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.
Tuesday, 31 August 2010
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?
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