I'm back!!!

After a brief hiatus, I realize my mind races if I don't write my thoughts down. Its called my "Mind Dump". And you all know that if you don't empty out time to time, things can get really backed up. So I promise a weekly excerpt, even if it doesn't make sense. But does anything in life make sense when push comes to shove?



Wednesday, October 27, 2010

The things I miss the most -- cont'd

Checklist


-drive 150km on the 407: DONE (I clocked 160 yesterday and still had other drivers whizzing past me--yeah, that sucks)

-rake the leaves and jump in it: DONE (last weekend, I handed the rake over to one of the girls who couldn't understand why the lawn was still a mess)

-watch a sunrise and sunset in the same day: DONE (Sleepless in Markham)

-ballroom dancing (forgot to add to the original list): PENDING (with no partner in sight)

My midlife crisis has officially begun...

Friday, October 22, 2010

The Eternal Smile

When I was a baby, I slept the entire day and kept my parents up all night. The term "colic" was unheard of in the 70s. The doctor claimed I was in the process of 'developing'. My parents came home and took turns watching me--groggy, irritable and sleep-deprived. As they rocked me, they would check to see if I was asleep.
But I just looked back, smiling.

When I was two years old, I had no teeth, could not speak or barely walk. After the tenth visit to the pediatrician, the same doctor yelled at my parents and claimed I was still 'developing' and quite notably, speaking some strange alien language only understood by neigborhood pets.
But I just smiled my toothless smile.

When I was four years old, I constantly disobeyed my father. Leaving the house in the morning, only to be returned by neighbours after sunset. I could not sit still. A new doctor told my parents that I was not hyperactive and suggested to change my diet. When my father would say NO, I would unabashedly question WHY? My defiance silenced him.
But I just smiled, removed my clothes and ran naked down the street.

When I was ten years old, I had a uni-brow, moustache, crooked teeth, and a complexion so dark that you could see the whites of my eyes and teeth at night.
I was the only minority in a vastly caucasian neighborhood where the kids picked on me based my physical appearance. When they shoved me off my bike, pelted me with snowballs, ostracized me from social circles and threw out racial remarks, I often wondered why God made me so different.
But I just smiled and beared it.

When I was thirteen years old, mouth full of metal, decorated with goggles and equipped with a fast wit, I exasperated my enemies by challenging them with intelligence. "Go back to your country!" they would demand. I would laugh and tell them that brown people were here before they were (of course, I was talking about the natives) but this would perplex them and out of embarresment, they still beat me up.
But I just smiled, and as the fists flew, I wore my physical scars like a badge of honour while hiding my emotional ones.

When I was fifteen, and told of what I could not do or be, I retreated into my cocoon. I relied heavily on my imagination of what I could be. Defeated, I gave up pieces of myself to make others whole. Only mothers can think of the future because they give birth to it in their children. And she tenderly picked up my pieces, purposely mixed them up and put me back together. I emerged from the cocoon and allowed them to see my true colours. Colours of sadness, anger, hope, hurt, pride, inner beauty and acceptance.
And I smiled as I opened and displayed my transparent wings.

When I was eighteen, I was a boat, lost in an angry sea -- without an anchor.
And I smiled back, when she waved down to me and smiled her eternal smile.

This smile has stayed with me all my life, through thick and thin, in ups and downs. Its an eternal smile of wisdom and patience. And I have learned that to receive all that is good in life, we must endure all that is bad. The smile may grow weary at times but its contagious and infectious.

And when you wake up tomorrow morning and come across a stranger (who may be enduring the bad) never think twice about sharing your smile. It may just help them be whole again...

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Mama's Tribute

On a birthday, most people are caught up in all the hoopla - their age, parties, gifts, dinners, cake, etc.

Instead, I remember my mother.

She was beautiful, intelligent, quiet and demure. I never heard her raise her voice and she protected me unconditionally. She never asked for much, accepted her lot in life, and only remained here for the sake of her children.

My mom passed when I was 18. The world as I knew it would never be the same. She was taken away too early, too fast and I wasn't able to share my many milestones. But I know, without doubt, she has been with me every step of the way.

She continues to come to me in my dreams, fleetingly, leaving me empty when I awake, as I grasp to remember her as she left me.

When I held my first born, my heart ache was two-fold: partly in joy for the new life I brought into this world and for the lifeline that left this world 20 years ago.

No one can replace MY mother. Squeeze me? Oh yes, many have tried but I do not allow that proximity. To me, that's sacrilege.

My birthday is not about me -- it is a tribute to my mama.

Heaven is at the foot of your mother.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

The Things I Miss the Most

I was feeling nostalgic this weekend after turning the big 4-0. Starting a new decade in my life made me reflect about what I missed the most in the past. And I realized some of things I need to do now before its too late.

I miss:

-smelling magic markers (I realize I can do this now but where and for how long?!)
-playing soccer in the backyard from sunrise to sunset
-posing for pictures for our high school Grade 10 science book (I can strike a mean pose with a beaker!)
-bike rides to the local variety store and paying 25 cents for a chocolate bar
-driving 9 hours to Sault Ste Marie Ont in the fall when the leaves changed colour
-being in the only Muslim girl singing Christmas carols up in the boonies with my Christian friends
-watching scary movies at night and waking up in the morning with a fever
-in high school, having more guy friends than girl friends (men were uncomplicated back then!)
-working the Midnight Madness shift in Sears as a teen and chatting up the shoppers
-singing and playing the guitar for our garage band in a carport
-camping in a tent with junkfood, magazines, flashlights -- in my own backyard
-Duran Duran--Simon LeBon (my imaginary boyfriend)
-going to McDonalds with my dad, just him and I
-counselling all the boys about their girlfriends
-boys calling my house just to hear my dad's accent and getting drilled why they were calling me
-breaking curfew and my friends laughing to see my dad's bald head and angry expression in the living room window (no matter what time I came home)
-taking my American Motors Hornet car (no shocks, faulty brakes, wired-shut trunk, vinyl seats and gasoline-smelling) with 10 people down the Upper Middle Road bypass (reknown for crazy hills) at lunchtime for a joyride...note: many would forego going in the Jag/Benz/Beamer to go for lunch in my crazy ride
-my mom :(

What I need to do now:

-go 150km/h on the 407
-just buy the CX-9 and live in the moment..of being eternally broke
-get over my fear and learn to swim (contingent on a hot swim instructor)
-chase a tornado (its my destiny)
-tie my tubes (cannot imagine formula and diapers right now)
-rake up the leaves, jump in them, make a mess and rake them again (take order and make it chaotic)
-call my family and tell them I love them (even the ones who annoy me)
-watch a sunrise and a sunset in the same day
-pick up a stranger

I have to stop missing and just go and live. Tomorrow, I may not be here.

Thanks Steely Dan.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

I don't get it

The other twin, my dreaming daughter, has always been a little of a struggle for me. From the day she was born, I knew I would be tested with her. When my vet twin, at 6 months, would sit still and listen to my directions, the dreamer twin would stick out her tongue, tuck her hands under her armpits and cry. Whatever I would tell her, she would do the complete opposite.

I call her the dreamer twin because she wants to grow up, go to Eygpt and dig up bones. I bought her a book about Eygpt when she was eight and since then, the stories of the Pharoahs and pyramids enchanted her and accelerated her imagination to envision a world of her and archeology. Funny thing is, her math and science marks...well for better terminology, SUCK.

I have a friend whose wife went into the anthropology field. He told me she didn't finish her degree. It was a highly competitive field and very gruelling. Day in and day out of painstaking measurements and research while fighting in what seemed to be predominately a man's world. I listened attentively and pondered his comments and then thought about my daughter. She is a dreamer and I wondered, do I break her well-manufactured bubble now or let her learn for herself?

She would often come to me with her homework, be it math, science, history, English (ok, pretty much the entire curriculum) and say, "Mamma, I don't get it." I would scold her and say, "Did you even try?" The minute the going got tough, she would give up and seek help. "You give up too easy. Read the examples and go from there," I would say, but she came back, like a boomerang. She would not relent. "I still don't get it," as she curled up beside me. While I held her imaginary hand, we would conquer and complete the question together, without seeing the light in her eyes.

This phrase infuriated me from the time she could speak her first words. I swear, when she was born, she must have heard me say, "I don't get it" when the doctor said I delivered twin girls (whereas the ultrasound showed a girl and a boy). Since then, she had adopted this phrase--and for me, it was one royal COP-OUT.

I sat her down last night and had a heart to heart with her. I chose my words carefully. Growing up with a father who told me that I would not amount to anything unless I studied around the clock was not the motivating, "I have a dream" speech I wished to impart on my daughter. Instead, I sat down with her and smiled. She stared at me, speechless, as I sat smiling at her. "What do you want to be when you grow up," I asked. She thought it was a trick question. "I don't get it," she replied and I was about to bang my head against the wall. But I kept my composure.

"You know I want to become an archeologist." Instead of telling her everything my friend told me about the path to archeology and the years spent trying to attain this goal, I turned to her and said, "Yes. You can be anything you see yourself being. But you have to WANT it. Really bad." She nodded her head profusely. "Then you have to stop saying, I don't get it. You have to think out of the box and stare at what confuses you until you see something you understand."

I said this to her as kindly as possible despite our history of angry door slamming and room departures, hair-pulling attempts towards clarity and ridiculous arguments stemming from allegations that her teachers were wrong and she was always right. Again, she nodded and I could see she was internally debating whether I was naturally calm or drugged out of my mind. "Do you really think I can do it? Do you believe in me?" I almost fell out of my chair. How could she think this way? Why would she think otherwise? And then I realized... I had never said it, never said it out loud--that I believed in her abilities and potential.

I looked her square in the eyes and responded with a firm YES. She got up and I thought it was to come over for a hug but instead, she walked past me, with determination in her eyes. That evening, she worked for two hours straight and not once asked me for any help--although I lingered in the hallway, just outside her door.

I call her my dreamer twin in contrast to my vet twin which connotes the idea that one has her future decided while the other is still finding her way. I realized to dream is better than not dreaming at all.

And today, as she approached me with wide, shining eyes, and handed over her math test that she studied for the night before, with a huge 92% marking on the first page, I knew I needed to keep her bubble intact.


"The finest gift you can give anyone is encouragement. Yet, almost no one gets the encouragement they need to grow to their full potential. If everyone received the encouragement they need to grow, the genius in most everyone would blossom and the world would produce abundance beyond the wildest dreams. We would have more than one Einstein, Edison, Schweitzer, Mother Theresa, Dr. Salk and other great minds in a century." Sidney Madwed

Friday, October 8, 2010

Epiphanies in the stove

Friday night, I kicked everyone out of the house. I opened the windows and breathed in the fresh air. As soon as I heard the car door slam, I knew I was free. Even with the onslaught of Fall, it felt like an Indian summer with the warm breeze hugging every corner of my lovely abode.

I could have grabbed my purse and ran out to shop. Or ran out to have coffee with a friend. Or ran out to take a walk. A million things to do and only two hours to do them in. I stood out in my backyard, on my deck, and looked at the trees. Listened to the birds, and pondered life as I knew it. And then I put on my rubber gloves.

Squeeze me?

Yes, I went indoors, slapped on the rubbers and got to work. Removed one burner at a time and sprayed the inside of the oven with the most repelling oven cleaner known to mankind. I hid my nose under my t-shirt and turned on the exhaust fan. Inhaling the toxic fumes only made my existing cough even worse. And I scrubbed. Yes, I do not have a self-cleaning oven. You are looking at her. And for years, I have refused to bow down to peer pressure to get one. And the other pressure of hiring a cleaning lady. You see, I LIKE to clean. And for me, its therapy. I don't need a psychiatrist to tell me how I am feeling, what I am feeling and why I am feeling this way. My stove has all the answers. The harder it is to clean an item, the more I get out of it and walk away content and relieved.

If you want to really know me, talk to me when I am cleaning. Especially when I am mad. I have been known to stop, in the middle of an argument, grab a Windex bottle, some paper towels and start wiping down a counter, much to the surprise of the other person.

When I am happy, I clean. When I am pissed off, I clean. When I am sad, I clean. When I want to reflect and be myself, I clean. And if the world is a mess around me, I cannot sit down until its clean.

Wash away my sins, impurities, negativity and the wrongs in my life. Order to the chaos. And it is the only thing I can control.

The Girl in the Mirror

As she walked into the room, all eyes were on her. The flutter of her eyelids, the curve in the small of her back, the luminous shine in her hair, the mystery behind her stare. Her intent was to be invisible and study the environment around her. But instead, she became the object of study. In her smooth movements where her dress sashayed towards the corner of the room, she encountered stares from everyone--male and female alike. And as she approached the end of the line and turned to face her audience, she paused before looking up. What is wrong with me, she immediately concluded. She sighed heavily and then raised her gaze.

He stood before her, a stranger with kind eyes and a genuine smile. And when he began to sing, her peripheral vision blurred and it was only the two of them alone - and she learned that her worst critic, was in the corner of the room...

Oh her eyes, her eyes
Make the stars look like they're not shining
Her hair, her hair
Falls perfectly without her trying

She's so beautiful
And I tell her every day

Yeah I know, I know
When I compliment her
She wont believe me
And its so, its so
Sad to think she don't see what I see

But every time she asks me do I look okay
I say

When I see your face
There's not a thing that I would change
Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are
And when you smile,
The whole world stops and stares for awhile
Cause girl you're amazing
Just the way you are

Her lips, her lips
I could kiss them all day if she'd let me
Her laugh, her laugh
She hates but I think its so sexy

She's so beautiful
And I tell her every day

Oh you know, you know, you know
Id never ask you to change
If perfect is what you're searching for
Then just stay the same

So don't even bother asking
If you look okay
You know I say

When I see your face
There's not a thing that I would change
Cause you're amazing
Just the way you are
And when you smile,
The whole world stops and stares for awhile
Cause girl you're amazing
Just the way you are




Don't change for anyone, because you are loved just the way you are.

Friday, October 1, 2010

Pakistan taught me to...

One thing that struck me while on my trip was the notion of time.


Whereas the day flies in North America, it didn't go fast enough for me while in Pakistan. Many would argue had I had a good time, the time would go faster. But I disagree. Life was just different. Or was it me?


Sure, we were busy (when there wasn't loadshedding) but it reminded me of my teenage years - lying in the backyard, staring up at the sky and forming shapes of the clouds, wondering when time would hurry up so I could grow up and finally be free.


Its a funny concept. Liberation. But what does it really mean? Well in Pakistan, it could have meant having the basic enemities which majority of the population lacked. Or walking freely outside. Or speaking English without fear. Or going outside without worrying about what you were wearing. Its highly subjective. All I know was that Pakistani life was too slow for me and therefore, suffocating. Despite the hustle and bustle, the over-population, the conjestion and the 'in your face' factor, everyone in Pakistan was just TOO RELAXED.


Squeeze me?


It has been pointed out to me how fast I: walk, talk, eat, work, cook, clean, drive, read, react...ok, you get the picture. As far as I can remember, I have always been hurrying to get things done. I remember my father rushing me out of the house as if someone was going to steal our car, rushing me to eat as if my food would disappear, rushing me to fill out my university applications, as if these learning institutions would change their mind. If I took time to formulate an argument about why I wanted to extend my curfew to 8pm to 9pm, he would interject and tell me it was too late to defend myself. I was never fast enough.


In Pakistan, I found myself flying past Ruby on the stairs as she sauntered around conducting her errands. Or I would hurriedly set the table while my relatives lounged in the sitting room talking about nonsensical things while I waited at the dinnertable, by myself at 10pm. I almost tripped over Bucka (or Buckoo) trying to get into the car to go for a shopping trip. I could have sworn that the goats exhanged strange glances with each other while I piled into the car and ask them to drive out, even though the gate was still closed. I just couldn't slow down.


Looking back, I thought my trip would go faster if I went faster. Instead, I was a hyperactive, multi-tasking octopus, trying to get errands done, shopping done, visiting done, gift-giving done, banking done, sightseeing done, loadshedding over with, etc. Even when we were leaving the country, as the passport officer nonchalantly flipped through the blank pages of my passport, I steamed in my own impatience.


The ache to go home was overwhelming but a part of me was telling me to SLOW IT RIGHT DOWN. I was not going to get this experience back so I needed to block out the past and the future and just concentrate on the present. But my brain was wired to the fast paced life I had created for the last 40 years. Rewiring would require a lobotomy.



The irony is that I long for that time when I was a teenager again, lying in my backyard... but this time, wishing the opposite. To enjoy my youth, close my eyes and live in the moment...hindsight is 20/20.