out of hospital, following her heart attack earlier this month. It was not so wonderful to hear the weakness in her voice and to learn that she was pretty much bed-ridden. Mustafa’s eyes glazed over when he spoke to her and I wished at that very moment that I could jet us all over there. Times of celebration are difficult at times of illness. We all know that.
Mustafa put a brave front on by insisting that we all put on our best clothes and go out. A chill ran down my spine. Best clothes? Could I get away with trackie bottoms and flip-flops? Something in the way Mustafa bounded downstairs in dressy trousers and a shirt told me I couldn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I love getting dressed up but my wardrobe really does leave a lot to be desired. Over the last two years I have taken immense pleasure in clothing my son in the funkiest range of garments the high street has to offer, but since I became a parent there has been some kind of invisible block to spending money on myself. And even if I had the money to spend, I have no idea what I like anymore. One thing (amongst others) that I miss about being in my twenties is the certainty with which I clothed my body. Now, as a thirties girl, if it’s got a stretchy waistband and it’s crease-free, it’s in. Oh, the sad, sad truth.
I managed to rescue a dress from the back of my wardrobe and slipped it on over a pair of leggings (stretchy waistband incorporated). The outfit at least resembled something close to smart. Baran sported the lumberjack look in a red checked shirt and clearly outshone both Mustafa and I in the stakes of pure gorgeousness. I remember one day not too long ago I was having a bit of a confidence crisis and Mustafa said to me: “How can you think you are not beautiful? Look at your son and just think, you made him!” Good point, well made.
We ended up at the Blue Angel café at Findhorn Community Foundation. This was the very same café I had visited a few weeks earlier with my friend Jo and her twin baby girls, and where Baran had stubbornly refused the most delicious looking pizza ever. Except this time I could order my heart’s desire. Or, more accurately, my heart’s desire had to wait until midday when the ‘food lady’ arrived. That was ok. I could handle that. Waiting was my special skill. I could have waited till sundown if required.
During our wait, Mustafa and I unfolded a copy of the Highland News for today was my big day. As we scoured the pages to find my Ramazan article, I began to think they may have downsized it. Perhaps they’d segregated me to a non-descript corner of a non-descript page and used me as a jaunty little space-filler. Or maybe they’d scrapped the whole idea.
But then we got to page fourteen, and there it was. In all its full page (yes, full page) glory. A truly massive photo of me and Baran crouching behind my copy of ‘The Koran for Dummies’ and a lengthy article entitled ‘Abi Tries Her Hand at Dawn-to-Dusk Fast’. For one thing, I couldn’t believe the photographer had actually managed to snap a photo of Baran when he wasn’t screaming his head off, bearing in mind he was demonstrating a fit of rage during the entire photo session. Having said that, he did have his shoulders hunched in very discontented posture and I had a maniac’s smile fixed on my face which suggested I may have been half-way through singing a desperate rendition of Bob the Builder.
For another thing, I was amazed at the length of the article. Of course, I’d scanned a copy which the reporter had sent to me and I’d approved it. But, having parents with a background in journalism, I knew the way these things tended to get chopped to pieces. What, was it a slow news week? Was nothing else going down in Inverness this week? Surely I couldn’t be that interesting.
But then a spontaneous conversation with the waitress at the café told me that perhaps I was. She’d heard Mustafa and I mention that we’d been fasting and swooped over to find out more. It turns out she was exploring the possibility of entering Islam herself and was intrigued about what drew me to it, considering I was a very white, very freckled, very blonde Westerner. Well, I would have liked to have enlightened her with my extensive knowledge and experience on the matter, but had to humbly admit that my wisdom was limited to half of the contents of ‘The Koran for Dummies’ and that I had no intention of joining the faith. “I’m just supporting my husband.” I explained, and when I saw the look on her face I thought how strange it was that somebody could think this was even more odd than supporting a non-visible, non-tangible entity in the sky.
The rest of our Bayram day included a mammoth nap back at home for father and son whilst mummy tippy-tapped away on her laptop, making notes for her blogs, in a Carrie Bradshaw type way. I was merely lacking the impossibly long legs and big hair. And the ability to chain smoke. Oh, and the walk-in wardrobe. But hey ho.
After napping we all piled back into the car and made our way to the only child-friendly pub within a considerable radius. This pub incorporates a play area for little nippers to run around in whilst parents enjoy the obvious benefits of a pub’s general offerings. And I think it illustrates beautifully just how unconditionally I love my son, that I was willing to consume a microwaved bowl of chewy tomato pasta and two pieces of scorched garlic bread, apparently lacking any actual garlic, for my post-starvation Bayram meal, just so he could roll around in a padded, rainbow-coloured atrium. A mother’s love transcends words yet again.
And, in the early evening when Mustafa’s family would have been about ready to link arms in a raucous round of traditional Turkish dancing, we were walking by the River Ness, watching a magenta sun set in a grey sky. Baran sat in his buggy resting after his Wacky Warehouse antics, and we strolled along, taking in our surroundings and commenting on how nice it was to do something out of the ordinary, however simple it may be. It struck me that Mustafa was in his pensive mode, a state which I had found very enticing when we first met four years ago. Although now I have learned it is as frustrating as it is sexy. It is never easy to draw anything out of him when he switches this mode on. Luckily, the incredible sharpness of my mind told me he was probably thinking about everyone back home. As lovely as this riverside walk was, it was not in the spirit of Bayram, and it could not substitute seeing his Mum, alive and well, with his own eyes. One of the hardest things about relationships is that you cannot package the whole world up and give it to your partner, no matter how good you are at gift-wrapping. All you can offer is yourself.
The following two days of Bayram were back to normal for us really. Except, thankfully, normal now includes three meals a day and a variety of beverages, hot and cold. It was, for this period of time at least, a shame we didn’t live somewhere a bit more cosmopolitan than the Highlands of Scotland so we could have experienced these celebrations with other Muslims. However, I am sure that my future with Mustafa will offer this opportunity and I will make an educated decision then and there about whether or not to participate. Take your bets please . . .
I have a few lingering questions which I have been left with during my post-Ramazan days. Just wanted to jot them down in case I find the answers by the time I next read over this final entry. That way I can feel very pleased with myself which is always a good thing.
1.) Why oh why does Mustafa need time for his stomach to stretch again yet I seem to be able to effortlessly consume my full pre-Ramazan quota??
2.) Why did it take me four weeks of excruciating fasting to lose four pounds, yet only three days of normal eating to gain five?
3.) Is it possible I could become a British Carrie Bradshaw, like my friends Lisa and Alexia seem to think? (Please overlook the fact that Carrie Bradshaw is a fictional character)
4.) Will the words to Bob the Builder ever vacate my conscious and/or subconscious mind?
5.) Will I ever read (and understand) the whole of ‘The Koran for Dummies’?
6.) Will the pastor in Florida burn two hundred copies of the Koran to mark the ninth anniversary 9/11? What kind of fool is he?
7.) Will Mustafa ever be able to stop working twenty-four-seven?
8.) Will my son ever leave the tantrums stage behind him? I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it from a twelve-stone hairy teenager.
9.) Will I ever see fit to participate in Ramazan again?
10.) What will I write about next?
So, until next time, answers on a postcard please . . .
Wednesday 15 September 2010
Thursday 9 September 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Twenty Nine
Weds 8th September 2010
I am here. I did it. I scuffed my way along the long, weary road of Ramazan, some tumbles and trips along the way, I but managed to make it to the very end. So now I’m here, facing a new set of crossroads as it were, what the heck was that all about?
This has probably been the easiest day of fasting so far, as I have been occupied with that question the whole while. It was my first thought as I leapt out of bed (yes, leapt). It was my second thought as I served Baran his breakfast. It was my next thought as I started planning a mammoth baking session ready for Bayram tomorrow. All day I have been thinking about the pros and cons, the highs and lows. I’m not sure that I’ve reached any logical conclusions, more a smattering of surreal thoughts linked together with the very wispy thread of the past month’s experiences. They’re probably not of any interest to anybody. But what the heck, let’s get them out there.
Whilst I baked away to my heart’s content, actively avoiding any Nigella-style licking of spoons or fingers (by the way, she is officially my culinary idol), I tried to work it all out. Obviously, to me, the whole Ramazan thing has been a vastly different experience to any run-of-the-mill Muslim. Chiefly because I don’t follow Islam and I don’t believe in their type of God. But that doesn’t mean it’s been without its spiritual experiences (accidental meditation on Findhorn Beach to name but one). I do feel like I’ve learned some stuff about myself and about the world I occupy. And I’m also feeling like the world actually occupies me a little bit. You know, like the world’s in me and I’m in the world. All one and all intrinsically linked. If that’s not a good dose of spirituality then I don’t know what is.
And speaking of all being one, I think there’s been an important element lacking in my whole Ramazan experience. Commonality. Sure, Mustafa and I have had each other but we have been living our separate lifestyles of babycare and breadwinning and have scarcely come together to share a post sunset meal. I am sure that in a typical Muslim community, there would be far more camaraderie and support between family, friends and work colleagues. We all know how uplifting it is to witness acts of human kindness, so it must be amazing to spend a whole month where people give each other concessions, cook each other meals and give to the poor and needy. I am sure that some of my more ‘challenging’ moments may have been more bearable if there had been somebody ready to swoop in and care for Baran for an hour or two.
Similarly, those evening meals and early morning breakfasts must be something really special when shared with others. I remember when I lived in Turkey and I used to wander down the main promenade on an evening, pushing my gorgeous new baby in his pram and wonder why the atmosphere suddenly felt so magical. I’d hear china chinking, smell incredible cooking aromas, and see the orange haze of the sun start to melt into the deep purple blend of sea and sky. In each restaurant there would be only one table occupied by every single staff member, all chatting, laughing, eating and drinking round an amazing feast probably made by everyone. This was real solidarity, real understanding and real worship. I didn’t get it then, although I knew there was something powerful going on. I get it now.
And, thanks to my thorough studies on Islam (ok, my brief dip into ‘The Koran For Dummies’), I have discovered that the religion itself has a very communal element. The reason it gives such clear guidance for living, is because it’s all set on developing an ‘equitable society’, creating ‘peace and harmony within an individual that then spreads to society.’ There is so much concentration on generosity, forgiveness, sharing, gratitude and love which are not always words that spring to mind when one thinks of the Muslim faith. Maybe I’m making an unforgiveable sweeping statement here, but I think Islam may have been a tad misinterpreted in the western world. I don’t exactly feel qualified to get into that debate right now, but it’s food for thought (food – yey!).
I think it goes without saying that I have come out of this experience with a new found gratitude for the sustenance available to me day to day. Like most young women (and some men too, I know), I’ve had my fair share of food-related issues. I’ve sporadically dipped into psychological states bordering on eating disorders and have special people in my life right now, who continuously battle with food and self-image. I will not pretend that these disorders are easy to overcome. They are not. However, speaking for myself, participating in Ramazan has been nothing short of liberating. I have examined my own thoughts and behaviour patterns relating to food and been able to identify which ones are constructive and which ones are downright vicious. Why be vicious to myself? Time to find some compassion and some balance. And it’s always time to remember how lucky we are to have food and drink on the table, even if we do have to shop more thoughtfully than ever thanks to a double-dip recession.
And while we’re on the topic of gratitude, the past twenty nine days have helped me to feel real gratitude for myself. I mean honestly, I totally rock. Because going without food stripped me of basic functions such as patience, tolerance and empathy, particularly in relation to my two-year-old, it made me appreciate how often I use those virtues on a normal basis. From day to day we exercise qualities without even thinking about it, mostly to benefit ourselves and the people we co-habit with. Maybe that ideal Muslim society already exists in the little pockets of experience we create for ourselves. Maybe it can if only we let it.
Another reason I totally rock is that I’ve managed to fulfill my commitment to complete these daily records. I have spent the last four years talking about writing, dreaming about writing and imagining what writing on a regular basis must be like. Why did I spend all that time imagining? Oh how I love the modern-aged wonder that is the internet because if blogging was still a thing of tomorrow, these words would never have escaped my mind. It was that mental contract I drew up with myself after Day One that I started down the one-way road of daily blogging. Yes, they have just been my silly ramblings but for me they have been cathartic and a real creative release. Goodness knows what they have been for you, but that’s for you to know and for me, perhaps to never find out.
So, to summarise, if a summary is possible after this insane journey, I think I have a brand new admiration for those committed to their beliefs. Whether that belief is in God, yourself, a theory or a philosophy, commitment and resolution to a genuine belief is admirable. And it will undoubtedly open up a pathway to new experiences and more than a little magic. And after this, I believe strongly in a few key things. I won’t divulge them now, as you’ve probably picked them up along the way anyway. But what I will do, is leave you, fittingly, with the words of Rumi, a thirteenth century Muslim poet and Sufi Mystic:
‘Let the beauty of what you love, be what you do.’
I am here. I did it. I scuffed my way along the long, weary road of Ramazan, some tumbles and trips along the way, I but managed to make it to the very end. So now I’m here, facing a new set of crossroads as it were, what the heck was that all about?
This has probably been the easiest day of fasting so far, as I have been occupied with that question the whole while. It was my first thought as I leapt out of bed (yes, leapt). It was my second thought as I served Baran his breakfast. It was my next thought as I started planning a mammoth baking session ready for Bayram tomorrow. All day I have been thinking about the pros and cons, the highs and lows. I’m not sure that I’ve reached any logical conclusions, more a smattering of surreal thoughts linked together with the very wispy thread of the past month’s experiences. They’re probably not of any interest to anybody. But what the heck, let’s get them out there.
Whilst I baked away to my heart’s content, actively avoiding any Nigella-style licking of spoons or fingers (by the way, she is officially my culinary idol), I tried to work it all out. Obviously, to me, the whole Ramazan thing has been a vastly different experience to any run-of-the-mill Muslim. Chiefly because I don’t follow Islam and I don’t believe in their type of God. But that doesn’t mean it’s been without its spiritual experiences (accidental meditation on Findhorn Beach to name but one). I do feel like I’ve learned some stuff about myself and about the world I occupy. And I’m also feeling like the world actually occupies me a little bit. You know, like the world’s in me and I’m in the world. All one and all intrinsically linked. If that’s not a good dose of spirituality then I don’t know what is.
And speaking of all being one, I think there’s been an important element lacking in my whole Ramazan experience. Commonality. Sure, Mustafa and I have had each other but we have been living our separate lifestyles of babycare and breadwinning and have scarcely come together to share a post sunset meal. I am sure that in a typical Muslim community, there would be far more camaraderie and support between family, friends and work colleagues. We all know how uplifting it is to witness acts of human kindness, so it must be amazing to spend a whole month where people give each other concessions, cook each other meals and give to the poor and needy. I am sure that some of my more ‘challenging’ moments may have been more bearable if there had been somebody ready to swoop in and care for Baran for an hour or two.
Similarly, those evening meals and early morning breakfasts must be something really special when shared with others. I remember when I lived in Turkey and I used to wander down the main promenade on an evening, pushing my gorgeous new baby in his pram and wonder why the atmosphere suddenly felt so magical. I’d hear china chinking, smell incredible cooking aromas, and see the orange haze of the sun start to melt into the deep purple blend of sea and sky. In each restaurant there would be only one table occupied by every single staff member, all chatting, laughing, eating and drinking round an amazing feast probably made by everyone. This was real solidarity, real understanding and real worship. I didn’t get it then, although I knew there was something powerful going on. I get it now.
And, thanks to my thorough studies on Islam (ok, my brief dip into ‘The Koran For Dummies’), I have discovered that the religion itself has a very communal element. The reason it gives such clear guidance for living, is because it’s all set on developing an ‘equitable society’, creating ‘peace and harmony within an individual that then spreads to society.’ There is so much concentration on generosity, forgiveness, sharing, gratitude and love which are not always words that spring to mind when one thinks of the Muslim faith. Maybe I’m making an unforgiveable sweeping statement here, but I think Islam may have been a tad misinterpreted in the western world. I don’t exactly feel qualified to get into that debate right now, but it’s food for thought (food – yey!).
I think it goes without saying that I have come out of this experience with a new found gratitude for the sustenance available to me day to day. Like most young women (and some men too, I know), I’ve had my fair share of food-related issues. I’ve sporadically dipped into psychological states bordering on eating disorders and have special people in my life right now, who continuously battle with food and self-image. I will not pretend that these disorders are easy to overcome. They are not. However, speaking for myself, participating in Ramazan has been nothing short of liberating. I have examined my own thoughts and behaviour patterns relating to food and been able to identify which ones are constructive and which ones are downright vicious. Why be vicious to myself? Time to find some compassion and some balance. And it’s always time to remember how lucky we are to have food and drink on the table, even if we do have to shop more thoughtfully than ever thanks to a double-dip recession.
And while we’re on the topic of gratitude, the past twenty nine days have helped me to feel real gratitude for myself. I mean honestly, I totally rock. Because going without food stripped me of basic functions such as patience, tolerance and empathy, particularly in relation to my two-year-old, it made me appreciate how often I use those virtues on a normal basis. From day to day we exercise qualities without even thinking about it, mostly to benefit ourselves and the people we co-habit with. Maybe that ideal Muslim society already exists in the little pockets of experience we create for ourselves. Maybe it can if only we let it.
Another reason I totally rock is that I’ve managed to fulfill my commitment to complete these daily records. I have spent the last four years talking about writing, dreaming about writing and imagining what writing on a regular basis must be like. Why did I spend all that time imagining? Oh how I love the modern-aged wonder that is the internet because if blogging was still a thing of tomorrow, these words would never have escaped my mind. It was that mental contract I drew up with myself after Day One that I started down the one-way road of daily blogging. Yes, they have just been my silly ramblings but for me they have been cathartic and a real creative release. Goodness knows what they have been for you, but that’s for you to know and for me, perhaps to never find out.
So, to summarise, if a summary is possible after this insane journey, I think I have a brand new admiration for those committed to their beliefs. Whether that belief is in God, yourself, a theory or a philosophy, commitment and resolution to a genuine belief is admirable. And it will undoubtedly open up a pathway to new experiences and more than a little magic. And after this, I believe strongly in a few key things. I won’t divulge them now, as you’ve probably picked them up along the way anyway. But what I will do, is leave you, fittingly, with the words of Rumi, a thirteenth century Muslim poet and Sufi Mystic:
‘Let the beauty of what you love, be what you do.’
Tuesday 7 September 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Twenty Eight
Tues 7th September 2010
Today saw witness to a momentous occasion. The last Parent and Toddler session I will ever have to endure devoid of caffeine and sugar. Yes, that’s right. Next time I step foot through that community centre door, I will be partaking in the God-given right I was awarded when I became a parent: coffee and biscuits. One of the mums actually said she felt sorry for me today. She felt genuine pity for me. Does that not tell you the great magnitude with which parents value their cuppa? I pointed out to the mum that she didn’t need to waste her pity on me. This was, after all, my decision and therefore I pretty much deserved all I got. Harsh but true.
So, as far as I am aware, and as far as Mustafa and I can make out by consulting the Islamic calendar, this is the penultimate day in my Ramazan challenge. On Thursday, or actually Wednesday night, I will be a free, free woman. So, what will I do with my new-found freedom? Here’s the top ten of instinctive thoughts on this topic:
1.) Eat with my son again.
2.) Go out for a meal with my husband.
3.) Have something breakfasty.
4.) Meet up with some mums and savour every sip of coffee, every crumb of cake.
5.) Get through a whole day without a nap (today I napped with Baran on the sofa in front of a DVD. Sweet.).
6.) Bake some gorgeous sweet stuff for the celebratory festival of Bayram.
7.) Shake my ass at Zumba again.
8.) Clench it at a yoga class.
9.) Not weigh myself for at least three months
10.) Stop writing daily blogs (until I think of something else to write about).
That should keep me going for the time being.
I will also buy a copy of the Highland News on Thursday so I can witness my very own launch to star-studded fame. Should probably warn Mustafa about the likelihood of persistent calls from Brad. It could get quite annoying.
Furthermore, I will complete my reading of ‘The Koran For Dummies’ which is, as it happens, absolutely fascinating. I’ve managed to make it to page seventy four, and there’s still another two hundred and eighty six to go, but I reckon I can do it. So far I’ve learned about the revelations given to Muhammad, the structure and language of the book, experiencing the Koran as a divine art and comparisons to the Bible and the Torah. My favourite passage of the book describes the fasting ritual like this: ‘The entire month . . . trains the human soul in self control so that the pure heart that advocates patience and righteousness rises above the ego . . . that calls the soul towards anger, violence, revenge, and other self destructive acts.’
Well, let’s see. Self control: check. Patience: check. Pure heart: questionable. Rising above the ego: perhaps there’s still some work to do there. Oh well, whoever my God is, whatever power has guided me through this entirely bizarre experience, I’m sure they’re well chuffed that I’ve even given it a go. I know I am.
Today saw witness to a momentous occasion. The last Parent and Toddler session I will ever have to endure devoid of caffeine and sugar. Yes, that’s right. Next time I step foot through that community centre door, I will be partaking in the God-given right I was awarded when I became a parent: coffee and biscuits. One of the mums actually said she felt sorry for me today. She felt genuine pity for me. Does that not tell you the great magnitude with which parents value their cuppa? I pointed out to the mum that she didn’t need to waste her pity on me. This was, after all, my decision and therefore I pretty much deserved all I got. Harsh but true.
So, as far as I am aware, and as far as Mustafa and I can make out by consulting the Islamic calendar, this is the penultimate day in my Ramazan challenge. On Thursday, or actually Wednesday night, I will be a free, free woman. So, what will I do with my new-found freedom? Here’s the top ten of instinctive thoughts on this topic:
1.) Eat with my son again.
2.) Go out for a meal with my husband.
3.) Have something breakfasty.
4.) Meet up with some mums and savour every sip of coffee, every crumb of cake.
5.) Get through a whole day without a nap (today I napped with Baran on the sofa in front of a DVD. Sweet.).
6.) Bake some gorgeous sweet stuff for the celebratory festival of Bayram.
7.) Shake my ass at Zumba again.
8.) Clench it at a yoga class.
9.) Not weigh myself for at least three months
10.) Stop writing daily blogs (until I think of something else to write about).
That should keep me going for the time being.
I will also buy a copy of the Highland News on Thursday so I can witness my very own launch to star-studded fame. Should probably warn Mustafa about the likelihood of persistent calls from Brad. It could get quite annoying.
Furthermore, I will complete my reading of ‘The Koran For Dummies’ which is, as it happens, absolutely fascinating. I’ve managed to make it to page seventy four, and there’s still another two hundred and eighty six to go, but I reckon I can do it. So far I’ve learned about the revelations given to Muhammad, the structure and language of the book, experiencing the Koran as a divine art and comparisons to the Bible and the Torah. My favourite passage of the book describes the fasting ritual like this: ‘The entire month . . . trains the human soul in self control so that the pure heart that advocates patience and righteousness rises above the ego . . . that calls the soul towards anger, violence, revenge, and other self destructive acts.’
Well, let’s see. Self control: check. Patience: check. Pure heart: questionable. Rising above the ego: perhaps there’s still some work to do there. Oh well, whoever my God is, whatever power has guided me through this entirely bizarre experience, I’m sure they’re well chuffed that I’ve even given it a go. I know I am.
Monday 6 September 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Twenty Seven
Mon 6th September 2010
It is the magical time of sunset and I am sitting at my faithful laptop, not with a slap-up meal, but with a truly delightful cup of tea and a stack of Hob Nob biscuits. The slap-up meal may make an appearance later but, for now, this great British tradition is really hitting the spot. Peter Kay wasn’t wrong when he described Hob Nobs as the SAS of the biscuit world. I am dipping to my heart’s content, completely unconcerned about a breaking and sinking situation. You have no idea how happy that makes me right at this moment.
Today should have been a day of full productivity. Baran was off to Nursery early this morning and I left him playing with a herd of sweet-scented My Little Ponies (remember them?), trotting them in and out of their pink fantasy castle. I chose not to share this information with Mustafa, who probably would have turned white with fear on account of how un-macho his son’s chosen play activity was.
When I arrived home I got properly stuck into worky-type stuff and also spent a few hours on some paintings for a new exhibition in a local café. I think perhaps my experiences of Ramazan are flooding into my artwork, as when I looked at the abstract patterns I’d created, I saw a lot of gaping, cavernous holes, akin to the inside of my poor, poor belly. I have no idea whether my subconscious was at work or not, but who cares? The paintings looked quite pretty and hopefully they’ll sell.
But that was where the pause button stuck. By what would usually be the glorious arrival of lunchtime, I was absolutely bushed. I could not understand it. I mean, what had I done? Got a toddler up and taken him to nursery, then spent the morning in front of a laptop and an easel, that’s what. Hardly cause for acute fatigue. But the facts were there. Heavy limbs. Drooping head. Sore eyes. Surely this was not all down to lack of food?
Well, in the broader sense, perhaps it was. The joint arrival of lunchtime and a state of weariness must have been connected. Maybe by wielding that paintbrush all morning, and entering that familiar state of artistic rumination, had connected my subconscious to how I’m really feeling about Ramazan. Sick of it. Sorry everybody, but I am. Yes, it’s connected me with higher goods at times. Yes I am thoroughly, thoroughly grateful for all that I am blessed with. Yes, it has brought me closer to understanding my husband’s religion. But enough’s enough, isn’t it? A girl’s got to draw the line somewhere.
So I drew the line. I drew my duvet up around my ears and was all set on a power nap. Just what I needed to recoup some energy. Some power nap. Four and a half hours later I woke up, startled and scrabbling to get ready to go and pick Baran up. Four and a half hours! And I tell you what, it was four and a half hours of blissful, heavy, warm, contented sleep. Just beautiful. The kind you have on holiday by the pool. For a busy mum of a toddler, it was like being sprinkled with gold dust.
Ok, so I probably haven’t done anywhere near as much work as I should have done and I probably haven’t done the reputation of a self-employed artist much justice. But there were no dodgy aromatic tobaccos involved and understand me here, I needed it. Perhaps the next time I set paintbrush to canvas, it will be the beginning of a genuine masterpiece, a masterpiece to alter the world’s view on art, a masterpiece to alter the world’s view on itself and create a radical new understanding of an ever-changing complex global community, which will be gloriously united by the universal language of aesthetics on one single canvas! And this canvas could never have occurred without the proper sleep quota. This we must agree on.
Until this masterpiece explodes into the world, I have, at least, got Hob Nobs to keep my strength up. If I consume enough of them this evening, who knows what dizzy artistic heights I may reach? And the comforting thing about all of today’s ponderings is, there’s not long to go now. So please join me in saying, or perhaps chanting mantra-style, ‘Hang in there girl’.
It is the magical time of sunset and I am sitting at my faithful laptop, not with a slap-up meal, but with a truly delightful cup of tea and a stack of Hob Nob biscuits. The slap-up meal may make an appearance later but, for now, this great British tradition is really hitting the spot. Peter Kay wasn’t wrong when he described Hob Nobs as the SAS of the biscuit world. I am dipping to my heart’s content, completely unconcerned about a breaking and sinking situation. You have no idea how happy that makes me right at this moment.
Today should have been a day of full productivity. Baran was off to Nursery early this morning and I left him playing with a herd of sweet-scented My Little Ponies (remember them?), trotting them in and out of their pink fantasy castle. I chose not to share this information with Mustafa, who probably would have turned white with fear on account of how un-macho his son’s chosen play activity was.
When I arrived home I got properly stuck into worky-type stuff and also spent a few hours on some paintings for a new exhibition in a local café. I think perhaps my experiences of Ramazan are flooding into my artwork, as when I looked at the abstract patterns I’d created, I saw a lot of gaping, cavernous holes, akin to the inside of my poor, poor belly. I have no idea whether my subconscious was at work or not, but who cares? The paintings looked quite pretty and hopefully they’ll sell.
But that was where the pause button stuck. By what would usually be the glorious arrival of lunchtime, I was absolutely bushed. I could not understand it. I mean, what had I done? Got a toddler up and taken him to nursery, then spent the morning in front of a laptop and an easel, that’s what. Hardly cause for acute fatigue. But the facts were there. Heavy limbs. Drooping head. Sore eyes. Surely this was not all down to lack of food?
Well, in the broader sense, perhaps it was. The joint arrival of lunchtime and a state of weariness must have been connected. Maybe by wielding that paintbrush all morning, and entering that familiar state of artistic rumination, had connected my subconscious to how I’m really feeling about Ramazan. Sick of it. Sorry everybody, but I am. Yes, it’s connected me with higher goods at times. Yes I am thoroughly, thoroughly grateful for all that I am blessed with. Yes, it has brought me closer to understanding my husband’s religion. But enough’s enough, isn’t it? A girl’s got to draw the line somewhere.
So I drew the line. I drew my duvet up around my ears and was all set on a power nap. Just what I needed to recoup some energy. Some power nap. Four and a half hours later I woke up, startled and scrabbling to get ready to go and pick Baran up. Four and a half hours! And I tell you what, it was four and a half hours of blissful, heavy, warm, contented sleep. Just beautiful. The kind you have on holiday by the pool. For a busy mum of a toddler, it was like being sprinkled with gold dust.
Ok, so I probably haven’t done anywhere near as much work as I should have done and I probably haven’t done the reputation of a self-employed artist much justice. But there were no dodgy aromatic tobaccos involved and understand me here, I needed it. Perhaps the next time I set paintbrush to canvas, it will be the beginning of a genuine masterpiece, a masterpiece to alter the world’s view on art, a masterpiece to alter the world’s view on itself and create a radical new understanding of an ever-changing complex global community, which will be gloriously united by the universal language of aesthetics on one single canvas! And this canvas could never have occurred without the proper sleep quota. This we must agree on.
Until this masterpiece explodes into the world, I have, at least, got Hob Nobs to keep my strength up. If I consume enough of them this evening, who knows what dizzy artistic heights I may reach? And the comforting thing about all of today’s ponderings is, there’s not long to go now. So please join me in saying, or perhaps chanting mantra-style, ‘Hang in there girl’.
Sunday 5 September 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Twenty Six
Sun 5th September 2010
I have ascended yet another rung of the glittery Ramazan ladder or, more accurately, I will have done in exactly thirty three minutes and counting.
Today has been a special day. Not just because Baran and I splashed about in Inverness’s excellent leisure pool until we resembled a couple of prunes. And not just because I managed a quick trip round Tesco without being tempted by their excellent range of sweet pastries. Today is a special day because it would have been the twentieth birthday of a very special young man called Andrew. Or Andy as most people knew him. Or Little Star as others knew him. Or Dipton Devil, if I’m honest, seemed to be the firm favourite.
And by golly was he ever a devil. This was a boy who completely outran the life expectancy the doctors gave him when he was born with severe cerebral palsy. This was a boy who failed every hearing test he ever took yet still, by some strange coincidence, laughed uproariously when he heard a juicy piece of gossip. This was a boy who, when his exhausted mother was meticulously monitoring his precarious breathing patterns, thought it was hilarious to hold his breath. As I said, the label of ‘Devil’ was the firm favourite, and for good reason.
I got to know Andy years ago when he and his family moved into my street. He saw me go through lots of pivotal life changes, most notably my heart-rending break-up with the first boy I ever loved. It was then his Mum, Jenni and I became close friends. In fact, I fell hard for the whole family and am convinced to this day that Jenni is actually an angel in disguise. How many women do you know who could raise three boys, one of them with complex medical needs, and still have time to nurse a teenaged girl’s broken heart? Not to mention the ridiculously long list of other calamities I endured through university and, ultimately, adulthood. Jenni has always been there for me and she was the first person who I ever wrote a poem about. I’m not hot on poetry, but I still think it’s probably one of my best.
And, despite his impish ways, Andy had a gentle side too. He was officially the world’s best listener. He knew when to make soft, sympathetic sounds and when to grip your hand even tighter. He also knew when to roll his eyes and groan at you as if to say, “get with the program”. He was also usually right. I think I told him about falling in love with a Turkish man four years ago before I even told Jenni. It’s not the kind of news you revel in telling people, especially considering the agonizingly clichéd aspect to it all. And do you know what? There was no eye rolling or huffing and puffing. He actually smiled. Now that, for me, was a seal of approval.
The news of Andy’s departure last December was devastating for everyone, not least his wonderful family. So today, his birthday, must have been incredibly hard for them. Baran and I had made a shiny star of tin foil and coloured tissue paper and sent it down to England to make sure they know they are in our thoughts. It was a bit crooked and soaked in far too much PVA glue, but I guess I have to allow my artistic standards to slip slightly when co-creating with a toddler.
I rang Jenni too and was relieved to hear a fair few voices in the background. She had invited some of Andy’s carers over to the house, and support the family through the day. We didn’t speak for long but it was marvelous to reconnect with her and Andy’s dad, Billy. Sometimes thoughts just aren’t enough, but the voices you need to hear make you feel a whole lot better. At least for the meantime.
So after that I felt the urge to indulge in a spot of Zakat. No, it’s not a cheap white wine, it’s the Arabic word for ‘almsgiving’ or, more accurately, it means ‘to purify’. During Ramazan Muslims are encouraged to donate money to charity. This is thought to purify wealth by ‘transforming it into a resource that can aide those who need help’(1) . During this fasting period, I have tried to be more generous as a general rule, and have popped change into charity tins, bought copies of the Big Issue and donated to the Pakistan Floods appeal. But today, inspired by Andy and his unwavering, beautiful memory, I donated to St Oswald’s Hospice.
St Oswald’s cares for children and adults with terminal illnesses. I always remember how, after years of struggling to find the right treatments and care for Andy, this hospice transformed the life of Andy and his family. Whilst his prognosis wasn’t going to change, his quality of life did, and this consequently affected all those around him. Andy was pain free, relaxed and happy. From what Jenni’s told me, this was largely due to St Oswald’s’ holistic approach to care, embracing the spiritual and emotional needs of patients as well as the medical ones.
My small donation won’t magic Andy back into our world but I’m sure he’s happy in the one he has built somewhere for himself. And whilst I don’t have much actual wealth to be purified, the combination of a scruffy tin foil star, a phone call and an online donation, have done enough to purify my mind for today.
www.stoswaldsuk.org
(1)The Koran For Dummies, Sohaib Sultan
I have ascended yet another rung of the glittery Ramazan ladder or, more accurately, I will have done in exactly thirty three minutes and counting.
Today has been a special day. Not just because Baran and I splashed about in Inverness’s excellent leisure pool until we resembled a couple of prunes. And not just because I managed a quick trip round Tesco without being tempted by their excellent range of sweet pastries. Today is a special day because it would have been the twentieth birthday of a very special young man called Andrew. Or Andy as most people knew him. Or Little Star as others knew him. Or Dipton Devil, if I’m honest, seemed to be the firm favourite.
And by golly was he ever a devil. This was a boy who completely outran the life expectancy the doctors gave him when he was born with severe cerebral palsy. This was a boy who failed every hearing test he ever took yet still, by some strange coincidence, laughed uproariously when he heard a juicy piece of gossip. This was a boy who, when his exhausted mother was meticulously monitoring his precarious breathing patterns, thought it was hilarious to hold his breath. As I said, the label of ‘Devil’ was the firm favourite, and for good reason.
I got to know Andy years ago when he and his family moved into my street. He saw me go through lots of pivotal life changes, most notably my heart-rending break-up with the first boy I ever loved. It was then his Mum, Jenni and I became close friends. In fact, I fell hard for the whole family and am convinced to this day that Jenni is actually an angel in disguise. How many women do you know who could raise three boys, one of them with complex medical needs, and still have time to nurse a teenaged girl’s broken heart? Not to mention the ridiculously long list of other calamities I endured through university and, ultimately, adulthood. Jenni has always been there for me and she was the first person who I ever wrote a poem about. I’m not hot on poetry, but I still think it’s probably one of my best.
And, despite his impish ways, Andy had a gentle side too. He was officially the world’s best listener. He knew when to make soft, sympathetic sounds and when to grip your hand even tighter. He also knew when to roll his eyes and groan at you as if to say, “get with the program”. He was also usually right. I think I told him about falling in love with a Turkish man four years ago before I even told Jenni. It’s not the kind of news you revel in telling people, especially considering the agonizingly clichéd aspect to it all. And do you know what? There was no eye rolling or huffing and puffing. He actually smiled. Now that, for me, was a seal of approval.
The news of Andy’s departure last December was devastating for everyone, not least his wonderful family. So today, his birthday, must have been incredibly hard for them. Baran and I had made a shiny star of tin foil and coloured tissue paper and sent it down to England to make sure they know they are in our thoughts. It was a bit crooked and soaked in far too much PVA glue, but I guess I have to allow my artistic standards to slip slightly when co-creating with a toddler.
I rang Jenni too and was relieved to hear a fair few voices in the background. She had invited some of Andy’s carers over to the house, and support the family through the day. We didn’t speak for long but it was marvelous to reconnect with her and Andy’s dad, Billy. Sometimes thoughts just aren’t enough, but the voices you need to hear make you feel a whole lot better. At least for the meantime.
So after that I felt the urge to indulge in a spot of Zakat. No, it’s not a cheap white wine, it’s the Arabic word for ‘almsgiving’ or, more accurately, it means ‘to purify’. During Ramazan Muslims are encouraged to donate money to charity. This is thought to purify wealth by ‘transforming it into a resource that can aide those who need help’(1) . During this fasting period, I have tried to be more generous as a general rule, and have popped change into charity tins, bought copies of the Big Issue and donated to the Pakistan Floods appeal. But today, inspired by Andy and his unwavering, beautiful memory, I donated to St Oswald’s Hospice.
St Oswald’s cares for children and adults with terminal illnesses. I always remember how, after years of struggling to find the right treatments and care for Andy, this hospice transformed the life of Andy and his family. Whilst his prognosis wasn’t going to change, his quality of life did, and this consequently affected all those around him. Andy was pain free, relaxed and happy. From what Jenni’s told me, this was largely due to St Oswald’s’ holistic approach to care, embracing the spiritual and emotional needs of patients as well as the medical ones.
My small donation won’t magic Andy back into our world but I’m sure he’s happy in the one he has built somewhere for himself. And whilst I don’t have much actual wealth to be purified, the combination of a scruffy tin foil star, a phone call and an online donation, have done enough to purify my mind for today.
www.stoswaldsuk.org
(1)The Koran For Dummies, Sohaib Sultan
Saturday 4 September 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Twenty Five
Sat 4th September 2010
What a topsy turvy ride life can be for today has been the absolute antithesis to yesterday. Yes, there have been the customary stabs of hunger, the habitual bitterness towards a sun still to set, but other than that the day has been delightful. Thanks in no small part to Mustafa, who wins Husband of the Day. Sadly, he can not be here to accept this award, so I will say a few words on his behalf.
It was a luxuriously slow start to the day. No toddlers or nursery or anything else to pack ourselves off to, so after yesterday’s continuous tantrum tirade, I resigned myself to praising Baran for every little positive thing he did. “Oooh, look Baran, you can eat off a spoon so well . . . Oooh, look Baran, you’re such a good boy for getting the jigsaws out so nicely . . . Oooh, look Baran, you’re capable of opening a book . . .”. At every bit of praise, we visited his reward chart which consists of a glittery ladder with ten rungs and a homemade Bob The Builder figure with Baran’s head slapped on top of the legendary countenance of Bob himself. Baran was delighted to move the figure up a rung every time he did something good. The chart is new so he doesn’t yet realise that he will be rewarded with a treat when he gets to the top. The anticipation of that moment fills me with glee, and I cling to its potential power to help me with this enormous task of behaviour management.
After a bit of ladder action, Baran saw fit to wake his Dad who had been on yet another night shift, and I saw fit to suddenly decide that we would have a trip to the beach. The sun was shining, the air was clear and what we needed was some real family time. Much to my surprise, Mustafa eagerly agreed and before I knew it, we were packed into our tiny Punto with numerous spades, buckets, towels and picnic blankets. Needless to say, a picnic was sadly absent.
This was the first time we’d been to Findhorn beach. I can’t believe we have lived here for a year and a half and not sampled its delights before. It is stunning. I mean really gorgeous. Its people want to thank the heavens the weather is not any better because if it was, its soft sands would be emblazoned with sun loungers and water melon sellers. Instead, it is a vast, beautiful fusion of white and yellow-gold, decorated with stretches of smooth, multi-coloured pebbles and clusters of rounded sea shells. The sea was like a rich, blue-green slab of sapphire, lacerated with ever-rolling strips of foamy white. The wind was up too. Warm enough to enjoy. Cool enough to remind you of the sharp splendor of the Scottish elements.
Whilst I was taking all of this in, Baran was on a mission. To run across the entire width of the beach and explore every animal, vegetable or mineral that crossed his path. And lo and behold, he did not want me on this epic journey, but his father. So Mustafa suggested I have some time to relax while he went and did father and son bonding. Fine with me. More than fine actually. It was something close to magic seeing them enjoy each other’s company. It was something close to luxury, being allowed some time on my own, on my blanketed patch of sand.
Meditation has had some bad press, hasn’t it? I’ve dabbled in it a couple of times, I’ve run the risk of being labeled a weirdo and I’ve gone past the point of pins and needles in my meticulously crossed legs. But today, in my own private way, I think I slipped into it without realising. It was hard not to. I lay on my blanket on my back, palms facing upwards, the wind skimming each rise and fall of my breath. No matter who you are, I defy you to not be relaxed by the sound of gently lapping waves. There is something about that rhythmical hush-hush that speaks in an otherworldly way to the intrinsic working of our psyche. Before I knew it I was feeling peace wash over me. Deep emeralds and blushing crimsons flooded my mind and offered a sensual solace. Even if only for a few minutes. And even if I was later brought back to earth by a half-naked, snotty-nosed, sand-ridden toddler demanding a snack. He is my other world. A different type of meditation.
Tonight, I can’t help but reflect on the fact that Ramazan should, according to the Koran, allow Muslims to be directed away from worldly activities, and to be discouraged from indulging in unimportant, glutinous rituals. I am pretty damn sure, that if a picnic had been present on my little blanket today, there would have been no moments of peaceful meditation. Instead I would probably have been focusing on whether or not I’d eaten too many sandwiches (and most likely I would have done). So ignoring the hunger pangs and stretching out for a bit of time with the earth was far preferable, and far more beneficial. The silent conversation I had with myself, God, the universe, the elements or whatever, has made me feel better. It’s reconnected me with something good.
And it seems to be rubbing off. By the end of today, Baran had reached the top rung of his ladder for being such a good boy in every way, shape and form. As we speak, there is a bumper story book resting underneath the chart ready for his discovery in the morning. Me? I’ve got a full tum and have satisfied my tea craving for the evening. And my new meditation will be visualizing these last few days of Ramazan like a big, glittery ladder. If I can reach the top, maybe there will be treats for me too.
What a topsy turvy ride life can be for today has been the absolute antithesis to yesterday. Yes, there have been the customary stabs of hunger, the habitual bitterness towards a sun still to set, but other than that the day has been delightful. Thanks in no small part to Mustafa, who wins Husband of the Day. Sadly, he can not be here to accept this award, so I will say a few words on his behalf.
It was a luxuriously slow start to the day. No toddlers or nursery or anything else to pack ourselves off to, so after yesterday’s continuous tantrum tirade, I resigned myself to praising Baran for every little positive thing he did. “Oooh, look Baran, you can eat off a spoon so well . . . Oooh, look Baran, you’re such a good boy for getting the jigsaws out so nicely . . . Oooh, look Baran, you’re capable of opening a book . . .”. At every bit of praise, we visited his reward chart which consists of a glittery ladder with ten rungs and a homemade Bob The Builder figure with Baran’s head slapped on top of the legendary countenance of Bob himself. Baran was delighted to move the figure up a rung every time he did something good. The chart is new so he doesn’t yet realise that he will be rewarded with a treat when he gets to the top. The anticipation of that moment fills me with glee, and I cling to its potential power to help me with this enormous task of behaviour management.
After a bit of ladder action, Baran saw fit to wake his Dad who had been on yet another night shift, and I saw fit to suddenly decide that we would have a trip to the beach. The sun was shining, the air was clear and what we needed was some real family time. Much to my surprise, Mustafa eagerly agreed and before I knew it, we were packed into our tiny Punto with numerous spades, buckets, towels and picnic blankets. Needless to say, a picnic was sadly absent.
This was the first time we’d been to Findhorn beach. I can’t believe we have lived here for a year and a half and not sampled its delights before. It is stunning. I mean really gorgeous. Its people want to thank the heavens the weather is not any better because if it was, its soft sands would be emblazoned with sun loungers and water melon sellers. Instead, it is a vast, beautiful fusion of white and yellow-gold, decorated with stretches of smooth, multi-coloured pebbles and clusters of rounded sea shells. The sea was like a rich, blue-green slab of sapphire, lacerated with ever-rolling strips of foamy white. The wind was up too. Warm enough to enjoy. Cool enough to remind you of the sharp splendor of the Scottish elements.
Whilst I was taking all of this in, Baran was on a mission. To run across the entire width of the beach and explore every animal, vegetable or mineral that crossed his path. And lo and behold, he did not want me on this epic journey, but his father. So Mustafa suggested I have some time to relax while he went and did father and son bonding. Fine with me. More than fine actually. It was something close to magic seeing them enjoy each other’s company. It was something close to luxury, being allowed some time on my own, on my blanketed patch of sand.
Meditation has had some bad press, hasn’t it? I’ve dabbled in it a couple of times, I’ve run the risk of being labeled a weirdo and I’ve gone past the point of pins and needles in my meticulously crossed legs. But today, in my own private way, I think I slipped into it without realising. It was hard not to. I lay on my blanket on my back, palms facing upwards, the wind skimming each rise and fall of my breath. No matter who you are, I defy you to not be relaxed by the sound of gently lapping waves. There is something about that rhythmical hush-hush that speaks in an otherworldly way to the intrinsic working of our psyche. Before I knew it I was feeling peace wash over me. Deep emeralds and blushing crimsons flooded my mind and offered a sensual solace. Even if only for a few minutes. And even if I was later brought back to earth by a half-naked, snotty-nosed, sand-ridden toddler demanding a snack. He is my other world. A different type of meditation.
Tonight, I can’t help but reflect on the fact that Ramazan should, according to the Koran, allow Muslims to be directed away from worldly activities, and to be discouraged from indulging in unimportant, glutinous rituals. I am pretty damn sure, that if a picnic had been present on my little blanket today, there would have been no moments of peaceful meditation. Instead I would probably have been focusing on whether or not I’d eaten too many sandwiches (and most likely I would have done). So ignoring the hunger pangs and stretching out for a bit of time with the earth was far preferable, and far more beneficial. The silent conversation I had with myself, God, the universe, the elements or whatever, has made me feel better. It’s reconnected me with something good.
And it seems to be rubbing off. By the end of today, Baran had reached the top rung of his ladder for being such a good boy in every way, shape and form. As we speak, there is a bumper story book resting underneath the chart ready for his discovery in the morning. Me? I’ve got a full tum and have satisfied my tea craving for the evening. And my new meditation will be visualizing these last few days of Ramazan like a big, glittery ladder. If I can reach the top, maybe there will be treats for me too.
My Little Ramazan - Day Twenty Four
Fri 3rd September 2010
What a day. Sometimes I wonder how, in my pre-parenting days, I managed to run a successful, vibrant community arts business and work all the hours God sent, when now I struggle to get through a two hour parent and toddler session. I think the answer lies in the fact that although I loved my little business, and the people I worked with, I am emotionally, physically and spiritually intertwined with my little tot, who now happens to be my major business partner. Sometimes we are a real dream team, we distribute high output and make maximum profit. Other times we are dysfunctional and inefficient and the business takes a downturn. Bankruptcy on the horizon.
Today has been one of those times. The naughty chair was used four times in the space of two hours (Supernanny eat your heart out), there were trips outside to allow fresh air to soothe the seething anger (for both of us), and there was a brawl over a breadstick. To cap it all, the Highland News photographer arrived just as Baran had filled his nappy and had decided to display an unrivaled and pretty impressive fit of temper on the corridor floor. This was not at all conducive to snapping the perfect shot of mother and child tenderness to accompany the Ramazan article for next week’s paper. And, for future reference, the ‘Koran for Dummies’ is not the best tool with which to distract a screaming toddler and crack a smile. Just in case you ever find yourself in the same situation.
The words ‘glutten’ and ‘punishment’ spring to mind when I recall what happened when we got home. I thought: ‘I know what I’ll do, I’ll start Baran’s potty training!’ What made me think that either of us were in the best frame of mind to begin this epic task? Have I not got enough of a challenge on my hands with daylight fasting and managing the highs and lows of a two year old? You’d think so.
But I assembled the equipment anyway. Potty. Disinfectant spray. Kitchen roll. Reward chart. Big boy pants. What I could not have anticipated was the amount of liquid that can come out of this child. I had about twenty seconds to sit back and think how sweet he looked in his new pants when it started. Scooshing, spraying, wiping, comforting, cleaning, changing and despairing – absolutely despairing – that anybody could have nine wees in the space of half an hour. He absolutely refused to sit on the potty (even though he’s done it fully-clothed many times before) and the way he was chucking it about, it was just a bloody good job it was made of toughened plastic.
So the only logical conclusion to these urine-soaked shenanigans, was to whack a nappy on him and insist it was time for an afternoon sleep. Not exactly health visitor logic, I know. And, once he’d finally nodded off into his land of clean, dry bums, the most annoyingly frustrating thing about all of this was that I could not sit down with a cup of tea. Still, after almost one month of fasting, I simply can’t shake the urge to reach for a cuppa.
And to be honest people (Allah, forgive me for I have sinned), if I hadn’t been fasting that cup of tea may have been actively shunned for a drop of vino. It’s been that kind of day.
So when I sent out a pleading text to my pal Becky, she rescued me this evening in a way that only a mum of five can do. With her three-month old baby boy in tow. We spent the evening chatting and I managed to extract some shiny pearls of wisdom from her about the golden rules of parenting. What a tonic. Bearing in mind I spend most evenings alone and waiting for Mustafa to finish his late shift at work, it was wonderful – no, bloody marvelous – to have some female company to soothe the soul. Men, you rock our worlds, you really do, but us girls need each other in large, medicinal doses. It’s just a fact of life.
Note to self: do not attempt huge tasks such as potty training whilst denying your body of basic sustenance. In fact, note to self: seriously consider whether or not Ramazan will be an annual thing for you. In this case, once may well be enough.
What a day. Sometimes I wonder how, in my pre-parenting days, I managed to run a successful, vibrant community arts business and work all the hours God sent, when now I struggle to get through a two hour parent and toddler session. I think the answer lies in the fact that although I loved my little business, and the people I worked with, I am emotionally, physically and spiritually intertwined with my little tot, who now happens to be my major business partner. Sometimes we are a real dream team, we distribute high output and make maximum profit. Other times we are dysfunctional and inefficient and the business takes a downturn. Bankruptcy on the horizon.
Today has been one of those times. The naughty chair was used four times in the space of two hours (Supernanny eat your heart out), there were trips outside to allow fresh air to soothe the seething anger (for both of us), and there was a brawl over a breadstick. To cap it all, the Highland News photographer arrived just as Baran had filled his nappy and had decided to display an unrivaled and pretty impressive fit of temper on the corridor floor. This was not at all conducive to snapping the perfect shot of mother and child tenderness to accompany the Ramazan article for next week’s paper. And, for future reference, the ‘Koran for Dummies’ is not the best tool with which to distract a screaming toddler and crack a smile. Just in case you ever find yourself in the same situation.
The words ‘glutten’ and ‘punishment’ spring to mind when I recall what happened when we got home. I thought: ‘I know what I’ll do, I’ll start Baran’s potty training!’ What made me think that either of us were in the best frame of mind to begin this epic task? Have I not got enough of a challenge on my hands with daylight fasting and managing the highs and lows of a two year old? You’d think so.
But I assembled the equipment anyway. Potty. Disinfectant spray. Kitchen roll. Reward chart. Big boy pants. What I could not have anticipated was the amount of liquid that can come out of this child. I had about twenty seconds to sit back and think how sweet he looked in his new pants when it started. Scooshing, spraying, wiping, comforting, cleaning, changing and despairing – absolutely despairing – that anybody could have nine wees in the space of half an hour. He absolutely refused to sit on the potty (even though he’s done it fully-clothed many times before) and the way he was chucking it about, it was just a bloody good job it was made of toughened plastic.
So the only logical conclusion to these urine-soaked shenanigans, was to whack a nappy on him and insist it was time for an afternoon sleep. Not exactly health visitor logic, I know. And, once he’d finally nodded off into his land of clean, dry bums, the most annoyingly frustrating thing about all of this was that I could not sit down with a cup of tea. Still, after almost one month of fasting, I simply can’t shake the urge to reach for a cuppa.
And to be honest people (Allah, forgive me for I have sinned), if I hadn’t been fasting that cup of tea may have been actively shunned for a drop of vino. It’s been that kind of day.
So when I sent out a pleading text to my pal Becky, she rescued me this evening in a way that only a mum of five can do. With her three-month old baby boy in tow. We spent the evening chatting and I managed to extract some shiny pearls of wisdom from her about the golden rules of parenting. What a tonic. Bearing in mind I spend most evenings alone and waiting for Mustafa to finish his late shift at work, it was wonderful – no, bloody marvelous – to have some female company to soothe the soul. Men, you rock our worlds, you really do, but us girls need each other in large, medicinal doses. It’s just a fact of life.
Note to self: do not attempt huge tasks such as potty training whilst denying your body of basic sustenance. In fact, note to self: seriously consider whether or not Ramazan will be an annual thing for you. In this case, once may well be enough.
Thursday 2 September 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Twenty Three
Thurs 2nd September 2010
A week today and I am a free woman. A week today and I can once again grace the aisles of Tesco with full verve and intention. And, most importantly, a week today I can enjoy a meal with my son again.
Today, at the park, we had a near lip-licking disaster as Baran practically squashed a mini-milk ice lolly into my face. I’d been making all manner of “hmmm!” and “oooh!” noises in an effort to join him in the appreciation of the sweet milky stuff on a stick. Maybe, in hindsight I’d been a little over zealous in my appreciation of said treat, due to what was now severe hunger. Bless him. He just wanted to share his sloppy milky mess with Mummy. Something he hasn’t been able to do with any of his food for quite some time. Imagine his disappointment when Mummy used a baby wipe to clean his generous offering away. The dramatic pout he threw me over his shoulder as he plodded off to the roundabout was certainly no mistake.
And it seems Baran had his own food issue at nursery today. When I picked him up (by the way, why can’t I get him to sit in a chair until his name is called?), his play leader told me he’d had a run in with some play dough. Well, let’s face it, it’s treacherous stuff. Baran had decided the play dough looked like a very tasty snack and stuffed a large globule of it into his mouth. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever sampled play dough but not only is it made predominantly of salt but it also becomes extremely gooey on contact with water, or in this case, saliva. So basically my child was left with a big glob of salty gummy yuk which hindered all speech or basic functional mouth movements. The poor play leader had the job of fishing it out and scrubbing the bits which were stubbornly stuck to the roof of Baran’s mouth with a mini toothbrush. Try performing this technique on a rather portly child who is in distress that his mouth is all clagged up. Not in her job description, I’m sure.
He seems to have dealt with the ordeal quite well though, because he has joyously consumed pizza, yoghurt, custard and biscuits this evening. I may well consume the same in precisely eight minutes when that pesky sun goes down. When the reporter asked me yesterday what had been the hardest about participating in Ramazan, I don’t know if I mentioned that I miss eating with my child. Surely one of the most heartwarming things a mother can experience is eating a home cooked meal with her little one. So, on that note, I have a request of my readers.
Following Ramazan, there is a festival of sugar called ‘Bayram’ (or ‘Eid’) which I believe lasts for three days. I’m bloody sure I’m going to be taking part in any celebration which involves eating, especially sweet things. If you have been following this blog, and you’ve enjoyed hearing my little tale of fasting, I’d now like you to do something for me. Think of the single most gorgeous sweet treat you have ever eaten, find out the recipe for it and send it to me via Facebook or e-mail or however you know me. If it’s within my means to do it, I will bake or cook every single recipe for my little boy, my husband and myself. This family needs to come together again, and you could be the one to make it happen.
But please remember this: we’re not partial to play dough.
A week today and I am a free woman. A week today and I can once again grace the aisles of Tesco with full verve and intention. And, most importantly, a week today I can enjoy a meal with my son again.
Today, at the park, we had a near lip-licking disaster as Baran practically squashed a mini-milk ice lolly into my face. I’d been making all manner of “hmmm!” and “oooh!” noises in an effort to join him in the appreciation of the sweet milky stuff on a stick. Maybe, in hindsight I’d been a little over zealous in my appreciation of said treat, due to what was now severe hunger. Bless him. He just wanted to share his sloppy milky mess with Mummy. Something he hasn’t been able to do with any of his food for quite some time. Imagine his disappointment when Mummy used a baby wipe to clean his generous offering away. The dramatic pout he threw me over his shoulder as he plodded off to the roundabout was certainly no mistake.
And it seems Baran had his own food issue at nursery today. When I picked him up (by the way, why can’t I get him to sit in a chair until his name is called?), his play leader told me he’d had a run in with some play dough. Well, let’s face it, it’s treacherous stuff. Baran had decided the play dough looked like a very tasty snack and stuffed a large globule of it into his mouth. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever sampled play dough but not only is it made predominantly of salt but it also becomes extremely gooey on contact with water, or in this case, saliva. So basically my child was left with a big glob of salty gummy yuk which hindered all speech or basic functional mouth movements. The poor play leader had the job of fishing it out and scrubbing the bits which were stubbornly stuck to the roof of Baran’s mouth with a mini toothbrush. Try performing this technique on a rather portly child who is in distress that his mouth is all clagged up. Not in her job description, I’m sure.
He seems to have dealt with the ordeal quite well though, because he has joyously consumed pizza, yoghurt, custard and biscuits this evening. I may well consume the same in precisely eight minutes when that pesky sun goes down. When the reporter asked me yesterday what had been the hardest about participating in Ramazan, I don’t know if I mentioned that I miss eating with my child. Surely one of the most heartwarming things a mother can experience is eating a home cooked meal with her little one. So, on that note, I have a request of my readers.
Following Ramazan, there is a festival of sugar called ‘Bayram’ (or ‘Eid’) which I believe lasts for three days. I’m bloody sure I’m going to be taking part in any celebration which involves eating, especially sweet things. If you have been following this blog, and you’ve enjoyed hearing my little tale of fasting, I’d now like you to do something for me. Think of the single most gorgeous sweet treat you have ever eaten, find out the recipe for it and send it to me via Facebook or e-mail or however you know me. If it’s within my means to do it, I will bake or cook every single recipe for my little boy, my husband and myself. This family needs to come together again, and you could be the one to make it happen.
But please remember this: we’re not partial to play dough.
Wednesday 1 September 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Twenty Two
Weds 1st September 2010
This is it everyone, I’ve been discovered. I’m going to be an international mega star. All around the globe they will say my name in hushed, awed tones and refer to me as ‘The Ramazan Girl’. I will be held up as a figure of great inspiration and somebody will pay enormous sums for the movie rights to the story of my life. There will be billboards, premieres, red carpets and dazzlingly handsome A-Listers begging to be photographed with me, in a bid to save their ever-downward-spiraling career. And this, good people, all begins today.
It begins, now stay with me here, with an interview for The Highland News. A very reputable local paper, I will have you know. And there’s no reason not to believe that it could be inextricably linked to my pathway to fame and fortune. No reason at all.
Apart from the fact that the editorial process may cut out my blog address. And apart from the fact that the editorial process may actually cut out the whole article. Hmmm.
Well, let’s not live in the land of doubt. Let’s live in the land of happy optimism. The Highland News’ reporter was very lovely and we nattered over a coffee (hers, not mine) about my first ever experience of Ramazan. Apparently this could potentially be of some interest to people. Apparently what I’m doing is quite unusual and engaging. Apparently there’s a story in it. So you can see how I reached the natural conclusion of billboards and red carpets. Unfortunately Brad will have to accept that I will be taking Mustafa to the premiere, no matter how rocky things might be with Angelina.
So this time next week I will know if I’ve made the headlines or not. I think a little column in the corner might be more likely and that’s just fine with me. It got me thinking though, a thought I have had many times. It just keeps coming back like a faithful old dog. The thought is this: people are fascinating. I mean, they really are. No matter what corner of the globe you come from, no matter what you’ve done or haven’t done in your life, there is at least one engaging story buried in everybody’s internal world of experiences and memories. And for that one story there will be at least a handful of people who will be able to find truth and beauty. They will hear lines and imagine scenes that make them jump with empathy.
So maybe this Ramazan thing will engage people, even if only a little. It’s certainly taken over my heart, mind and soul for the last twenty two days. And, because Ramazan has also given me plenty of extra hours for contemplative thinking, I have had more time to listen to my heart, mind and soul. I will reserve proper judgment until the end of the challenge, but I know now that I want to write more; I know that it is possible for me to write more; I know that my life is pretty damn good and blessed and has its fair share of good old fashioned magic. And, overall, I know, for this short space of time, that people have been genuinely interested in it. Because, as people, we want to hear stories from others so we can compare, contrast and exercise our beautiful sense of empathy. Like muscles that need to be flexed, we need to use our compassion, understanding, wonder and intrigue. Because, in the end, we might, by accident learn something.
Mustafa told me about a famous Turkish saying which seems to fit quite aptly here: “Akıllı bir adam yalnız kendi tecrűbelerinden, çok akıllı bir adam başkalarının da tecrűbelerinden yararlanır.” It means something along the lines of: “A clever person learns from their own unique experiences, but a genius learns from somebody elses.”
This is it everyone, I’ve been discovered. I’m going to be an international mega star. All around the globe they will say my name in hushed, awed tones and refer to me as ‘The Ramazan Girl’. I will be held up as a figure of great inspiration and somebody will pay enormous sums for the movie rights to the story of my life. There will be billboards, premieres, red carpets and dazzlingly handsome A-Listers begging to be photographed with me, in a bid to save their ever-downward-spiraling career. And this, good people, all begins today.
It begins, now stay with me here, with an interview for The Highland News. A very reputable local paper, I will have you know. And there’s no reason not to believe that it could be inextricably linked to my pathway to fame and fortune. No reason at all.
Apart from the fact that the editorial process may cut out my blog address. And apart from the fact that the editorial process may actually cut out the whole article. Hmmm.
Well, let’s not live in the land of doubt. Let’s live in the land of happy optimism. The Highland News’ reporter was very lovely and we nattered over a coffee (hers, not mine) about my first ever experience of Ramazan. Apparently this could potentially be of some interest to people. Apparently what I’m doing is quite unusual and engaging. Apparently there’s a story in it. So you can see how I reached the natural conclusion of billboards and red carpets. Unfortunately Brad will have to accept that I will be taking Mustafa to the premiere, no matter how rocky things might be with Angelina.
So this time next week I will know if I’ve made the headlines or not. I think a little column in the corner might be more likely and that’s just fine with me. It got me thinking though, a thought I have had many times. It just keeps coming back like a faithful old dog. The thought is this: people are fascinating. I mean, they really are. No matter what corner of the globe you come from, no matter what you’ve done or haven’t done in your life, there is at least one engaging story buried in everybody’s internal world of experiences and memories. And for that one story there will be at least a handful of people who will be able to find truth and beauty. They will hear lines and imagine scenes that make them jump with empathy.
So maybe this Ramazan thing will engage people, even if only a little. It’s certainly taken over my heart, mind and soul for the last twenty two days. And, because Ramazan has also given me plenty of extra hours for contemplative thinking, I have had more time to listen to my heart, mind and soul. I will reserve proper judgment until the end of the challenge, but I know now that I want to write more; I know that it is possible for me to write more; I know that my life is pretty damn good and blessed and has its fair share of good old fashioned magic. And, overall, I know, for this short space of time, that people have been genuinely interested in it. Because, as people, we want to hear stories from others so we can compare, contrast and exercise our beautiful sense of empathy. Like muscles that need to be flexed, we need to use our compassion, understanding, wonder and intrigue. Because, in the end, we might, by accident learn something.
Mustafa told me about a famous Turkish saying which seems to fit quite aptly here: “Akıllı bir adam yalnız kendi tecrűbelerinden, çok akıllı bir adam başkalarının da tecrűbelerinden yararlanır.” It means something along the lines of: “A clever person learns from their own unique experiences, but a genius learns from somebody elses.”
Tuesday 31 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Twenty One
Tues 31st August 2010
Oh my God I have been a bloody nightmare today.
You might think that after twenty one days I might just have got used to fasting during daylight hours. That I might just have it down to a tee. But I am beginning to see why we are advised to eat three times a day with healthy snacks in between. Because it makes us nicer people.
I woke up in a storming mood and proceeded to tell anyone who would listen just how bad that mood was. My patience with Baran has been hanging by a thread. My patience with myself was devoid of all thread. It was utterly threadless. I don’t know what’s got into me. Aside from the lack of nutrition and deficient salvational cups of tea one normally has in these circumstances, I don’t know what’s got into me.
And it’s been one of those days where I can’t tell if Baran is really being naughty or if he’s just getting a negative vibe from me. Probably a bit of both. For the first time since he entered the terrible twos territory, I have actually worried about what might be making my child so angry. He screamed when he dropped his Cheerios at breakfast, he screamed when I sang him ‘Twinkle Twinkle’, he screamed when I suggested we might go to Playzone and, in the end, he screamed if I even looked at him. And there’s me, the picture of calm and serenity on the outside but I, too, am screaming like a banshee on the inside.
This is where I wonder how the Muslim women do it. How do they cope with fifty seven children clutching to their skirts, at a time when they are gagging for a cuppa? And then suddenly, the communal living I witnessed in Eastern Turkey all seems to make enormous sense. They have each other. Mothers, sisters, aunties, cousins – they all live in startlingly close proximity, which I found incredibly stifling during my visit there, but now I can see what a precious support structure that really is. Not just during Ramazan, but all the time. They not only share cleaning, childcare, shopping and cooking, but also stories, laughter, worries and dreams. They prop each other up. By the time the husbands return home it’s chow time, but only after a day of mutual understanding with the girls. The sisterhood totally rocks.
But here’s the thing. I am doing this alone. I have probably already pointed this out as it seems to be my favorite fact to point out, but I don’t actually get to see my husband very much. He works late nights and sleeps the majority of the day, so my efforts to support him with Ramazan have, at times, been done in solitude. He’s aware I’m doing it and I think that very fact pleases him enormously, but we aren’t actually physically there for each other much at all. And, although most of my friends know I am undertaking this challenge and have been very interested and supportive, they are not going to put themselves through something so seemingly ridiculous now are they? Where is my sisterhood? I want a sisterhood!
It was a shame, then, that I was so exhausted by today’s tantrum-taming antics that I didn’t join the sisterhood of Nairn and attend my usual Zumba class. I just could not find the strength in me to shake my bootie on down. Instead I am happy to say that the tantrum-ridden toddler is tucked up in bed and I am tucked up in Mustafa’s sloppy tracksuit bottoms and jumper. Suddenly everything is as it should be. And it’s 8.21pm. Time to raid the fridge.
Oh my God I have been a bloody nightmare today.
You might think that after twenty one days I might just have got used to fasting during daylight hours. That I might just have it down to a tee. But I am beginning to see why we are advised to eat three times a day with healthy snacks in between. Because it makes us nicer people.
I woke up in a storming mood and proceeded to tell anyone who would listen just how bad that mood was. My patience with Baran has been hanging by a thread. My patience with myself was devoid of all thread. It was utterly threadless. I don’t know what’s got into me. Aside from the lack of nutrition and deficient salvational cups of tea one normally has in these circumstances, I don’t know what’s got into me.
And it’s been one of those days where I can’t tell if Baran is really being naughty or if he’s just getting a negative vibe from me. Probably a bit of both. For the first time since he entered the terrible twos territory, I have actually worried about what might be making my child so angry. He screamed when he dropped his Cheerios at breakfast, he screamed when I sang him ‘Twinkle Twinkle’, he screamed when I suggested we might go to Playzone and, in the end, he screamed if I even looked at him. And there’s me, the picture of calm and serenity on the outside but I, too, am screaming like a banshee on the inside.
This is where I wonder how the Muslim women do it. How do they cope with fifty seven children clutching to their skirts, at a time when they are gagging for a cuppa? And then suddenly, the communal living I witnessed in Eastern Turkey all seems to make enormous sense. They have each other. Mothers, sisters, aunties, cousins – they all live in startlingly close proximity, which I found incredibly stifling during my visit there, but now I can see what a precious support structure that really is. Not just during Ramazan, but all the time. They not only share cleaning, childcare, shopping and cooking, but also stories, laughter, worries and dreams. They prop each other up. By the time the husbands return home it’s chow time, but only after a day of mutual understanding with the girls. The sisterhood totally rocks.
But here’s the thing. I am doing this alone. I have probably already pointed this out as it seems to be my favorite fact to point out, but I don’t actually get to see my husband very much. He works late nights and sleeps the majority of the day, so my efforts to support him with Ramazan have, at times, been done in solitude. He’s aware I’m doing it and I think that very fact pleases him enormously, but we aren’t actually physically there for each other much at all. And, although most of my friends know I am undertaking this challenge and have been very interested and supportive, they are not going to put themselves through something so seemingly ridiculous now are they? Where is my sisterhood? I want a sisterhood!
It was a shame, then, that I was so exhausted by today’s tantrum-taming antics that I didn’t join the sisterhood of Nairn and attend my usual Zumba class. I just could not find the strength in me to shake my bootie on down. Instead I am happy to say that the tantrum-ridden toddler is tucked up in bed and I am tucked up in Mustafa’s sloppy tracksuit bottoms and jumper. Suddenly everything is as it should be. And it’s 8.21pm. Time to raid the fridge.
My Little Ramazan - Day Twenty
Mon 30th August 2010
Okay, so maybe that extra helping of dinner and supper was not justified last night. I seem to have forgotten the basic rule which Mustafa explained to me on Day One of Ramazan: Do not eat massive amounts of food all in one go simply because the sun has dipped down. Yes, you may feel you deserve it, yes you may be chomping at the bit for that sensation of taste to tickle your tongue once more, but your digestive system will simply not handle it. Plus, you’re missing the point of fasting.
So this morning I was dealing with the consequences. All my tummy parts were playing catch-up to cope with the outrageous amount of food I’d consumed and my head was thumping. Properly banging. I sat in the car in a sickly daze, waiting for Mustafa to finish some business at the kebab shop so we could go shopping. We were going to buy a few presents for Baran to give him at Bayram, the festival at the end of Ramazan. I had a list and everything.
But as I sat there, the sun slicing sharply across the windscreen, I spotted a big, fat hairy cat. I spotted it because it was crouching in the middle of the road and numerous cars had to keep slowing and dodging round it. What the heck was he doing? He had his head dropped close to the ground and his behind curved proudly in the air and he was looking, no staring, across the road. I followed his line of vision and saw the object of his desire. A seagull.
Now anyone who lives in or has even just been a visitor of Nairn, will know that the seagulls are not mere slips of a bird. They are monsters. The residents positively fear them. They are (and I am an animal lover remember) nasty, scratchy, swooping, grabbing, snatching, pooing, delinquent creatures who should have clocked up a million and one ASBOs by now. And this seagull, strutting along the wall in full view of our furry feline friend was certainly no exception.
And as I watched this stand-off, this sultry confrontation, it suddenly struck me that I am the cat. I am the cat! I spend all day every day crouching along the ground, my eyes on the prize, my behind in the air, getting ready to pounce and working out how and when to catch my food. What I am too stupid (I like to think I’m not fat and hairy as well) to see, is that this prize, this taunting feast, is way too big for me. If I am lucky enough to even get close to it, it will squawk, peck, flap and claw at me to within an inch of my life. It will end me. And flounce away as if nothing ever happened.
I’d like to tell you the cat and the seagull story ended well but, as I pulled away in the car, the cat was slinking along the edge of the wall and the last thing I saw in the wing mirror was a rapid flurry of fur and feathers. And Mustafa’s comment, “Stupid cat. He does this every day. He never remember seagull always win”, further reinforced my theory that I am the cat. This is day twenty, after all, and I still haven’t learned.
Okay, so maybe that extra helping of dinner and supper was not justified last night. I seem to have forgotten the basic rule which Mustafa explained to me on Day One of Ramazan: Do not eat massive amounts of food all in one go simply because the sun has dipped down. Yes, you may feel you deserve it, yes you may be chomping at the bit for that sensation of taste to tickle your tongue once more, but your digestive system will simply not handle it. Plus, you’re missing the point of fasting.
So this morning I was dealing with the consequences. All my tummy parts were playing catch-up to cope with the outrageous amount of food I’d consumed and my head was thumping. Properly banging. I sat in the car in a sickly daze, waiting for Mustafa to finish some business at the kebab shop so we could go shopping. We were going to buy a few presents for Baran to give him at Bayram, the festival at the end of Ramazan. I had a list and everything.
But as I sat there, the sun slicing sharply across the windscreen, I spotted a big, fat hairy cat. I spotted it because it was crouching in the middle of the road and numerous cars had to keep slowing and dodging round it. What the heck was he doing? He had his head dropped close to the ground and his behind curved proudly in the air and he was looking, no staring, across the road. I followed his line of vision and saw the object of his desire. A seagull.
Now anyone who lives in or has even just been a visitor of Nairn, will know that the seagulls are not mere slips of a bird. They are monsters. The residents positively fear them. They are (and I am an animal lover remember) nasty, scratchy, swooping, grabbing, snatching, pooing, delinquent creatures who should have clocked up a million and one ASBOs by now. And this seagull, strutting along the wall in full view of our furry feline friend was certainly no exception.
And as I watched this stand-off, this sultry confrontation, it suddenly struck me that I am the cat. I am the cat! I spend all day every day crouching along the ground, my eyes on the prize, my behind in the air, getting ready to pounce and working out how and when to catch my food. What I am too stupid (I like to think I’m not fat and hairy as well) to see, is that this prize, this taunting feast, is way too big for me. If I am lucky enough to even get close to it, it will squawk, peck, flap and claw at me to within an inch of my life. It will end me. And flounce away as if nothing ever happened.
I’d like to tell you the cat and the seagull story ended well but, as I pulled away in the car, the cat was slinking along the edge of the wall and the last thing I saw in the wing mirror was a rapid flurry of fur and feathers. And Mustafa’s comment, “Stupid cat. He does this every day. He never remember seagull always win”, further reinforced my theory that I am the cat. This is day twenty, after all, and I still haven’t learned.
Sunday 29 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Nineteen
Sun 29th August 2010
Day Nineteen of Ramazan! Does that sound like a substantially good effort to you? It felt good when I was in double figures but it feels even better now I’m closing in on twenty. I mean, twenty means I’m in the last third of the challenge. The last third before I claim back my precious food and drink related rituals. Only another twelve days of incessant napping and embarrassing growling tummy noises. Now I’m not one to wish my life away but please, for the love of God, please can it be arranged to make the next twelve days ultra-short, ultra-busy and ultra-interesting?
It might help if I actually left the house, which I have not done today other than to put the wheelie bin out. And even then I found I needn’t have bothered because a kindly neighbour had done it for me. It’s Sunday though, so not leaving the house is entirely allowed. Or even actively encouraged by my book. And if one is not going to leave the house all day then it is further encouraged to stay in one’s grotty pyjamas. Baran, bless him was decked out in a fleecey little tracksuit number, but his Mummy was quite happy in the finest pink pyjamas money can buy (or the finest Tesco can offer anyway).
But there was one thing wrong with this picture of domestic respite. Can you guess it? Comfort food and, more importantly, comfort drinks. The Eastenders omnibus does not have quite the same appeal without tea and biscuits. Bathtime for Mummy and Baran should surely be followed by treats a plenty. But no. Nothing of the sort. Instead it was important to focus on the beauty of spending time with my gorgeous little boy and thus discovering excellent new games such as: roll up the play mat to make a giant trumpet shape neither of us can lift; and see how much wet washing you can pile on your head before it all falls off in a sopping big mess. Nice.
Did I say there was only one thing wrong with today? Well, I’ve thought of a second. The cold. Now I am lucky enough to live in a beautiful big, airy flat but that luck runs out as soon as the winter approaches because it is extremely difficult - and expensive - to heat. But come on people. It’s August 29th! Please tell me today is not the start of Winter. All day I have listened to the Highland wind whistling through the gaps in our badly fitted windows, and all day I have flitted about from room to room, trying to figure out which one is the warmest. What I wouldn’t have done for a mug of steaming coffee or maybe a hot chocolate. I have been practically salivating over the very thought of it all day, which has not, I might add, helped with my new pyjama-chic image.
I have a theory about this. I need more body fat. Before I began this challenge it was unevenly distributed around my tummy area, but now (although I have not lost any actual weight, much to my disappointment) it seems to have deserted all other body parts completely. My tummy is cosy and snug but the rest of me needs an extra layer. Now that is something I never thought I’d be requesting: more body fat. But these are strange times and strange revelations are most definitely afoot.
Switching on the heating helped too, I must admit. But surely that extra helping of dinner was justified tonight? And a bit of supper before bed can be no bad thing. It’s Day Nineteen, I think I’ve bloody well earned it.
Day Nineteen of Ramazan! Does that sound like a substantially good effort to you? It felt good when I was in double figures but it feels even better now I’m closing in on twenty. I mean, twenty means I’m in the last third of the challenge. The last third before I claim back my precious food and drink related rituals. Only another twelve days of incessant napping and embarrassing growling tummy noises. Now I’m not one to wish my life away but please, for the love of God, please can it be arranged to make the next twelve days ultra-short, ultra-busy and ultra-interesting?
It might help if I actually left the house, which I have not done today other than to put the wheelie bin out. And even then I found I needn’t have bothered because a kindly neighbour had done it for me. It’s Sunday though, so not leaving the house is entirely allowed. Or even actively encouraged by my book. And if one is not going to leave the house all day then it is further encouraged to stay in one’s grotty pyjamas. Baran, bless him was decked out in a fleecey little tracksuit number, but his Mummy was quite happy in the finest pink pyjamas money can buy (or the finest Tesco can offer anyway).
But there was one thing wrong with this picture of domestic respite. Can you guess it? Comfort food and, more importantly, comfort drinks. The Eastenders omnibus does not have quite the same appeal without tea and biscuits. Bathtime for Mummy and Baran should surely be followed by treats a plenty. But no. Nothing of the sort. Instead it was important to focus on the beauty of spending time with my gorgeous little boy and thus discovering excellent new games such as: roll up the play mat to make a giant trumpet shape neither of us can lift; and see how much wet washing you can pile on your head before it all falls off in a sopping big mess. Nice.
Did I say there was only one thing wrong with today? Well, I’ve thought of a second. The cold. Now I am lucky enough to live in a beautiful big, airy flat but that luck runs out as soon as the winter approaches because it is extremely difficult - and expensive - to heat. But come on people. It’s August 29th! Please tell me today is not the start of Winter. All day I have listened to the Highland wind whistling through the gaps in our badly fitted windows, and all day I have flitted about from room to room, trying to figure out which one is the warmest. What I wouldn’t have done for a mug of steaming coffee or maybe a hot chocolate. I have been practically salivating over the very thought of it all day, which has not, I might add, helped with my new pyjama-chic image.
I have a theory about this. I need more body fat. Before I began this challenge it was unevenly distributed around my tummy area, but now (although I have not lost any actual weight, much to my disappointment) it seems to have deserted all other body parts completely. My tummy is cosy and snug but the rest of me needs an extra layer. Now that is something I never thought I’d be requesting: more body fat. But these are strange times and strange revelations are most definitely afoot.
Switching on the heating helped too, I must admit. But surely that extra helping of dinner was justified tonight? And a bit of supper before bed can be no bad thing. It’s Day Nineteen, I think I’ve bloody well earned it.
My Little Ramazan - Day Eighteen
Sat 28th August 2010
Fatigue has slapped a big white label on me reading ’She’s Mine’ so let’s keep this brief.
It’s been one of those days where you’ve got zilch planned and you’re wondering how to while away the hours. You know, as your stomach growls and your body feels like a lump of lead. Then suddenly you’re in the middle of a flurry of activity and you realise that spontaneity can still gatecrash an otherwise boring day and happily take over.
Baran awoke at an unthinkable hour this morning (which was very unlike him as he usually worships the modern marvel of a bed and a duvet). He spent an hour in our bed playing the highly amusing game of fake snoring and fake waking up approximately one hundred and eighty two times before demanding I get up to serve him breakfast. This I did on auto pilot, not really being tempted by the Weetabix and banana mush he ravenously chucked down his throat. I did however, wish that there was some form of shelter other than a café when I took him to the local park and it began to chuck it down. Mostly because the place was positively jumping with the smell of roasted coffee beans. And it was raining outside. And I was cold. And I needed some sort of hot beveragey type comfort.
So a hot water it was then. And a fruit shoot and a piece of carrot cake for the wee one. Yet again, he came up trumps.
How chuffed was I then, when my mate Jo rang and invited me to join her and her twin baby girls to a little trip out to Findhorn Community Foundation. Anything to escape this coffee-scented anguish. So we packed ourselves (and the incredible quantity of baby / toddler equipment) into her little white van and headed out, chased by rainclouds all the way.
It was lovely to amble about the Findhorn community. So interesting to see how people live in caravans, wooden shacks, stone huts as well as beautifully crafted wooden houses with velvety grass roofs. There was an incredible, sunshine-coloured eco house for sale and Jo and I seriously thought about looking into squatters’ rights. I think Baran would happily trade his bed and duvet for a sleeping bag on a floor with under-floor heating. As long as there was plenty of carrot cake on the go.
It wasn’t so lovely to sit in yet another predominantly coffee-scented eating establishment. Ordinarily, I would have been delighted to have discovered the ‘Blue Angel’ café with its extensive range of organic food, fresh ingredients and beautifully described dishes (cream of rocket and cracked black pepper soup – imagine!). But today it was not fun. Exacerbated too, by Baran’s point blank refusal to eat a perfectly scrumptious looking (and smelling) slice of pizza. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful piece of pizza, and that’s saying something considering my husband crafts the stuff for a living. Honestly, the red onion, the oozy cheese, the finely chopped tomato and pretty red, yellow and green pepper sprinkled like confetti – how could anybody in their right mind refuse that? He proceeded to refuse it an approximate total of thirty seven times even as we walked around the park and it sat, wrapped lovingly in tin foil in the bottom of his buggy. What was up with this child?
I think he’s in on the whole thing. He gets it. He has found yet another way to test Mummy’s self control. This theory was reinforced when we returned home and he left his entirely acceptable dinner of pasta and sauce steaming enticingly on the table, in favour of a plastic croissant and a plastic broccoli floret in a plastic saucepan in his new plastic kitchen. Now tell me that’s not a boy who knows what he’s doing.
So, I’m sure you will agree that I deserved the humongous dinner I served myself tonight, carefully timed to enhance essential X Factor viewing. And I definitely deserved the handmade chocolates Jo so considerately presented to me. But before sleep takes over, I must make sure the remaining choccies are pushed far back into the depths of the fridge. Otherwise, in a sleepy, shuffle-toed stupor, a chocolate breakfast may suddenly seem overwhelmingly appealing in the morning. I think a plastic croissant is a safer bet.
Fatigue has slapped a big white label on me reading ’She’s Mine’ so let’s keep this brief.
It’s been one of those days where you’ve got zilch planned and you’re wondering how to while away the hours. You know, as your stomach growls and your body feels like a lump of lead. Then suddenly you’re in the middle of a flurry of activity and you realise that spontaneity can still gatecrash an otherwise boring day and happily take over.
Baran awoke at an unthinkable hour this morning (which was very unlike him as he usually worships the modern marvel of a bed and a duvet). He spent an hour in our bed playing the highly amusing game of fake snoring and fake waking up approximately one hundred and eighty two times before demanding I get up to serve him breakfast. This I did on auto pilot, not really being tempted by the Weetabix and banana mush he ravenously chucked down his throat. I did however, wish that there was some form of shelter other than a café when I took him to the local park and it began to chuck it down. Mostly because the place was positively jumping with the smell of roasted coffee beans. And it was raining outside. And I was cold. And I needed some sort of hot beveragey type comfort.
So a hot water it was then. And a fruit shoot and a piece of carrot cake for the wee one. Yet again, he came up trumps.
How chuffed was I then, when my mate Jo rang and invited me to join her and her twin baby girls to a little trip out to Findhorn Community Foundation. Anything to escape this coffee-scented anguish. So we packed ourselves (and the incredible quantity of baby / toddler equipment) into her little white van and headed out, chased by rainclouds all the way.
It was lovely to amble about the Findhorn community. So interesting to see how people live in caravans, wooden shacks, stone huts as well as beautifully crafted wooden houses with velvety grass roofs. There was an incredible, sunshine-coloured eco house for sale and Jo and I seriously thought about looking into squatters’ rights. I think Baran would happily trade his bed and duvet for a sleeping bag on a floor with under-floor heating. As long as there was plenty of carrot cake on the go.
It wasn’t so lovely to sit in yet another predominantly coffee-scented eating establishment. Ordinarily, I would have been delighted to have discovered the ‘Blue Angel’ café with its extensive range of organic food, fresh ingredients and beautifully described dishes (cream of rocket and cracked black pepper soup – imagine!). But today it was not fun. Exacerbated too, by Baran’s point blank refusal to eat a perfectly scrumptious looking (and smelling) slice of pizza. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a beautiful piece of pizza, and that’s saying something considering my husband crafts the stuff for a living. Honestly, the red onion, the oozy cheese, the finely chopped tomato and pretty red, yellow and green pepper sprinkled like confetti – how could anybody in their right mind refuse that? He proceeded to refuse it an approximate total of thirty seven times even as we walked around the park and it sat, wrapped lovingly in tin foil in the bottom of his buggy. What was up with this child?
I think he’s in on the whole thing. He gets it. He has found yet another way to test Mummy’s self control. This theory was reinforced when we returned home and he left his entirely acceptable dinner of pasta and sauce steaming enticingly on the table, in favour of a plastic croissant and a plastic broccoli floret in a plastic saucepan in his new plastic kitchen. Now tell me that’s not a boy who knows what he’s doing.
So, I’m sure you will agree that I deserved the humongous dinner I served myself tonight, carefully timed to enhance essential X Factor viewing. And I definitely deserved the handmade chocolates Jo so considerately presented to me. But before sleep takes over, I must make sure the remaining choccies are pushed far back into the depths of the fridge. Otherwise, in a sleepy, shuffle-toed stupor, a chocolate breakfast may suddenly seem overwhelmingly appealing in the morning. I think a plastic croissant is a safer bet.
Friday 27 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Seventeen
Fri 27th August 2010
A very exciting parcel arrived for me today. It came from that spiritual haven called Amazon.com and is a result of my wanting to undertake other activities which Ramazan fasting is supposed to direct you towards. I’ve already chosen personal reflection over prayer, as it suits me a whole lot better (and is inevitable when you’ve got nothing to do but be hungry all day). But the other thing Gold Star Muslims are supposed to do during the Ramazan period, is revise, re-read and re-learn by heart, the holy scripture of the Koran.
I didn’t think Allah or Mohammed would mind that I’m actually – for want of a better phrase – a ‘Koran virgin’ so I trawled Amazon.com for an English translation. There are many options. Beautifully illustrated versions, hardbacks, paperbacks, old English, new English, prose adaptations, fragmented descriptions. All sounding intensely mystical, intricate and informative. So I did it. I clicked my choice, entered my card details and felt very pious and dutiful whilst doing so. So you can imagine my excitement when the postie stuffed it through the letterbox this morning. My very first and very own holy book.
The Koran for Dummies.
Well I had to start somewhere didn’t I? All of the actual translations looked far too complicated for a malnourished full-time mum of a toddler to even hope to comprehend. And I feel comfortable with the label of a ‘Dummy’ on this topic. I really do. Maybe the label wouldn’t apply if it came to modern art or creative education or Bob the Builder song lyrics, but it most certainly applies when it comes to Islam. Say it clear, say it loud, I’m a dummy and I’m proud.
So, lots of lovely bedtime reading for me for the next fourteen nights. Mustafa is overjoyed with my new purchase. I didn’t have to hide it at the back of the wardrobe and bring it out surreptitiously on another day at all. He is pleased as punch almost as much as he was on the day I said I would join him in Ramazan. And it was worth being labeled a dummy just to see the smile on his face. He did, however, gently point out as I clutched my new book with both hands somewhere around the tummy area, that I should always carry it at chest level. Next to my heart. He said this is to show that its contents are intrinsically linked to your heart and your soul. “You think about it. Did you ever see a picture of a Muslim carry it below the heart?”
Good point. Well made. But other points to be made are: this is not exactly a Koran, merely a guide for ignorant waifs such as myself; and I don’t think I’ve ever really looked at a picture of a Muslim carrying a Koran, so how could I possibly comment? So, for now I will not comment, I will just scoop up my idiot’s guide each evening and ascend the stairs with it held close to my heart. It’s good, after all, to learn something new each day. Dummy or not.
A very exciting parcel arrived for me today. It came from that spiritual haven called Amazon.com and is a result of my wanting to undertake other activities which Ramazan fasting is supposed to direct you towards. I’ve already chosen personal reflection over prayer, as it suits me a whole lot better (and is inevitable when you’ve got nothing to do but be hungry all day). But the other thing Gold Star Muslims are supposed to do during the Ramazan period, is revise, re-read and re-learn by heart, the holy scripture of the Koran.
I didn’t think Allah or Mohammed would mind that I’m actually – for want of a better phrase – a ‘Koran virgin’ so I trawled Amazon.com for an English translation. There are many options. Beautifully illustrated versions, hardbacks, paperbacks, old English, new English, prose adaptations, fragmented descriptions. All sounding intensely mystical, intricate and informative. So I did it. I clicked my choice, entered my card details and felt very pious and dutiful whilst doing so. So you can imagine my excitement when the postie stuffed it through the letterbox this morning. My very first and very own holy book.
The Koran for Dummies.
Well I had to start somewhere didn’t I? All of the actual translations looked far too complicated for a malnourished full-time mum of a toddler to even hope to comprehend. And I feel comfortable with the label of a ‘Dummy’ on this topic. I really do. Maybe the label wouldn’t apply if it came to modern art or creative education or Bob the Builder song lyrics, but it most certainly applies when it comes to Islam. Say it clear, say it loud, I’m a dummy and I’m proud.
So, lots of lovely bedtime reading for me for the next fourteen nights. Mustafa is overjoyed with my new purchase. I didn’t have to hide it at the back of the wardrobe and bring it out surreptitiously on another day at all. He is pleased as punch almost as much as he was on the day I said I would join him in Ramazan. And it was worth being labeled a dummy just to see the smile on his face. He did, however, gently point out as I clutched my new book with both hands somewhere around the tummy area, that I should always carry it at chest level. Next to my heart. He said this is to show that its contents are intrinsically linked to your heart and your soul. “You think about it. Did you ever see a picture of a Muslim carry it below the heart?”
Good point. Well made. But other points to be made are: this is not exactly a Koran, merely a guide for ignorant waifs such as myself; and I don’t think I’ve ever really looked at a picture of a Muslim carrying a Koran, so how could I possibly comment? So, for now I will not comment, I will just scoop up my idiot’s guide each evening and ascend the stairs with it held close to my heart. It’s good, after all, to learn something new each day. Dummy or not.
Thursday 26 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Sixteen
Thurs 26th August 2010
Happy Middle of Ramazan to you! It is officially the sixteenth day of 2010’s Ramazan period which means it is the halfway day. That is why I am writing this halfway through the halfway day at precisely 12o’clock midday. May as well mark the occasion properly.
Plus I wanted to let you know what it feels like to be in the middle of a day of fasting.
Spiritually, emotionally, I guess I feel pretty good. I am proving to myself that I do have a tiny chink of self-discipline and it feels great to be supporting Mustafa at this very important time in the Muslim calendar. There is also something in Wikipedia’s theory about ‘redirecting the heart away from worldly activities’. I am thinking more about who I am, what I want, whether or not I’m achieving any of it, rather than whether to have that extra biscuit and what time to have dinner. I might not be in conversation with Allah, but I am in conversation with myself. Which, funnily enough, I believe is where God exists anyway (I’m not proclaiming to actually be God, by the way, I think he, she, it, resides in everyone).
On the down side I am very, very hungry. Ever had a massive meal on an evening and then wondered why your tummy’s growling like nobody’s business the next day? A little thing called metabolism. When you give your body a truck-load of food, it starts processing it, breaking it down, getting ready for the next truck-load. But when said truck does not appear, the result is a deep emptiness and a tummy-growling that gets close to nausea. I do feel slightly sick as I write this but due to the keyboard-based activity I think I am safe from a black-out for now.
I will touch wood here, but I am also aware that I have been very lucky during this challenge because nothing bad has happened to me. Aside from my two year old being, well, a two year old, I have not had to cope with anything emotionally taxing. I’m not one for ifs, buts and maybes, but a crisis right now would really throw a spanner in the works. Do Muslims continue to fast if there is a family crisis, for example? I’d like to think that any calamity like that would make the whole Ramazan thing pale in comparison. Surely you’d be allowed a cup of tea and a good meal to keep your strength up? But having said that, I’m not feeling the divinity of all this and if they truly are, then maybe they find it in themselves to keep slogging on.
Once again, I am humbled by my husband who found out a week ago that his mum is in hospital with a heart attack. This is her fourth attack and apparently it was touch and go for a while, but she’s definitely on the mend now. Because of our prison-like situation here in the UK, it would be very, very difficult for us to go over there and be there for her. This breaks my heart so imagine how Mustafa feels. That man is a trooper. And he has carried on with Ramazan through it all. Can you believe that? He hasn’t even had a drink to calm his nerves. And the funny thing is, I just know his mum will be proud.
I am fairly certain that if (touching wood again) anything like that happened within my family, I would not find it in myself to continue with fasting. Granted, I am one of those people who goes off their food when things are rock bottom, but I know the value of a cup of sugary tea during hard times. Pretty priceless I would say.
Well, enough of the macabre talk. I’ve got more important things to focus on. Like how to fill the next eight and a half hours without filling my belly. Note to self from this morning: do not re-stock the biscuit tin whilst fasting. It’s just plain torture.
Happy Middle of Ramazan to you! It is officially the sixteenth day of 2010’s Ramazan period which means it is the halfway day. That is why I am writing this halfway through the halfway day at precisely 12o’clock midday. May as well mark the occasion properly.
Plus I wanted to let you know what it feels like to be in the middle of a day of fasting.
Spiritually, emotionally, I guess I feel pretty good. I am proving to myself that I do have a tiny chink of self-discipline and it feels great to be supporting Mustafa at this very important time in the Muslim calendar. There is also something in Wikipedia’s theory about ‘redirecting the heart away from worldly activities’. I am thinking more about who I am, what I want, whether or not I’m achieving any of it, rather than whether to have that extra biscuit and what time to have dinner. I might not be in conversation with Allah, but I am in conversation with myself. Which, funnily enough, I believe is where God exists anyway (I’m not proclaiming to actually be God, by the way, I think he, she, it, resides in everyone).
On the down side I am very, very hungry. Ever had a massive meal on an evening and then wondered why your tummy’s growling like nobody’s business the next day? A little thing called metabolism. When you give your body a truck-load of food, it starts processing it, breaking it down, getting ready for the next truck-load. But when said truck does not appear, the result is a deep emptiness and a tummy-growling that gets close to nausea. I do feel slightly sick as I write this but due to the keyboard-based activity I think I am safe from a black-out for now.
I will touch wood here, but I am also aware that I have been very lucky during this challenge because nothing bad has happened to me. Aside from my two year old being, well, a two year old, I have not had to cope with anything emotionally taxing. I’m not one for ifs, buts and maybes, but a crisis right now would really throw a spanner in the works. Do Muslims continue to fast if there is a family crisis, for example? I’d like to think that any calamity like that would make the whole Ramazan thing pale in comparison. Surely you’d be allowed a cup of tea and a good meal to keep your strength up? But having said that, I’m not feeling the divinity of all this and if they truly are, then maybe they find it in themselves to keep slogging on.
Once again, I am humbled by my husband who found out a week ago that his mum is in hospital with a heart attack. This is her fourth attack and apparently it was touch and go for a while, but she’s definitely on the mend now. Because of our prison-like situation here in the UK, it would be very, very difficult for us to go over there and be there for her. This breaks my heart so imagine how Mustafa feels. That man is a trooper. And he has carried on with Ramazan through it all. Can you believe that? He hasn’t even had a drink to calm his nerves. And the funny thing is, I just know his mum will be proud.
I am fairly certain that if (touching wood again) anything like that happened within my family, I would not find it in myself to continue with fasting. Granted, I am one of those people who goes off their food when things are rock bottom, but I know the value of a cup of sugary tea during hard times. Pretty priceless I would say.
Well, enough of the macabre talk. I’ve got more important things to focus on. Like how to fill the next eight and a half hours without filling my belly. Note to self from this morning: do not re-stock the biscuit tin whilst fasting. It’s just plain torture.
Wednesday 25 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Fifteen
Weds 25th August 2010
Flip, I am hungry. I’m sitting here in my very quiet kitchen now that Baran has been bathed, fed, watered and put to bed and I am filling the last thirty-four minutes and twenty-seven seconds before feast time. That’s if you can call Doritos and hummus a feast. I’m not sure that you could when it’s not accompanied by a large, cold glass of Pinot Grigio. But hey ho.
Last night I chanced a potential black-out situation by attending my usual Zumba class. Now that I’m drinking water again, I thought it might be possible to get through a whole exercise class without any real danger. And it was possible. I leapt about to the Latino beat, shimmied my ass like nobody’s business and did not – not once – feel like there might be a fainting situation. So all good there.
But was it? Because this morning I read an article on the BBC website called ‘An Idiot’s Guide to Ramadan’, written by Adam Yosef. When asked about people’s inherent need to exercise regularly, Adam stated that Ramazan should ‘always be placed first as it is no doubt of greater benefit’. He said that it was cool to fast and exercise if you really felt the need, but that if a choice arose, Ramazan should always get the thumbs up. Hence the miraculous energy of the Turkish footballers Mustafa told me about on Day Six. I suppose if you’re playing footie with God then you find the energy from somewhere.
So why didn’t I use Ramazan as the perfect excuse to get out of Zumba for a few weeks? Isn’t that what any normal person would do? The answer, though I hate to admit it, is that I am vain. Vain as vain can be. That little fitness class is the only slither of exercise I get each week (aside from zapping about after a toddler), and I cherish it. It makes me feel good because it gets the endorphins going. But it also makes me feel like I’ve done my bit for my body. If the baby belly will not shift even though I am flinging it about to the Latino beat, then it’s really not my fault. If, however, I don’t get my Zumba fix, then the baby belly may grow out of all proportion and that will be my fault.
Can I just state here that I realize when it comes to the topic of one’s own body image, most people have a severely distorted perception of reality. I am no exception. But my perception is my perception and must not be underestimated. If it usually gets me eating five-a-day then it can be no bad thing. If it gets my ass to zumba every week then great. If it gets me choosing a conscience-free body-sculpting opportunity over an internationally approved spiritual journey such as Ramazan, then what does that say about me? As I said, vain as vain can be.
But I will not be too hard on myself. I must remember that I am a most excellent wife and I am only human. If Zumba is my worst vice then I think we can all relax, it’s hardly a code red. Now where are those Doritos?
Flip, I am hungry. I’m sitting here in my very quiet kitchen now that Baran has been bathed, fed, watered and put to bed and I am filling the last thirty-four minutes and twenty-seven seconds before feast time. That’s if you can call Doritos and hummus a feast. I’m not sure that you could when it’s not accompanied by a large, cold glass of Pinot Grigio. But hey ho.
Last night I chanced a potential black-out situation by attending my usual Zumba class. Now that I’m drinking water again, I thought it might be possible to get through a whole exercise class without any real danger. And it was possible. I leapt about to the Latino beat, shimmied my ass like nobody’s business and did not – not once – feel like there might be a fainting situation. So all good there.
But was it? Because this morning I read an article on the BBC website called ‘An Idiot’s Guide to Ramadan’, written by Adam Yosef. When asked about people’s inherent need to exercise regularly, Adam stated that Ramazan should ‘always be placed first as it is no doubt of greater benefit’. He said that it was cool to fast and exercise if you really felt the need, but that if a choice arose, Ramazan should always get the thumbs up. Hence the miraculous energy of the Turkish footballers Mustafa told me about on Day Six. I suppose if you’re playing footie with God then you find the energy from somewhere.
So why didn’t I use Ramazan as the perfect excuse to get out of Zumba for a few weeks? Isn’t that what any normal person would do? The answer, though I hate to admit it, is that I am vain. Vain as vain can be. That little fitness class is the only slither of exercise I get each week (aside from zapping about after a toddler), and I cherish it. It makes me feel good because it gets the endorphins going. But it also makes me feel like I’ve done my bit for my body. If the baby belly will not shift even though I am flinging it about to the Latino beat, then it’s really not my fault. If, however, I don’t get my Zumba fix, then the baby belly may grow out of all proportion and that will be my fault.
Can I just state here that I realize when it comes to the topic of one’s own body image, most people have a severely distorted perception of reality. I am no exception. But my perception is my perception and must not be underestimated. If it usually gets me eating five-a-day then it can be no bad thing. If it gets my ass to zumba every week then great. If it gets me choosing a conscience-free body-sculpting opportunity over an internationally approved spiritual journey such as Ramazan, then what does that say about me? As I said, vain as vain can be.
But I will not be too hard on myself. I must remember that I am a most excellent wife and I am only human. If Zumba is my worst vice then I think we can all relax, it’s hardly a code red. Now where are those Doritos?
My Little Ramazan - Day Fourteen
Tues 24th August 2010
Well, Ramazan has brought Mustafa and I to our first conflict situation. Not a conflict of the plate throwing and sleeping on the sofa variety, but a quiet conflict of disappointed glances and long silences. And, as we all know, sometimes that can be worse.
The good thing is that we’ve finally been reunited. This reunion involved stretching out in front of the TV at a late hour, arming ourselves with tea and biscuits and watching a trashy film. As per usual our movie viewing was punctuated by mini-chats and remarks about the day. You know the kind of thing. Business is slow. Rain in August is unfair. The toddler ate a crayon. But then Ramazan cropped up. As we’ve been little more than passing ships in the night, and as Mustafa knew I’d had a lady problem which meant I had to drink water, he’d assumed that I had stopped Ramazan altogether. “You drink water sweetheart, there is no point. That is not point of Ramazan”.
He said I could, if I wanted, build up a kind of Ramazan debt, meaning I could pay back those days of non-fasting at a later date, after the Ramazan period. He says it happens all the time. If a person gets ill for example, but they still want to complete their sacred ritual, they can wait until they are ship-shape again and choose exactly when and where they want to do it. And they don’t have to do it in a continuous succession of days, they can dot them about or string them together however they fancy. “We can do together,” Mustafa explained, “We can choose days after Ramazan.”
Forgive me if this didn’t cause a feeling of excitement to well up inside of me. The suggestion was just not floating my boat. I mean, how kind of Allah to provide people with this lending facility, a kind of interest free Ramazan overdraft. But I don’t bank with Allah, do I? I’m a Lloyds TSB girl and that overdraft is already being happily utilized.
If I’m honest, right from the start, I’ve thought going without water is just plain madness. But, as the ever loving wife, I gave it a go, just to understand what my husband was going through. And, as I expected, it was plain madness. Not only did it cause nasty bacteria to form in my precious bladder and give me horrendous peeing issues, but it made me feel terrible. Lethargic, moody, prone to headaches and lacking any spark I might usually have. I did not feel my inner soul was being cleansed, I did not feel my heart was being purified. If anything, there was some actual resentment going on. And waking eighteen times a night to down tumblers of water, not to mention the frequency of night time toilet trips, was not doing me any favours either.
And I have a little boy who still needs mummy’s attention. A little boy who still wakes up at the same hour and still has an unrivalled amount of energy. So how do you continue to be Super Mum without regular hydration? The answer is, you don’t.
I explained to Mustafa that I am still demonstrating self discipline. I am not indulging in tea, coffee, fizzy pop, or any other non-essential beverage. I have even ditched the cranberry juice. It’s water all the way. And food does not feature in my day at all, aside from serving it up for my son. I understand that if an actual genuine Muslim were to turn round and announce he/she was going to drink water during Ramazan, that it would absolutely not be accepted. But here I am, a girl of my own individual faith, finding my own individual way, and this is the best I can do.
It reminds me of the time I was visiting Mustafa’s home town in Eastern Turkey during the time of Winter Bayram, a Turkish festival which involves slaughtering a sheep, cooking it, eating it, and offering it to poor families. Now, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m a vegetarian and vegetarians are not a recognized breed in Eastern Turkey, as you may have guessed. Considering he’d been with me for approximately two years by this point, I did not understand what was going through Mustafa’s head when he assumed I’d be there for the ritual slaughtering of the sheep. And this Ramazan thing, really, raises the same point. I am interested in the religion, I support my husband in his faith, but I will never be able to go all the way.
So now we’re about halfway through the Ramazan calendar, I think I have found the way in which I want to press forward. And that’s the beauty of being the master of your own faith. I can decide on my own rituals, my own sacred commitments. And because I was forced to sing the hymn ‘Water of Life’ to the inexplicable tune of ‘Rupert the Bear’ during school assemblies as a child, I will choose that as my compromise. Water of Life.
Well, Ramazan has brought Mustafa and I to our first conflict situation. Not a conflict of the plate throwing and sleeping on the sofa variety, but a quiet conflict of disappointed glances and long silences. And, as we all know, sometimes that can be worse.
The good thing is that we’ve finally been reunited. This reunion involved stretching out in front of the TV at a late hour, arming ourselves with tea and biscuits and watching a trashy film. As per usual our movie viewing was punctuated by mini-chats and remarks about the day. You know the kind of thing. Business is slow. Rain in August is unfair. The toddler ate a crayon. But then Ramazan cropped up. As we’ve been little more than passing ships in the night, and as Mustafa knew I’d had a lady problem which meant I had to drink water, he’d assumed that I had stopped Ramazan altogether. “You drink water sweetheart, there is no point. That is not point of Ramazan”.
He said I could, if I wanted, build up a kind of Ramazan debt, meaning I could pay back those days of non-fasting at a later date, after the Ramazan period. He says it happens all the time. If a person gets ill for example, but they still want to complete their sacred ritual, they can wait until they are ship-shape again and choose exactly when and where they want to do it. And they don’t have to do it in a continuous succession of days, they can dot them about or string them together however they fancy. “We can do together,” Mustafa explained, “We can choose days after Ramazan.”
Forgive me if this didn’t cause a feeling of excitement to well up inside of me. The suggestion was just not floating my boat. I mean, how kind of Allah to provide people with this lending facility, a kind of interest free Ramazan overdraft. But I don’t bank with Allah, do I? I’m a Lloyds TSB girl and that overdraft is already being happily utilized.
If I’m honest, right from the start, I’ve thought going without water is just plain madness. But, as the ever loving wife, I gave it a go, just to understand what my husband was going through. And, as I expected, it was plain madness. Not only did it cause nasty bacteria to form in my precious bladder and give me horrendous peeing issues, but it made me feel terrible. Lethargic, moody, prone to headaches and lacking any spark I might usually have. I did not feel my inner soul was being cleansed, I did not feel my heart was being purified. If anything, there was some actual resentment going on. And waking eighteen times a night to down tumblers of water, not to mention the frequency of night time toilet trips, was not doing me any favours either.
And I have a little boy who still needs mummy’s attention. A little boy who still wakes up at the same hour and still has an unrivalled amount of energy. So how do you continue to be Super Mum without regular hydration? The answer is, you don’t.
I explained to Mustafa that I am still demonstrating self discipline. I am not indulging in tea, coffee, fizzy pop, or any other non-essential beverage. I have even ditched the cranberry juice. It’s water all the way. And food does not feature in my day at all, aside from serving it up for my son. I understand that if an actual genuine Muslim were to turn round and announce he/she was going to drink water during Ramazan, that it would absolutely not be accepted. But here I am, a girl of my own individual faith, finding my own individual way, and this is the best I can do.
It reminds me of the time I was visiting Mustafa’s home town in Eastern Turkey during the time of Winter Bayram, a Turkish festival which involves slaughtering a sheep, cooking it, eating it, and offering it to poor families. Now, I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I’m a vegetarian and vegetarians are not a recognized breed in Eastern Turkey, as you may have guessed. Considering he’d been with me for approximately two years by this point, I did not understand what was going through Mustafa’s head when he assumed I’d be there for the ritual slaughtering of the sheep. And this Ramazan thing, really, raises the same point. I am interested in the religion, I support my husband in his faith, but I will never be able to go all the way.
So now we’re about halfway through the Ramazan calendar, I think I have found the way in which I want to press forward. And that’s the beauty of being the master of your own faith. I can decide on my own rituals, my own sacred commitments. And because I was forced to sing the hymn ‘Water of Life’ to the inexplicable tune of ‘Rupert the Bear’ during school assemblies as a child, I will choose that as my compromise. Water of Life.
Monday 23 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Thirteen
Mon 23rd August 2010
Today has been the day of getting things done. I have filed bank statements, paid bills, made calls, swept floors, washed dishes and been to the doctors. And no, not about the lady problem, but about my scabby thumb. This scab horror has been caused by the severe eczema I suffer from on my hands, which usually flares up at times of stress and worry. Stressed? Worried? Me? I’ve just eaten a Mullerice after twenty four hours of fasting, I’m in bloomin’ paradise.
I have also finally retrieved my husband. I brought him out of Dracula mode and we actually spent twenty minutes together today before he had to dash off to the world of kebabs and chicken goujons. Someone has to keep the people of Nairn satiated.
We are only thirteen days into Ramazan but already the start of it seems like a distant memory. Where are our romantic late-night meals? Where is the excitement? The togetherness? The purpose? I don’t have Allah to answer to, only myself. And every time my toddler has yet another meal without his mummy joining him, I do wonder if this isn’t all just a bit too difficult.
But, bearing in mind I could probably win first prize in a contest for optimism during hard times (I get it from my mother), I have to remind myself of this: It is supposed to be a challenge. Challenges are hard in ways we don’t expect, but, ultimately, we will learn something from it. So, this begs the question, what am I learning?
1.) That dehydration causes a million horrible things to happen to your body and mind and we could all be a lot more grateful for the clean water that pours from our taps.
2.) That food is ace. Simple but true. Let’s thank the heavens for that too.
3.) That some of my daily food and drink related rituals are nonsensical but some of them are justified and good.
4.) That I am able to discipline myself. I am, I am, I am.
5.) That my husband, although prone to epic sleeping bouts, is wonderful, warm, humble and devoted. He will never ask too much of me.
6.) That I am a bloody excellent wife.
Considering all of the above, perhaps I can find a new sense of enthusiasm for tomorrow morning. I just didn’t really imagine that the challenge I’d be facing would be a waning desire to do this. I thought it would be the hunger pangs, the dry mouth, the dizzy spells (which are all pretty nasty, by the way). I thought that a cacophony of physical symptoms would be my biggest problem but actually, unexpectedly, it’s the mental commitment.
Let’s look at the maths:
Devoted wife + Muslim husband = Undertaking Ramzan together in harmony
Devoted wife – Muslim husband = Undertaking Ramazan separately
Undertaking Ramazan separately = Lost passion for the cause
Ah, now that adds up. So the answer to the formula is to reunite Devoted Wife and Muslim Husband for longer than twenty minute time slots starting tomorrow. I didn’t get a ‘B’ in GCSE Maths for nowt you know.
Today has been the day of getting things done. I have filed bank statements, paid bills, made calls, swept floors, washed dishes and been to the doctors. And no, not about the lady problem, but about my scabby thumb. This scab horror has been caused by the severe eczema I suffer from on my hands, which usually flares up at times of stress and worry. Stressed? Worried? Me? I’ve just eaten a Mullerice after twenty four hours of fasting, I’m in bloomin’ paradise.
I have also finally retrieved my husband. I brought him out of Dracula mode and we actually spent twenty minutes together today before he had to dash off to the world of kebabs and chicken goujons. Someone has to keep the people of Nairn satiated.
We are only thirteen days into Ramazan but already the start of it seems like a distant memory. Where are our romantic late-night meals? Where is the excitement? The togetherness? The purpose? I don’t have Allah to answer to, only myself. And every time my toddler has yet another meal without his mummy joining him, I do wonder if this isn’t all just a bit too difficult.
But, bearing in mind I could probably win first prize in a contest for optimism during hard times (I get it from my mother), I have to remind myself of this: It is supposed to be a challenge. Challenges are hard in ways we don’t expect, but, ultimately, we will learn something from it. So, this begs the question, what am I learning?
1.) That dehydration causes a million horrible things to happen to your body and mind and we could all be a lot more grateful for the clean water that pours from our taps.
2.) That food is ace. Simple but true. Let’s thank the heavens for that too.
3.) That some of my daily food and drink related rituals are nonsensical but some of them are justified and good.
4.) That I am able to discipline myself. I am, I am, I am.
5.) That my husband, although prone to epic sleeping bouts, is wonderful, warm, humble and devoted. He will never ask too much of me.
6.) That I am a bloody excellent wife.
Considering all of the above, perhaps I can find a new sense of enthusiasm for tomorrow morning. I just didn’t really imagine that the challenge I’d be facing would be a waning desire to do this. I thought it would be the hunger pangs, the dry mouth, the dizzy spells (which are all pretty nasty, by the way). I thought that a cacophony of physical symptoms would be my biggest problem but actually, unexpectedly, it’s the mental commitment.
Let’s look at the maths:
Devoted wife + Muslim husband = Undertaking Ramzan together in harmony
Devoted wife – Muslim husband = Undertaking Ramazan separately
Undertaking Ramazan separately = Lost passion for the cause
Ah, now that adds up. So the answer to the formula is to reunite Devoted Wife and Muslim Husband for longer than twenty minute time slots starting tomorrow. I didn’t get a ‘B’ in GCSE Maths for nowt you know.
Sunday 22 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Twelve
Sun 22nd August 2010
Never, since I started all this Ramazan tomfoolery, have I written my daily record before sundown. I’m not sure why. I suppose that all of my energy has been poured into distracting myself from the task right up until that crucial time when I can indulge in basic nutrition again. So usually my belly is nice and full and my mood has significantly improved by the time I sit down to write. But because the variety’s the spice of life (or because I’m bored and don’t know what else to do), I’m writing this in the final countdown to feeding time.
And just in case you’re wondering, my lady problem is beginning to disappear thank you very much. Looks like the cranberry juice and water have done the trick. So that’s the good news. But the bad news is, that since yesterday morning when I began to allow myself fluids again, my stomach has been positively roaring with hunger throughout the majority of the day. Before this, I was beginning to master the daytime ritual of a foodless existence. But now, it’s breaking me. It really is. I am tempted to look it up in a medical dictionary – does drinking water kick-start your metabolism? Does it make your tummy expect that food is next on the agenda? Am I messing my tummy about? Will it ever forgive me and can we ever rebuild our relationship? Is there a future for us? Please, for the love of chocolate related foodstuffs, please say that there is.
Maybe couple counseling would help.
Speaking of couples, where the flip is my husband of late? Since my friend Jenny came to visit (she left today, probably much to her appetite’s relief) we have done little other than cross paths. His kebab shop has been mega busy and on weekends he works ridiculously late shifts at a local pub. Full points for bread-winning but nil points for basic communication with wife. It appears that he has chosen to live a vampire-like existence. He is awake when I’m sleeping (at the proper hour for sleeping, I might point out) and asleep when I’m expected to bound about with our energetic son and perform all domestic tasks. Funny that, when we’re in the middle of a ritual that allows the consumption of food and drink only in hours of darkness. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the element of challenge there seems to be lacking somewhat.
Right now though, I don’t give a monkey’s ass. It’s 8.44pm, the oven has pinged and there’s a feast to devour. Yum.
Never, since I started all this Ramazan tomfoolery, have I written my daily record before sundown. I’m not sure why. I suppose that all of my energy has been poured into distracting myself from the task right up until that crucial time when I can indulge in basic nutrition again. So usually my belly is nice and full and my mood has significantly improved by the time I sit down to write. But because the variety’s the spice of life (or because I’m bored and don’t know what else to do), I’m writing this in the final countdown to feeding time.
And just in case you’re wondering, my lady problem is beginning to disappear thank you very much. Looks like the cranberry juice and water have done the trick. So that’s the good news. But the bad news is, that since yesterday morning when I began to allow myself fluids again, my stomach has been positively roaring with hunger throughout the majority of the day. Before this, I was beginning to master the daytime ritual of a foodless existence. But now, it’s breaking me. It really is. I am tempted to look it up in a medical dictionary – does drinking water kick-start your metabolism? Does it make your tummy expect that food is next on the agenda? Am I messing my tummy about? Will it ever forgive me and can we ever rebuild our relationship? Is there a future for us? Please, for the love of chocolate related foodstuffs, please say that there is.
Maybe couple counseling would help.
Speaking of couples, where the flip is my husband of late? Since my friend Jenny came to visit (she left today, probably much to her appetite’s relief) we have done little other than cross paths. His kebab shop has been mega busy and on weekends he works ridiculously late shifts at a local pub. Full points for bread-winning but nil points for basic communication with wife. It appears that he has chosen to live a vampire-like existence. He is awake when I’m sleeping (at the proper hour for sleeping, I might point out) and asleep when I’m expected to bound about with our energetic son and perform all domestic tasks. Funny that, when we’re in the middle of a ritual that allows the consumption of food and drink only in hours of darkness. Correct me if I’m wrong, but the element of challenge there seems to be lacking somewhat.
Right now though, I don’t give a monkey’s ass. It’s 8.44pm, the oven has pinged and there’s a feast to devour. Yum.
Saturday 21 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Eleven
Sat 21st August 2010
Well, things in my little world of Ramazan took an interesting turn today. It’s been nagging away at me – or should I say burning away – for the last couple of days, but I chose to ignore it in fear of appearing to be a bad non-Muslim wife of a Muslim. But today, during my morning ablutions, I had to face facts. I had a lady problem.
The ladies among you will sympathetically piece the evidence together and work out exactly what I mean. The gentlemen among you will flit across these paragraphs and work out roughly what I mean, without asking any further questions. The perverse among you will want sordid details – well you’re not getting them. We all know the score and we all know it’s just not nice. Self inflicted perhaps, but just not nice.
So today I had to come to my own satisfactory compromise. Mustafa, being the ever-loving husband, just wants me to be well and therefore relieved me of all Ramazan requirements. Meaning I could gorge myself silly and get back in touch with those good old friends Ben and Jerry. But just hold on a cotton-picking second. Was this not all about supporting my husband in his sacred ritual? Was this not about sharing the challenge together? And what’s more, have I learned anything about discipline yet? I just don’t feel ready to throw in the towel.
Plus there’s another twenty blogs in me yet.
So I decided to allow myself water again. And cranberry juice to help remedy this unfortunate situation. I cannot tell you how much easier this day has been as a result. Yes, there have been hunger pangs a plenty but my energy levels would rival those of Mr Tumble himself. And not only that, but I have reached Super Mum status again. Tantrums have been at a minimum, three square meals have been presented and eaten, play fights on the floor have made an appearance once again and all of the dishes are done. No, not just done, gleaming. Plus we had our first ever trip to the funfair. There’s nothing like whirling round on a yellow MDF aeroplane, fearing for one’s life and shouting ‘Flyeeeee’, especially when it’s the first time Baran has ever said that word. I think I’ll go to sleep tonight hearing it.
It really is amazing what proper hydration can do for the body. Okay, so it’s no secret that we need water just as much as we need oxygen, but isn’t it incredible that we dick about day to day, going from one thing to the next, completely and absolutely taking for granted the miracle that is the human body? Give us air and we breathe. Give us light and we flourish. Give us water and we thrive. Give us love and we . . . randomly undertake unthinkable challenges that inflict rather nasty peeing issues.
And because my body was on such an all time high from overdosing on water and cranberry juice, my mind was on serious ‘to-do list’ overdrive. Efficiency just isn’t the word. Most of my day (funfair aside) was focused around my friend Jenny and I getting our little ones into bed in time for the uninterrupted viewing of the X Factor. Not only did we achieve that, but the sweet potato wedges were sizzling away and all other accompanying dishes were chilling in the fridge ready for their unveiling at precisely 8.48pm. I was incredibly proud of myself when all of the food was beautifully displayed on the coffee table with exactly one minute to go. And when Simon Cowell said “That’s the best thing I’ve seen all day, you’re in” I did imagine he was speaking to me.
It was only when Jenny looked at me like I’d laid plates of fried snot on the table and asked me what I was doing that I sensed Mr Cowell might have meant someone else. I looked at my watch. 7.47pm. Pants.
So, because I had already decided this was about supporting my husband, demonstrating love and – the biggie – discipline, I sat back and watched Jenny tuck in whilst I waited for another hour and one minute. Not as excruciating as you might think. I had, after all, experienced ‘excruciating’ several times in the bathroom today. And I had my cranberry juice.
Well, things in my little world of Ramazan took an interesting turn today. It’s been nagging away at me – or should I say burning away – for the last couple of days, but I chose to ignore it in fear of appearing to be a bad non-Muslim wife of a Muslim. But today, during my morning ablutions, I had to face facts. I had a lady problem.
The ladies among you will sympathetically piece the evidence together and work out exactly what I mean. The gentlemen among you will flit across these paragraphs and work out roughly what I mean, without asking any further questions. The perverse among you will want sordid details – well you’re not getting them. We all know the score and we all know it’s just not nice. Self inflicted perhaps, but just not nice.
So today I had to come to my own satisfactory compromise. Mustafa, being the ever-loving husband, just wants me to be well and therefore relieved me of all Ramazan requirements. Meaning I could gorge myself silly and get back in touch with those good old friends Ben and Jerry. But just hold on a cotton-picking second. Was this not all about supporting my husband in his sacred ritual? Was this not about sharing the challenge together? And what’s more, have I learned anything about discipline yet? I just don’t feel ready to throw in the towel.
Plus there’s another twenty blogs in me yet.
So I decided to allow myself water again. And cranberry juice to help remedy this unfortunate situation. I cannot tell you how much easier this day has been as a result. Yes, there have been hunger pangs a plenty but my energy levels would rival those of Mr Tumble himself. And not only that, but I have reached Super Mum status again. Tantrums have been at a minimum, three square meals have been presented and eaten, play fights on the floor have made an appearance once again and all of the dishes are done. No, not just done, gleaming. Plus we had our first ever trip to the funfair. There’s nothing like whirling round on a yellow MDF aeroplane, fearing for one’s life and shouting ‘Flyeeeee’, especially when it’s the first time Baran has ever said that word. I think I’ll go to sleep tonight hearing it.
It really is amazing what proper hydration can do for the body. Okay, so it’s no secret that we need water just as much as we need oxygen, but isn’t it incredible that we dick about day to day, going from one thing to the next, completely and absolutely taking for granted the miracle that is the human body? Give us air and we breathe. Give us light and we flourish. Give us water and we thrive. Give us love and we . . . randomly undertake unthinkable challenges that inflict rather nasty peeing issues.
And because my body was on such an all time high from overdosing on water and cranberry juice, my mind was on serious ‘to-do list’ overdrive. Efficiency just isn’t the word. Most of my day (funfair aside) was focused around my friend Jenny and I getting our little ones into bed in time for the uninterrupted viewing of the X Factor. Not only did we achieve that, but the sweet potato wedges were sizzling away and all other accompanying dishes were chilling in the fridge ready for their unveiling at precisely 8.48pm. I was incredibly proud of myself when all of the food was beautifully displayed on the coffee table with exactly one minute to go. And when Simon Cowell said “That’s the best thing I’ve seen all day, you’re in” I did imagine he was speaking to me.
It was only when Jenny looked at me like I’d laid plates of fried snot on the table and asked me what I was doing that I sensed Mr Cowell might have meant someone else. I looked at my watch. 7.47pm. Pants.
So, because I had already decided this was about supporting my husband, demonstrating love and – the biggie – discipline, I sat back and watched Jenny tuck in whilst I waited for another hour and one minute. Not as excruciating as you might think. I had, after all, experienced ‘excruciating’ several times in the bathroom today. And I had my cranberry juice.
Friday 20 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Ten
Fri 20th August 2010
A few things have occurred to me today. Whoever invented Ramazan didn’t have any screws loose, despite what us modern-living Westerners might think. I have identified three enormous benefits to participating in this seemingly nonsensical ritual.
1.) Genius Money Saving Technique
When I was scratting about in my purse today to find money for an admission fee to the Black Isle Wildlife Park, I realised something not just improbable but seemingly impossible. The money I’d put in there at the start of the week was still there! Exactly the same scuffed up notes. Exactly the same pool of pennies. Can you believe it? That means I‘ve gone a whole five days without spending anything. What’s more, the same ‘big shop’ I’d done just before Ramazan was mostly still evident in my fridge, freezer and cupboards. I’ve done no silly topping up. No silly purchasing of ‘essentials’ inexplicably omitted from the shopping list. The emptiness of my belly is, in turn, facilitating the fullness of my purse. Maybe the coalition should consider passing a Ramazan law in order to solve the world economic crisis. Let’s face it, stranger laws have been passed.
2.) Genius Time Saving Technique
When you are denying yourself in such a way as this, you do have a tendency to wish the hours away. Anyone who has ever watched the clock will tell you that this approach does, indeed, make it go fifty times slower. So today, when I asked my friend Jenny what time it was, I assumed the volume of activity we had undergone so far would have brought us almost to toddler bedtime. But no. 2pm was her reply. How did these hours keep magically appearing? Was Paul McKenna in on all of this? And why can’t I find these extra hours when I actually want them? So, there you have it. Ramazan is a genius time saving device proven to conjure up extra hours.
3.) Genius Exercise Avoidance Technique
I think you may, by now, be familiar with my special skill for naps, or ‘power sleeps’ as I prefer to call them. But as well as this total inertia, I have also successfully avoided all forms of exercise since Ramazan started. I am usually partial to a bit of yoga. And a bit of Zumba, which many of you will know is a crazy dance aerobics inspired by salsa, samba and African tribal dance. But on account of the sweat I am likely to produce during either of these exercises, I think it is only safe to avoid them during the fasting period at all costs. And probably for a while afterwards too, just until I get my body adjusted. And then I’ll have to ease myself back in gently because I don’t want to pull something. Maybe it’s better I avoid them until after Christmas. You see? Perfectly legitimate genius exercise avoidance technique.
So, in conclusion, I think Muslims just might be onto something here. Either that or I’m just pissed off I didn’t get an ice cream at the wildlife park today, and I’m trying to find justification for my actions. I think I’ll sleep on it.
A few things have occurred to me today. Whoever invented Ramazan didn’t have any screws loose, despite what us modern-living Westerners might think. I have identified three enormous benefits to participating in this seemingly nonsensical ritual.
1.) Genius Money Saving Technique
When I was scratting about in my purse today to find money for an admission fee to the Black Isle Wildlife Park, I realised something not just improbable but seemingly impossible. The money I’d put in there at the start of the week was still there! Exactly the same scuffed up notes. Exactly the same pool of pennies. Can you believe it? That means I‘ve gone a whole five days without spending anything. What’s more, the same ‘big shop’ I’d done just before Ramazan was mostly still evident in my fridge, freezer and cupboards. I’ve done no silly topping up. No silly purchasing of ‘essentials’ inexplicably omitted from the shopping list. The emptiness of my belly is, in turn, facilitating the fullness of my purse. Maybe the coalition should consider passing a Ramazan law in order to solve the world economic crisis. Let’s face it, stranger laws have been passed.
2.) Genius Time Saving Technique
When you are denying yourself in such a way as this, you do have a tendency to wish the hours away. Anyone who has ever watched the clock will tell you that this approach does, indeed, make it go fifty times slower. So today, when I asked my friend Jenny what time it was, I assumed the volume of activity we had undergone so far would have brought us almost to toddler bedtime. But no. 2pm was her reply. How did these hours keep magically appearing? Was Paul McKenna in on all of this? And why can’t I find these extra hours when I actually want them? So, there you have it. Ramazan is a genius time saving device proven to conjure up extra hours.
3.) Genius Exercise Avoidance Technique
I think you may, by now, be familiar with my special skill for naps, or ‘power sleeps’ as I prefer to call them. But as well as this total inertia, I have also successfully avoided all forms of exercise since Ramazan started. I am usually partial to a bit of yoga. And a bit of Zumba, which many of you will know is a crazy dance aerobics inspired by salsa, samba and African tribal dance. But on account of the sweat I am likely to produce during either of these exercises, I think it is only safe to avoid them during the fasting period at all costs. And probably for a while afterwards too, just until I get my body adjusted. And then I’ll have to ease myself back in gently because I don’t want to pull something. Maybe it’s better I avoid them until after Christmas. You see? Perfectly legitimate genius exercise avoidance technique.
So, in conclusion, I think Muslims just might be onto something here. Either that or I’m just pissed off I didn’t get an ice cream at the wildlife park today, and I’m trying to find justification for my actions. I think I’ll sleep on it.
My Little Ramazan - Day Nine
Thurs 19th August 2010
Six days of fasting and today brought my first real dizzy spell. I say that like I’m expecting many more. Which I’m not, especially considering the preposterous amount of garlic bread I ate this evening which could nourish any normal person for several months. But today’s dizzy spell, as I was sauntering down Nairn High Street in a my-child’s-at-nursery-for-the-morning type way, caught me unawares. It was totally out of the blue. Or maybe not. I decided to look at the facts. Could it be caused by:
a.) The fact that my body had not been fed and watered for at least 12 hours?
b.) The excitement of my little boy’s first ever morning at nursery school?
c.) The heat (okay, the ever so slightly tepid temperature) of Nairn High Street?
d.) The sleep pattern interrupted by constant alarm calls to wake and drink large quantities of water?
e.) All of the above?
Regardless of the cause, I did not like feeling dizzy. Not one little bit. Given my already pale complexion, it does not become me. Anyway, I managed to ward off any threat of room-spin with some deep yoga breaths and strategic lying down on the sofa. You know, just to liven things up a bit. Always been the life and soul, me.
And as if that wasn’t enough for one day, when I joyfully picked Baran up from his first ever trip to nursery (where, can I just point out, I was told he’d been an angel all morning), he decided today was National Tantrums Day. Or National Tantrums in Public Day. Or, more accurately, National Tantrums in Public Resulting in Minor Injuries to Ensure Mother Looks Like Neglectful Parent Day. I won’t bore you with the whos, the whys and the hows, just trust me when I say that walls, lamp posts and a herd of passing tourists do not mix well with a toddler in a fury.
At least my toddler wasn’t the only one in a fury. My friend Jenny’s little girl had her first name and surname bellowed out on at least one occasion and any of us who have ever experienced childhood, know that that means real trouble. Jenny and I collapsed back into my flat at the end of National Whatever Toddlers Bloody Well Like Day, grasping for a DVD, any DVD, that might buy us a few moments of peace. And just as I was pondering over how on earth I could find a refreshment that would not have to pass the lips, but still offer maximum satisfaction (impossible, by the way), my Auntie swooped in with a bottle of cold white wine for her and Jenny. Ouch.
So when the little angels were finally tucked up in bed, and the sun had gone down, I had to use my last scrap of willpower to not reach for the bottle too. Mustafa was at work, therefore not around to offer me his usual supportive glances and kind words. Instead I concentrated on the sweet simplicity of cold water. And, to be fair, after this amount of fasting, that’s what my body really wanted.
Oh, and just to set the record straight, Jenny would like to point out that she is a loving mother of a gorgeous two and a half year old girl and would not – as yesterday’s blog might suggest – ever use copious amounts of wine as a regular device to aid relaxation.
She prefers a Pimms.
Six days of fasting and today brought my first real dizzy spell. I say that like I’m expecting many more. Which I’m not, especially considering the preposterous amount of garlic bread I ate this evening which could nourish any normal person for several months. But today’s dizzy spell, as I was sauntering down Nairn High Street in a my-child’s-at-nursery-for-the-morning type way, caught me unawares. It was totally out of the blue. Or maybe not. I decided to look at the facts. Could it be caused by:
a.) The fact that my body had not been fed and watered for at least 12 hours?
b.) The excitement of my little boy’s first ever morning at nursery school?
c.) The heat (okay, the ever so slightly tepid temperature) of Nairn High Street?
d.) The sleep pattern interrupted by constant alarm calls to wake and drink large quantities of water?
e.) All of the above?
Regardless of the cause, I did not like feeling dizzy. Not one little bit. Given my already pale complexion, it does not become me. Anyway, I managed to ward off any threat of room-spin with some deep yoga breaths and strategic lying down on the sofa. You know, just to liven things up a bit. Always been the life and soul, me.
And as if that wasn’t enough for one day, when I joyfully picked Baran up from his first ever trip to nursery (where, can I just point out, I was told he’d been an angel all morning), he decided today was National Tantrums Day. Or National Tantrums in Public Day. Or, more accurately, National Tantrums in Public Resulting in Minor Injuries to Ensure Mother Looks Like Neglectful Parent Day. I won’t bore you with the whos, the whys and the hows, just trust me when I say that walls, lamp posts and a herd of passing tourists do not mix well with a toddler in a fury.
At least my toddler wasn’t the only one in a fury. My friend Jenny’s little girl had her first name and surname bellowed out on at least one occasion and any of us who have ever experienced childhood, know that that means real trouble. Jenny and I collapsed back into my flat at the end of National Whatever Toddlers Bloody Well Like Day, grasping for a DVD, any DVD, that might buy us a few moments of peace. And just as I was pondering over how on earth I could find a refreshment that would not have to pass the lips, but still offer maximum satisfaction (impossible, by the way), my Auntie swooped in with a bottle of cold white wine for her and Jenny. Ouch.
So when the little angels were finally tucked up in bed, and the sun had gone down, I had to use my last scrap of willpower to not reach for the bottle too. Mustafa was at work, therefore not around to offer me his usual supportive glances and kind words. Instead I concentrated on the sweet simplicity of cold water. And, to be fair, after this amount of fasting, that’s what my body really wanted.
Oh, and just to set the record straight, Jenny would like to point out that she is a loving mother of a gorgeous two and a half year old girl and would not – as yesterday’s blog might suggest – ever use copious amounts of wine as a regular device to aid relaxation.
She prefers a Pimms.
Thursday 19 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Eight
Weds 18th August 2010
My friend Jenny has just arrived and she is mortified. Unfortunately, I was so wrapped up in my own twisted premonitions in the run up to Ramazan that I failed to predict how Jenny might feel about all of this. Especially as she has undertaken the epic task of bringing her two and a half year old daughter on the journey from Preston to Inverness. Especially as she and I will be spending the next few days with two toddlers and finding a multitude of ways to entertain them. Especially as her usual early evening pick-me-up would involve at least one large glass of Chardonnay and one large piece of cake. As I said, she’s mortified.
Obviously, there’s nothing stopping Jenny from giving her body the necessary nourishment. I don’t mind if she flips open the biscuit tin in my presence. We do, after all, have approximately eleven years of friendship based on nattering over shared pastries, cups of tea, and, of course, mutual alcohol consumption. And although I am technically allowed to eat and drink anything after sundown, that ‘anything’ definitely does not include alcohol. Mustafa and I decided at the start of this that we could quite easily go one month without any alcohol in the house. But how is it going to make Jenny feel? How did I not think of this before? And how, you might ask, are we possibly going to watch X Factor on Saturday night without sharing the joy that is wine, chips and dips? Well, like I said, she’s mortified.
Nevertheless, she has the graciousness to have shown some interest and she joined us in our evening feast tonight which – although wineless – was really enjoyable. Oh, and remember what I said about not missing any foods in particular? Forget that. Garlic bread. That’s what it’s all about. Methinks tomorrow will entail a trip to the Co-op to rid them of their garlic bread stock. Baguettes, flatbreads, dough balls – I don’t care as long as it’s oozing with that beautiful garlic elixir of life.
I will, however, arise at 4am tomorrow to ensure toothpaste, floss and Listerene has reached every possible crevice in my mouth. Then, hopefully, Jenny and her little girl will not immediately jet back to Preston if only to get away from the horror that is my breath. Because then, you know, I would be mortified.
My friend Jenny has just arrived and she is mortified. Unfortunately, I was so wrapped up in my own twisted premonitions in the run up to Ramazan that I failed to predict how Jenny might feel about all of this. Especially as she has undertaken the epic task of bringing her two and a half year old daughter on the journey from Preston to Inverness. Especially as she and I will be spending the next few days with two toddlers and finding a multitude of ways to entertain them. Especially as her usual early evening pick-me-up would involve at least one large glass of Chardonnay and one large piece of cake. As I said, she’s mortified.
Obviously, there’s nothing stopping Jenny from giving her body the necessary nourishment. I don’t mind if she flips open the biscuit tin in my presence. We do, after all, have approximately eleven years of friendship based on nattering over shared pastries, cups of tea, and, of course, mutual alcohol consumption. And although I am technically allowed to eat and drink anything after sundown, that ‘anything’ definitely does not include alcohol. Mustafa and I decided at the start of this that we could quite easily go one month without any alcohol in the house. But how is it going to make Jenny feel? How did I not think of this before? And how, you might ask, are we possibly going to watch X Factor on Saturday night without sharing the joy that is wine, chips and dips? Well, like I said, she’s mortified.
Nevertheless, she has the graciousness to have shown some interest and she joined us in our evening feast tonight which – although wineless – was really enjoyable. Oh, and remember what I said about not missing any foods in particular? Forget that. Garlic bread. That’s what it’s all about. Methinks tomorrow will entail a trip to the Co-op to rid them of their garlic bread stock. Baguettes, flatbreads, dough balls – I don’t care as long as it’s oozing with that beautiful garlic elixir of life.
I will, however, arise at 4am tomorrow to ensure toothpaste, floss and Listerene has reached every possible crevice in my mouth. Then, hopefully, Jenny and her little girl will not immediately jet back to Preston if only to get away from the horror that is my breath. Because then, you know, I would be mortified.
Tuesday 17 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Seven
Tues 17th August 2010
Breaking news! I got through an entire morning session of Parent and Toddlers without participating in the oh so important ritual of gossip, coffee and biscuits. Well, maybe the gossip got a bit of a look-in but the coffee and biscuits most definitely did not. I suspect some mums got a secret enjoyment out of chomping their Kit-Kats in my personal vicinity, but for the most part, people were considerate and unexpectedly interested in what I was doing. You wouldn’t think leaving out two basic components of your day could cause such a riot, but apparently it can.
Mostly, people talked about what they would miss if they were to undertake something like Ramazan. Chocolate was top of the list. Sweets, biscuits, cakes, and I believe somebody mentioned crunchy nut cornfakes. But here’s the thing. I don’t miss anything. I really don’t. The other night I took my little boy to the shop just before his bedtime so I could purchase something really scrumptious as my first treat at sundown. Whilst Baran made a stampede towards the Fruit Corners (now there is a boy who knows what he wants), I floated down the aisles like a lost soul. I wanted something to leap out at me and make my taste buds tingle in anticipation. I wanted my mouth to water at the very sight of a particular delicacy. Granted, the Co-op does not exactly offer a vast choice of gastronomical delights, but you’d think a whole day without food would encourage some kind of desire to well up inside of me.
What I have noticed though, is that when I do eat or drink something at the permitted hour, I am thoroughly, thoroughly grateful for it. And I don’t just mean in a fleeting way. Or in a way that just makes you feel better about yourself for a moment. I mean deeply grateful. And I’m not pretending that what I’m doing is particularly hard compared to what millions of people in this world have to go through. But in my own little world, my own little bubble, I am beginning to feel a deep sense of gratitude towards things I have always taken for granted. And whoever is providing it, God, Allah or the spotty teenaged till attendant at the Co-op, he totally rocks.
And incase you’re wondering, I opted for a Milky Bar. Mmmm.
Breaking news! I got through an entire morning session of Parent and Toddlers without participating in the oh so important ritual of gossip, coffee and biscuits. Well, maybe the gossip got a bit of a look-in but the coffee and biscuits most definitely did not. I suspect some mums got a secret enjoyment out of chomping their Kit-Kats in my personal vicinity, but for the most part, people were considerate and unexpectedly interested in what I was doing. You wouldn’t think leaving out two basic components of your day could cause such a riot, but apparently it can.
Mostly, people talked about what they would miss if they were to undertake something like Ramazan. Chocolate was top of the list. Sweets, biscuits, cakes, and I believe somebody mentioned crunchy nut cornfakes. But here’s the thing. I don’t miss anything. I really don’t. The other night I took my little boy to the shop just before his bedtime so I could purchase something really scrumptious as my first treat at sundown. Whilst Baran made a stampede towards the Fruit Corners (now there is a boy who knows what he wants), I floated down the aisles like a lost soul. I wanted something to leap out at me and make my taste buds tingle in anticipation. I wanted my mouth to water at the very sight of a particular delicacy. Granted, the Co-op does not exactly offer a vast choice of gastronomical delights, but you’d think a whole day without food would encourage some kind of desire to well up inside of me.
What I have noticed though, is that when I do eat or drink something at the permitted hour, I am thoroughly, thoroughly grateful for it. And I don’t just mean in a fleeting way. Or in a way that just makes you feel better about yourself for a moment. I mean deeply grateful. And I’m not pretending that what I’m doing is particularly hard compared to what millions of people in this world have to go through. But in my own little world, my own little bubble, I am beginning to feel a deep sense of gratitude towards things I have always taken for granted. And whoever is providing it, God, Allah or the spotty teenaged till attendant at the Co-op, he totally rocks.
And incase you’re wondering, I opted for a Milky Bar. Mmmm.
Monday 16 August 2010
My Little Ramazan - Day Six
Mon 16th August 2010
Right, I’d like to start by saying that Ramazan has positively torn apart any daily routine I might have previously had. Some of that tearing has been good. Pretty, origami-type tearing with neat edges and beautiful folds. Some of that tearing has been horrific. Ripped apart in disrespectful fistfuls. Let’s start with the crappy tearing.
Dry mouth. Short temper. Mood swings. All of these have been bad but, also to be expected considering the distinct lack of sustenance. But god knows I did not expect such an overwhelming sense of tiredness. Yes, I know, it’s my own silly fault for offering to support my husband in his crazy fasting ritual. Nobody actually invited me to join in, after all. But I didn’t know Ramazan would turn everything upside down, now did I?
Imagine this: you get up early in the morning to tend to a demanding (but equally gorgeous) two year old boy. You do all the mummy-type things expected of you throughout a typical day: preparing meals, offering snacks, trips to the park, building tower blocks, learning the words to Bob The Builder, cleaning, dish-washing, nappy-changing . . . you get the general gist. But, your life really begins after sundown. Which at this time of year in the Highlands, is approximately 9pm. So, at a time when I would usually be winding down with a good book or a bit of Gok Wan, I’m flitting about the kitchen, preparing food, downing glasses of juice, eating said food and subsequently washing more dishes, preparing more food (midnight feast) and welcoming my husband home from work. To all intents and purposes, I am a housewife caught in a typical 5o’clock flurry. Only it’s not 5o’clock, it’s midnight. And there’s still a blog to write.
I. Am. Knackered.
And then, whilst I’m scrubbing a frying pan to within an inch of its life, my husband proceeds to tell me that it is now the time of year for the Turkish football league to start and all the players will be participating in Ramazan. Yes they will be practicing and training and playing in 45 degree heat, but still they will stick to their cause. They don’t need food and water. They don’t get ill or tired. In fact, my husband has never heard of anybody getting ill or tired during Ramazan. Really? I think, as I grip the handle of the frying pan. Well be careful Mustafa because there’s a first time for everything . . .
But, to give him his dues, he did get half the day off work today so I could have a nap before dinner time. He did go to the shop and buy me three bunches of flowers. He did – and has done since I agreed to go ahead with this – kiss me (on the cheek) at every available opportunity. He is positively oozing gratitude which reminds me why I’m doing this in the first place. This is the best present I could have given him. Support, love, interest and understanding – all wrapped up in a big grumpy, empty-bellied parcel.
And about that beautiful, origami-tearing apart of my schedule. Okay so I’m tired. Okay so my body feels noticeably heavier (not lighter, as I’d secretly hoped). But I am earning some wonderful moments out of this. Tonight, for example, we awaited the arrival of my auntie who is staying with us for a few days and swanned about the kitchen together, preparing a gorgeous meal, with soft music playing and candles lit everywhere. Last night, for example, we wrapped ourselves in a duvet, lay in front of the telly and had a feast of tea and biscuits. Then there’s the total euphoria of drinking our first glass of water together at 9pm. What an incredible thing to share. It might sound ridiculous that a glass of water could bring such romance, excitement and gratitude into a relationship. But there it is.
These are moments usually found during special occasions which, in all fairness I suppose Ramazan is. And maybe today, that’s what I’m beginning to see. This is a special occasion and it is a special thing to share. As one of my friends put it in an e-mail to me today: ‘I have to tell you how thoughtful and loving your gesture is. Love is about sharing, respecting each other, doing things as a couple and showing how much you care for one another.’ I’ve printed this message out and pinned it on my wall so I can see it every day. Next time I’m wondering what the heck I’ve got myself into, this will be a firm reminder.
Right, I’d like to start by saying that Ramazan has positively torn apart any daily routine I might have previously had. Some of that tearing has been good. Pretty, origami-type tearing with neat edges and beautiful folds. Some of that tearing has been horrific. Ripped apart in disrespectful fistfuls. Let’s start with the crappy tearing.
Dry mouth. Short temper. Mood swings. All of these have been bad but, also to be expected considering the distinct lack of sustenance. But god knows I did not expect such an overwhelming sense of tiredness. Yes, I know, it’s my own silly fault for offering to support my husband in his crazy fasting ritual. Nobody actually invited me to join in, after all. But I didn’t know Ramazan would turn everything upside down, now did I?
Imagine this: you get up early in the morning to tend to a demanding (but equally gorgeous) two year old boy. You do all the mummy-type things expected of you throughout a typical day: preparing meals, offering snacks, trips to the park, building tower blocks, learning the words to Bob The Builder, cleaning, dish-washing, nappy-changing . . . you get the general gist. But, your life really begins after sundown. Which at this time of year in the Highlands, is approximately 9pm. So, at a time when I would usually be winding down with a good book or a bit of Gok Wan, I’m flitting about the kitchen, preparing food, downing glasses of juice, eating said food and subsequently washing more dishes, preparing more food (midnight feast) and welcoming my husband home from work. To all intents and purposes, I am a housewife caught in a typical 5o’clock flurry. Only it’s not 5o’clock, it’s midnight. And there’s still a blog to write.
I. Am. Knackered.
And then, whilst I’m scrubbing a frying pan to within an inch of its life, my husband proceeds to tell me that it is now the time of year for the Turkish football league to start and all the players will be participating in Ramazan. Yes they will be practicing and training and playing in 45 degree heat, but still they will stick to their cause. They don’t need food and water. They don’t get ill or tired. In fact, my husband has never heard of anybody getting ill or tired during Ramazan. Really? I think, as I grip the handle of the frying pan. Well be careful Mustafa because there’s a first time for everything . . .
But, to give him his dues, he did get half the day off work today so I could have a nap before dinner time. He did go to the shop and buy me three bunches of flowers. He did – and has done since I agreed to go ahead with this – kiss me (on the cheek) at every available opportunity. He is positively oozing gratitude which reminds me why I’m doing this in the first place. This is the best present I could have given him. Support, love, interest and understanding – all wrapped up in a big grumpy, empty-bellied parcel.
And about that beautiful, origami-tearing apart of my schedule. Okay so I’m tired. Okay so my body feels noticeably heavier (not lighter, as I’d secretly hoped). But I am earning some wonderful moments out of this. Tonight, for example, we awaited the arrival of my auntie who is staying with us for a few days and swanned about the kitchen together, preparing a gorgeous meal, with soft music playing and candles lit everywhere. Last night, for example, we wrapped ourselves in a duvet, lay in front of the telly and had a feast of tea and biscuits. Then there’s the total euphoria of drinking our first glass of water together at 9pm. What an incredible thing to share. It might sound ridiculous that a glass of water could bring such romance, excitement and gratitude into a relationship. But there it is.
These are moments usually found during special occasions which, in all fairness I suppose Ramazan is. And maybe today, that’s what I’m beginning to see. This is a special occasion and it is a special thing to share. As one of my friends put it in an e-mail to me today: ‘I have to tell you how thoughtful and loving your gesture is. Love is about sharing, respecting each other, doing things as a couple and showing how much you care for one another.’ I’ve printed this message out and pinned it on my wall so I can see it every day. Next time I’m wondering what the heck I’ve got myself into, this will be a firm reminder.
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