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.
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
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.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)