For two years, it was only about me. And although I grew out of the colic, just as the doctor said I would, I was still an anomaly that my parents were trying to figure out.
By the age of two, I had none of the following:
-recognizable speech patterns
-baby teeth (yes, I mean NO TEETH)
-ability to walk unassisted
This infuriated my father whose weekly visits caused much eye-rolling and despair for my pediatrician and his staff. I was supposed to be a boy. When that didn't pan out, I was supposed to be his prodigy. I know my mother was equally concerned but she never showed it. She was patient and knew that I would take my time to blossom.
My father despaired and he took his anger out on the doctor.
"She gums everything because she has no teeth! I have no clue what she is talking about and would rather sign like the deaf woman on Sesame Street. She continues to crawl even though I have caught her walking when she needs to. Are you sure she doesn't have any mental issues?" My fathers eyes were wide and the vein his forehead was bulging.
The exasperated doctor looked at my mother who in turn looked at her own feet. She never interrupted my father or shared her own opinions except when asked to.
"I want to assure you, there is nothing wrong with your daughter. You must understand that every child develops in their own time. Each time you come to me, you ask the same questions and I keep assuring you that she is normal. You just need to let her grow into her body. She is healthy and eating with no visible medical issues. She is adjusting for all the lateness and you will need to adjust as well."
Perhaps my father wanted the doctor to take out his pad and prescribe a magic pill or refer us to a specialist but he did no such thing. He stood his ground and asked for my parent's patience.
It did not satisfy my father. He felt enough was not being done to challenge my intelligence (or lack thereof, according to him). My mother tried reading to me, singing, colouring and practicing my handwriting or taking me out and meeting others within our building; however the only pastime I enjoyed was watching television.
While my mother cleaned and cooked, I would sit, hours on end, on many occasions alone in front of our black and white television set with the antenna ears that were constantly being adjusted by my father when he came home after work to watch his news. I have a distant memory of watching the news with him, the volume at its peak so that he would not miss a word from the commentator. If I cried, he would motion my mother to remove me from the room which only made me cry harder. The television was my toy and something I could not share, even with him.
I think I did my parents a favour. I looked at their experience with me as "breaking new ground" thereby making it easier for them to handle another child in the event my mother was to have more children.
The Ice Breaker. No longer would they need to tread carefully because they knew what to expect with me. And I certainly challenged them in every aspect now that was a force to be reckoned with.
What they would not know realize were the dynamics of having another child with me at the helm....
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Life as we know it
I can only imagine how hard it is to leave the life that you know behind. And it must have really been hard after living almost 28 years in a place where all your family resides and there is emotional support and someone to turn to.
My mother left everything and everyone behind after one year of marriage to come to Canada. From what I know, she was against the idea but her family insisted that it was the best move. Being offered the chance to move to the 'land of opportunity' was something people in Pakistan did not take lightly. Even after visiting Pakistan last year, I felt the energy around me--the energy of people who looked at you with stars in there eyes the minute they knew you were from abroad. Everyone wanted to get out and move to the West and my father was no exception. With his brother already studying in Canada, he was ready to take his bride with him.
My mother's family had to do some pretty hefty convincing. She was adamant about not wanting to go but now that she was married, the traditional expectation was that her place was with her husband. There would be none of her own family in Canada to support her and the existing Pakistani community was quite small although growing.
This was her first sacrifice.
By now, my parents had moved out of the attic in the house to an apartment. I can only imagine the lonely days she spent at home, caring for a colicky baby, staring out to the city below her, covered in snow. She was too timid to venture out alone with me. I was unpredictable and many times I had thrown a crying fit in the cab on route to the pediatrician's office.
Our thumb-knawing sessions not only soothed me but her as well.
But she later told me when she felt desolate, empty and homesick, she would turn to me for solace.
Little did I know, when I wailed due to whatever was ailing me at the time, she muffled her cries for the life she had left behind.
My mother left everything and everyone behind after one year of marriage to come to Canada. From what I know, she was against the idea but her family insisted that it was the best move. Being offered the chance to move to the 'land of opportunity' was something people in Pakistan did not take lightly. Even after visiting Pakistan last year, I felt the energy around me--the energy of people who looked at you with stars in there eyes the minute they knew you were from abroad. Everyone wanted to get out and move to the West and my father was no exception. With his brother already studying in Canada, he was ready to take his bride with him.
My mother's family had to do some pretty hefty convincing. She was adamant about not wanting to go but now that she was married, the traditional expectation was that her place was with her husband. There would be none of her own family in Canada to support her and the existing Pakistani community was quite small although growing.
This was her first sacrifice.
By now, my parents had moved out of the attic in the house to an apartment. I can only imagine the lonely days she spent at home, caring for a colicky baby, staring out to the city below her, covered in snow. She was too timid to venture out alone with me. I was unpredictable and many times I had thrown a crying fit in the cab on route to the pediatrician's office.
Our thumb-knawing sessions not only soothed me but her as well.
But she later told me when she felt desolate, empty and homesick, she would turn to me for solace.
Little did I know, when I wailed due to whatever was ailing me at the time, she muffled her cries for the life she had left behind.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Hand me some love
He walked through the door after a long day of working when she presented me to him. I was half-dangling from her arm thus prompting my father to quickly drop his bags.
"Take her. I have slept only a few hours during the night and she did not let me nap today," my exhausted mother remarked as my father removed his overcoat and reluctantly took me in his arms. She had dark circles around her eyes, and as she slumped back into the kitchen to make rotis, he noticed her holding her back.
Although they never verbalized it, I assumed I was the baby from hell. Awake all night and barely sleeping during the day. The doctor told them I had colic but they were sure I was possessed. What baby hardly slept in the first three months of life?
My father took me to the sparsely furnished living room over to the rocking chair that creaked. Back and forth we swayed with the hope that the motion would soothe me and intoxicate me enough to slumber. But I clawed at his shoulder and rubbed my nose onto his cheek. I was irritated and his five o'clock shadow irritated me more.
"Has she been like this all day," he shouted to my mother in the kitchen. She was tired, aggravated and nodded slightly in response. He put me in his lap and looked at me with a glare. "You will sleep the whole night. I have to work and put food on the table. We all need our sleep, you know." I glared back and stuck my fist in my mouth to chew on my imaginary food. No use, Father. I am a nocturnal creature who will unfold my wings and haunt you by spreading my colic everywhere. Your few short hours with me will resonate with you into the night; so much so that you will never forget the day I entered into this world...
My father told me that while my mother desparately needed to sleep, he could not watch me at night. He had to work the next day therefore since she was home with me, she would and should find the time to sleep when I was put down. In essence, a logical piece of advice but the trouble was, I did not allow her that luxury. The minute I was asleep and put down in the crib, I would wake up five minutes later, screaming like a banshee. According to my father, this went on all night and all day to the point where my mother's dark circles would precipitate a call to the pediatrician's office from my father on a daily basis.
Diaper clean? Check. Finished 4 ounces of milk? Check. No inexplicable rashes on the body? Check. Burped after feeding? Check. Gaining weight? Check. Alert and aware? Check, but a little too much...No, that seems normal--alertness is good. No need to bring her in. NO NEED TO BRING HER IN....She is fine. Not much known on the topic but colic seems to be one of those diseases that has no rhyme or reason. Bear with us, sir. She will grow out of it....No sir, you cannot return her...
For many years, since early childhood, I had a re-occuring dream. Well at least I thought it was a dream but soon found out it was a distant memory that my mother could not believe. I was sitting in her lap, with her hand in my hands. I was facing away from her but nevertheless, I remembered the soothing feeling of holding her.
My mother had beautiful white, large hands. Nothing about her was petite. My bone structure has been inherited from my father's side of the family. When people see my wrists, they wrap their hands around it in amazement--so small, bony and petite you are, they comment. Then I get the side-long glance and further analysis of my hands and wrists resulting in the feeling that I am extra-terrestrial.
My mother's hands were an enigma to me, however as the years went by, I realized they represented so much more. They were my protectors, my sustenance, my ultimate connection to her. While my memories of her face sometimes eludes me, her hands seem to occupy my thoughts.
I asked my mother when I was around 17 years of age if I sat on her lap as a baby and sucked her thumb. She turned to me in amazement.
"Did your father tell you this story?"
"No," I replied puzzled at her reaction. "I seem to remember sitting in your lap with the side of your thumb in my mouth."
"How do you remember this? You were only a few months old!"
I paused, trying to remember whether she had told me the story but I was pretty sure she hadn't. She put her knitting down and smiled while shaking her head.
"Your father would be sleeping in the bedroom and I would take you out to the living room and sit in the rocker with the small lamp on so not to disturb him. You would sit in my lap and somehow find my thumb and knaw on it for hours. It was the only thing that soothed you. You would not fall asleep but you were very quiet and focused and needed complete silence. Every night for four months, we went through the same routine, without your father knowing. He thought you and I were asleep in the living room. Oddly enough, you only did this with me; you never attempted to bite your father."
"Maybe you tasted better," I laughed. She continued to stare at me in disbelief. "I do not understand how you could remember so far back. I have no pictures and I never told anyone this story."
"Why?"
"Because your father wanted his firstborn to be a son. I couldn't ruin your reputation and let him know you had me up ALL NIGHT, now could I?" My heart swelled up like a balloon. I wanted to run and hug her on the spot. She smiled sweetly at me but soon her disposition changed.
She picked up her knitting without dropping her gaze. "One day soon, I will die. And when I do, protect your children the same way I protected you," she said quite non-chalantly. No one expects their 46 year old mother to make such a blanket statement.
I felt my heart skip a beat. Did I hear her right? I looked up at her but she had returned to her knitting quietly and refused to look back at me, even after I implored her to repeat herself. She did not respond. I sat for a very long time and stared at her hands while she furiously knitted one line after another. "One day soon" came too fast. There was a storm outside while I watched the pathetic fallacy unfold. My heart thundered in my chest in response to her forewarning.
Even after 17 years, while I watched her knit, her hands were still large, white and beautiful.
And they are a constant reminder to the nightly hardship she endured that got me through my infancy...
"Take her. I have slept only a few hours during the night and she did not let me nap today," my exhausted mother remarked as my father removed his overcoat and reluctantly took me in his arms. She had dark circles around her eyes, and as she slumped back into the kitchen to make rotis, he noticed her holding her back.
Although they never verbalized it, I assumed I was the baby from hell. Awake all night and barely sleeping during the day. The doctor told them I had colic but they were sure I was possessed. What baby hardly slept in the first three months of life?
My father took me to the sparsely furnished living room over to the rocking chair that creaked. Back and forth we swayed with the hope that the motion would soothe me and intoxicate me enough to slumber. But I clawed at his shoulder and rubbed my nose onto his cheek. I was irritated and his five o'clock shadow irritated me more.
"Has she been like this all day," he shouted to my mother in the kitchen. She was tired, aggravated and nodded slightly in response. He put me in his lap and looked at me with a glare. "You will sleep the whole night. I have to work and put food on the table. We all need our sleep, you know." I glared back and stuck my fist in my mouth to chew on my imaginary food. No use, Father. I am a nocturnal creature who will unfold my wings and haunt you by spreading my colic everywhere. Your few short hours with me will resonate with you into the night; so much so that you will never forget the day I entered into this world...
My father told me that while my mother desparately needed to sleep, he could not watch me at night. He had to work the next day therefore since she was home with me, she would and should find the time to sleep when I was put down. In essence, a logical piece of advice but the trouble was, I did not allow her that luxury. The minute I was asleep and put down in the crib, I would wake up five minutes later, screaming like a banshee. According to my father, this went on all night and all day to the point where my mother's dark circles would precipitate a call to the pediatrician's office from my father on a daily basis.
Diaper clean? Check. Finished 4 ounces of milk? Check. No inexplicable rashes on the body? Check. Burped after feeding? Check. Gaining weight? Check. Alert and aware? Check, but a little too much...No, that seems normal--alertness is good. No need to bring her in. NO NEED TO BRING HER IN....She is fine. Not much known on the topic but colic seems to be one of those diseases that has no rhyme or reason. Bear with us, sir. She will grow out of it....No sir, you cannot return her...
For many years, since early childhood, I had a re-occuring dream. Well at least I thought it was a dream but soon found out it was a distant memory that my mother could not believe. I was sitting in her lap, with her hand in my hands. I was facing away from her but nevertheless, I remembered the soothing feeling of holding her.
My mother had beautiful white, large hands. Nothing about her was petite. My bone structure has been inherited from my father's side of the family. When people see my wrists, they wrap their hands around it in amazement--so small, bony and petite you are, they comment. Then I get the side-long glance and further analysis of my hands and wrists resulting in the feeling that I am extra-terrestrial.
My mother's hands were an enigma to me, however as the years went by, I realized they represented so much more. They were my protectors, my sustenance, my ultimate connection to her. While my memories of her face sometimes eludes me, her hands seem to occupy my thoughts.
I asked my mother when I was around 17 years of age if I sat on her lap as a baby and sucked her thumb. She turned to me in amazement.
"Did your father tell you this story?"
"No," I replied puzzled at her reaction. "I seem to remember sitting in your lap with the side of your thumb in my mouth."
"How do you remember this? You were only a few months old!"
I paused, trying to remember whether she had told me the story but I was pretty sure she hadn't. She put her knitting down and smiled while shaking her head.
"Your father would be sleeping in the bedroom and I would take you out to the living room and sit in the rocker with the small lamp on so not to disturb him. You would sit in my lap and somehow find my thumb and knaw on it for hours. It was the only thing that soothed you. You would not fall asleep but you were very quiet and focused and needed complete silence. Every night for four months, we went through the same routine, without your father knowing. He thought you and I were asleep in the living room. Oddly enough, you only did this with me; you never attempted to bite your father."
"Maybe you tasted better," I laughed. She continued to stare at me in disbelief. "I do not understand how you could remember so far back. I have no pictures and I never told anyone this story."
"Why?"
"Because your father wanted his firstborn to be a son. I couldn't ruin your reputation and let him know you had me up ALL NIGHT, now could I?" My heart swelled up like a balloon. I wanted to run and hug her on the spot. She smiled sweetly at me but soon her disposition changed.
She picked up her knitting without dropping her gaze. "One day soon, I will die. And when I do, protect your children the same way I protected you," she said quite non-chalantly. No one expects their 46 year old mother to make such a blanket statement.
I felt my heart skip a beat. Did I hear her right? I looked up at her but she had returned to her knitting quietly and refused to look back at me, even after I implored her to repeat herself. She did not respond. I sat for a very long time and stared at her hands while she furiously knitted one line after another. "One day soon" came too fast. There was a storm outside while I watched the pathetic fallacy unfold. My heart thundered in my chest in response to her forewarning.
Even after 17 years, while I watched her knit, her hands were still large, white and beautiful.
And they are a constant reminder to the nightly hardship she endured that got me through my infancy...
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Light of a Candle
I was born on Wednesday, October 14, 1970. My parents married in December of 1969 and technically, I was conceived on January 21, 1970--also on a Wednesday.
Of course, I don't remember my birth. I have yet to meet someone who has. But I have built a vision, after piecing together the events told to me secondhand, thereby creating a visual I carry around for myself today.
My parents did not own a car. When my father moved to Toronto with my pregnant mother, they found a house owned by an elder Chinese couple who were renting out the attic portion. My father was eager to start working (as he would soon be supporting three) and embarked on foot to many job opportunities. My mother made that attic their new home and prepared it for my birth.
When she could no longer take the pangs of labour, my parents took a cab to the nearest hospital. After many, many hours, I was born. I learned years later that my father took it upon himself to name all three children. I was born on a Wednesday and stayed exactly one week in the hospital.
The day my parents left to take me home, my father was holding me in his arms as they stepped out into the parking lot and approached the stationed taxi. It was snowing lightly. When he looked down at me, I was breathing as to blow away the flurries on my face. This delighted him. The skies were darker with the snow but this baby, in a pure white blanket with ivory skin and jet black hair seemed to illuminate his heart.
When he walked in the door after they arrived home, he turned to my mother and exclaimed that he knew what he would name me. My namesake was an original, old Hindu name from pre-colonial India. It struck me as odd since we celebrated our independance as Pakistanis and there was a staunch stand differentiating both cultures. However, in the end, he chose the name for its meaning.
Light of a Candle.
And trust me--from that day on, my parents had been trying to blow that candle out from the minute I was born. According to my zodiac sign, Libra, I am the following:
No ordinary person, full imagination and originality, shy and reserved, ambitious, proud, self-respect, hungers for new experiences, sometimes nervous, many complexes, good memory, learns easily, complicated love life, wants to impress.
You are about to learn how these attributes were shaped and formed from the time I was introduced to the world on that autumn yet snowy day...a precursor for nothing ordinary...as my father coined it.
Of course, I don't remember my birth. I have yet to meet someone who has. But I have built a vision, after piecing together the events told to me secondhand, thereby creating a visual I carry around for myself today.
My parents did not own a car. When my father moved to Toronto with my pregnant mother, they found a house owned by an elder Chinese couple who were renting out the attic portion. My father was eager to start working (as he would soon be supporting three) and embarked on foot to many job opportunities. My mother made that attic their new home and prepared it for my birth.
When she could no longer take the pangs of labour, my parents took a cab to the nearest hospital. After many, many hours, I was born. I learned years later that my father took it upon himself to name all three children. I was born on a Wednesday and stayed exactly one week in the hospital.
The day my parents left to take me home, my father was holding me in his arms as they stepped out into the parking lot and approached the stationed taxi. It was snowing lightly. When he looked down at me, I was breathing as to blow away the flurries on my face. This delighted him. The skies were darker with the snow but this baby, in a pure white blanket with ivory skin and jet black hair seemed to illuminate his heart.
When he walked in the door after they arrived home, he turned to my mother and exclaimed that he knew what he would name me. My namesake was an original, old Hindu name from pre-colonial India. It struck me as odd since we celebrated our independance as Pakistanis and there was a staunch stand differentiating both cultures. However, in the end, he chose the name for its meaning.
Light of a Candle.
And trust me--from that day on, my parents had been trying to blow that candle out from the minute I was born. According to my zodiac sign, Libra, I am the following:
No ordinary person, full imagination and originality, shy and reserved, ambitious, proud, self-respect, hungers for new experiences, sometimes nervous, many complexes, good memory, learns easily, complicated love life, wants to impress.
You are about to learn how these attributes were shaped and formed from the time I was introduced to the world on that autumn yet snowy day...a precursor for nothing ordinary...as my father coined it.
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Blue Eyes
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ~Kahlil Gibran
I wrote him a letter, that in the end, I could not send.
The selfish me wanted to buy time, wanted to extend the illusion of him being around, waiting for me.
He would not see me and this made me cry. And it took me awhile to understand the reason why.
Love me for me and remember the past, for the future holds too many truths.
My chest was heavy with the burden of inheriting a loss beyond reason.
The words flew onto paper without heed or focus - the unleashing of pent up emotions trying to find a place to escape to.
Only to find incomplete solace in the darkness of the night.
I wanted to envelope his pain, blanket his suffering and vacuum away the C. But they beat me in the race to the blue ocean.
And I cried and cried -- and my tears created such enormous waves, that for one split second, I lost sight of him.
But he surfaced and then I saw him - just his eyes, with that familiar crinkle around the corners that told me he was smiling. And just as suddenly as they appeared, his blue eyes disappeared and melted into the blue ocean. And a calm swept over me like never before. And the heaviness was released from my chest.
I waded my feet in the water, but many times, without hesitation, he jumped into the ocean without fear. And how I admired and watched him from afar. He made it so easy, made it so desirable, made it his priority. And I watched, while standing on the unmoving earth and was mesmerized by it all.
The waves have settled, the water is shallow and I wade in the sea, waiting to meet you. Don't venture too far out, but if you must, I understand. For I am not alone. The memories have washed ashore and there are many shells strewn everywhere.
I pick up one seashell and hold it close to my ear. Love me for me, he whispers.
I do, Blue Eyes, as I run and jump into the ocean...
I wrote him a letter, that in the end, I could not send.
The selfish me wanted to buy time, wanted to extend the illusion of him being around, waiting for me.
He would not see me and this made me cry. And it took me awhile to understand the reason why.
Love me for me and remember the past, for the future holds too many truths.
My chest was heavy with the burden of inheriting a loss beyond reason.
The words flew onto paper without heed or focus - the unleashing of pent up emotions trying to find a place to escape to.
Only to find incomplete solace in the darkness of the night.
I wanted to envelope his pain, blanket his suffering and vacuum away the C. But they beat me in the race to the blue ocean.
And I cried and cried -- and my tears created such enormous waves, that for one split second, I lost sight of him.
But he surfaced and then I saw him - just his eyes, with that familiar crinkle around the corners that told me he was smiling. And just as suddenly as they appeared, his blue eyes disappeared and melted into the blue ocean. And a calm swept over me like never before. And the heaviness was released from my chest.
I waded my feet in the water, but many times, without hesitation, he jumped into the ocean without fear. And how I admired and watched him from afar. He made it so easy, made it so desirable, made it his priority. And I watched, while standing on the unmoving earth and was mesmerized by it all.
The waves have settled, the water is shallow and I wade in the sea, waiting to meet you. Don't venture too far out, but if you must, I understand. For I am not alone. The memories have washed ashore and there are many shells strewn everywhere.
I pick up one seashell and hold it close to my ear. Love me for me, he whispers.
I do, Blue Eyes, as I run and jump into the ocean...
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Its the journey--not the destination
Growing up, I was often confounded with the idea whether or not the grass was greener on the other side.
As youth, we do not have enough skills to understand things beyond face value. We grow mostly with inner reflection and a selfish right to not look beyond what we feel. And it presents a facade--something that we are not willing to dissect until many, many years later.
I would not trade my formulative years for anything; it was a journey I had to take to reach a semi-destination today. Ultimately, what is the true destination? Is it a goal we make in life? Does it continue beyond that goal onto another? Or does it end with death? Or go beyond this inevitable state, to a place that the mind cannot even imagine?
The cliched remark, "Hindsight is 20/20" does allude to the fact that in everyone's case a journey must be embarked on to learn the truths today.
And as with the Romantic Elliptical, I will take you along another journey....back to my childhood.
As youth, we do not have enough skills to understand things beyond face value. We grow mostly with inner reflection and a selfish right to not look beyond what we feel. And it presents a facade--something that we are not willing to dissect until many, many years later.
I would not trade my formulative years for anything; it was a journey I had to take to reach a semi-destination today. Ultimately, what is the true destination? Is it a goal we make in life? Does it continue beyond that goal onto another? Or does it end with death? Or go beyond this inevitable state, to a place that the mind cannot even imagine?
The cliched remark, "Hindsight is 20/20" does allude to the fact that in everyone's case a journey must be embarked on to learn the truths today.
And as with the Romantic Elliptical, I will take you along another journey....back to my childhood.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Does romance=heart?
For those of you who were following all seventy chapters of my last saga, "The Romantic Elliptical" the discovery that I was not a romantic shook a few of my readers and I wanted to share some interesting feedback.
The one comment that stood out was based on my experience. The question posed was: "Had you not had an arranged marriage and did the dating scene, you would learn to be romantic when thrown into rituals of courtship." I had to think about this one.
My experience in dating was close to nil. However, does it entail a physical element? With my first fiancee, we communicated without physical dating through letter-writing where we were sharing our innermost thoughts, ambitions, opinions and emotions. I felt this to be a deep relationship although it lacked the physical relationship. Juxtapose this will any physical relationship I "may or may not" have had--minus the emotions. Is romance at play in either situation?
Ironically, in either situation, there was no romance on my part. Even if the other party felt that he was romancing me.
Squeeze me?
Yes, I know the above sounds convuluded. So let me break it down:
Emotional relationships on a mental and spiritual level does not need romance to substantiate it.
A purely physical relationship that is not contingent on a emotional attachment does not need romance to warrant it either.
Therefore, I can emphatically say, even if my marriage was not arranged, I do not think I would be the romantic others think I should be!
The other comment was about my romantic influences. I read 18th century novels, Victorian novels and many other works from the Romantic period. I watch chick flicks that are romantic, I include romantic quotes in my blog posts...OK... I get the point! However, just because I have romantic tendencies, does not mean I am a true romantic.
Is not being a romantic allude to the fact that I am missing a sensitivity chip? Can one just be practical and have a normal relationship? Or am I abnormal due to the lack of romance right from the beginning?
Does romance=heart?
We are our own worst critics but I do think I am:
empathetic
kind
giving
warm
sympathetic
helpful
The above comes from the 'heart' but romance is missing from the list. Is my heart any less significant?
Does no romance=mind?
The one comment that stood out was based on my experience. The question posed was: "Had you not had an arranged marriage and did the dating scene, you would learn to be romantic when thrown into rituals of courtship." I had to think about this one.
My experience in dating was close to nil. However, does it entail a physical element? With my first fiancee, we communicated without physical dating through letter-writing where we were sharing our innermost thoughts, ambitions, opinions and emotions. I felt this to be a deep relationship although it lacked the physical relationship. Juxtapose this will any physical relationship I "may or may not" have had--minus the emotions. Is romance at play in either situation?
Ironically, in either situation, there was no romance on my part. Even if the other party felt that he was romancing me.
Squeeze me?
Yes, I know the above sounds convuluded. So let me break it down:
Emotional relationships on a mental and spiritual level does not need romance to substantiate it.
A purely physical relationship that is not contingent on a emotional attachment does not need romance to warrant it either.
Therefore, I can emphatically say, even if my marriage was not arranged, I do not think I would be the romantic others think I should be!
The other comment was about my romantic influences. I read 18th century novels, Victorian novels and many other works from the Romantic period. I watch chick flicks that are romantic, I include romantic quotes in my blog posts...OK... I get the point! However, just because I have romantic tendencies, does not mean I am a true romantic.
Is not being a romantic allude to the fact that I am missing a sensitivity chip? Can one just be practical and have a normal relationship? Or am I abnormal due to the lack of romance right from the beginning?
Does romance=heart?
We are our own worst critics but I do think I am:
empathetic
kind
giving
warm
sympathetic
helpful
The above comes from the 'heart' but romance is missing from the list. Is my heart any less significant?
Does no romance=mind?
Monday, September 26, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 70, Conclusion: Oiling the Elliptical
I was astounded at the date of my last post. August 7th. It has been over a month and a half and I was experiencing a dry spell--a complete and utter case of writer's block. It happens to the best of us, but quite honestly, never to me.
I have been writing most of my life. It started in Grade Five. I started writing in my diary. Recording my thoughts, ideas and perceptions of life. Then I graduated to writing short stories and poems. Writing has always been my outlet. When I was mad, I wrote angry letters to the people who caused my anger. When I was sad, I wrote. When I was brimming with happiness, I wrote. And from that day on, I really have not stopped. In some shape or form, I needed to 'put things down on paper'. So when I was rounding to my conclusion of "The Romantic Elliptical" saga, I lost track of where I was going with this; unsure how I would end it. With the hurdles of life and juggling work, family and my own needs, I got lost in an abyss and it took everything I had in me to get out and finish it.
There is always a time for firsts.
So after 70 blog posts or chapters (as some readers have recognized these insights to be) we come full circle. Or perhaps I get off the elliptical now. Its been a long, arduous ride, with ups and downs, increased heart rates, taking it slow and riding it out until reaching that consistent, regulated heartbeat. The heartbeat that started with absolutely no romance or courtship.
Squeeze me?
"An elliptical trainer or cross-trainer is a stationary exercise machine used to simulate stair climbing, walking, or running without causing excessive pressure to the joints, hence decreasing the risk of impact injuries. For this reason, people with some injuries are able to use an elliptical to stay fit, as the low impact affects them little."
Maybe I got the short end of the stick by means of an arranged marriage. Low impact romance. No fireworks, no chasing, no pursuit, no wooing.
Perhaps you get on the elliptical and like any marriage, you have to work hard at it. Keep the machine oiled, send it for maintenance but keep on it for your own health.
Let me tell you, there was many times I wanted to get off and chuck it to the curb!! But like any marriage, it entails hard to work to keep going. I married a pragmatic, practical man who deep down knew what made me tick all these years. Sure I got strange stares when I would tell people I got an elliptical on my anniversary or running shoes for my birthday instead of a romantic getaway for two to Paris or a diamond anniversary band.
And inevitably, I would gush, oooh and awe about stories of their romantic proposals, awesome getaways and specially planned surprises evoking the most emotional responses from friends, family and what the media churned out in most chick flicks. Thinking I was missing out on something. I read about it, heard about it and watched it over the years but as I learned more about my husband, I realized I was learning equally about myself.
I did not have an earth-shattering epiphany that awoke me in the middle of the night. My thoughts about having an unconventional marriage embarressed me at first. But trying to fit the status quo in the society instead gave me more grief. And it was a slow learning process as I evolved over the years to understand that it wasn't them--it was me. Even though romance surrounded me in many forms, when encountering it at any point, it was surreal to me and I didn't know how to react to it.
And slowly, I came to the ultimate realization...that I am not a romantic. It infiltrated my life in many ways but not enough to make me think I missed out on it. Romanticism for us was a thing that was artificially produced and awkward. Sad for some but true -- and no matter how much we tried, it came out too fabricated and cheesy. Our love is practical and by no means any less in value just because the romance factor is missing.
Love comes in differents forms, shapes and sizes. One size does not fit all. And surely, we made our own elliptical mould.
You could know each other for ten minutes or live together for ten years or enter an arranged marriage like I did. No matter how you look at it, it is a risk you take. Across the board, in any culture, religion or mindset you possess. And in the end, it is what you make of it or don't.
The romantic elliptical is an lollapalooza. You either have it or you don't. Of course, an elliptical is not romantic. But I do love my elliptical because it does what it is supposed to do. But romance is subjective for me. I may hear that a couple has a romantic date night each week--but do they communicate? Someone may say that they went for a romantic vacation but are their interests so different that they did not see the sites together? There is always something they are not telling you.
And for the those who solemnly swear they have it all, with romance intact, I salute you and bid you both the very best. No sarcasm here or ill intent. Really, I admire the life long love affairs. But don't tell me its not hard work or there are no bumps, falls or hiccups along the way. Coz then, you are a walking chick flick.
I leave you with this quote. And here comes the subjectivity. To some, it is very romantic and to others, a lesson in practicality. I remember reading it in my first year of high school and it has stuck with me all these years because I have always been a communicator, to a fault--be it verbal or in written word. For better or for worse.
Even on that damned elliptical, you cannot shut me up ;)
Never close your lips to those whom you have opened your heart. -- Charles Dickens
I have been writing most of my life. It started in Grade Five. I started writing in my diary. Recording my thoughts, ideas and perceptions of life. Then I graduated to writing short stories and poems. Writing has always been my outlet. When I was mad, I wrote angry letters to the people who caused my anger. When I was sad, I wrote. When I was brimming with happiness, I wrote. And from that day on, I really have not stopped. In some shape or form, I needed to 'put things down on paper'. So when I was rounding to my conclusion of "The Romantic Elliptical" saga, I lost track of where I was going with this; unsure how I would end it. With the hurdles of life and juggling work, family and my own needs, I got lost in an abyss and it took everything I had in me to get out and finish it.
There is always a time for firsts.
So after 70 blog posts or chapters (as some readers have recognized these insights to be) we come full circle. Or perhaps I get off the elliptical now. Its been a long, arduous ride, with ups and downs, increased heart rates, taking it slow and riding it out until reaching that consistent, regulated heartbeat. The heartbeat that started with absolutely no romance or courtship.
Squeeze me?
"An elliptical trainer or cross-trainer is a stationary exercise machine used to simulate stair climbing, walking, or running without causing excessive pressure to the joints, hence decreasing the risk of impact injuries. For this reason, people with some injuries are able to use an elliptical to stay fit, as the low impact affects them little."
Maybe I got the short end of the stick by means of an arranged marriage. Low impact romance. No fireworks, no chasing, no pursuit, no wooing.
Perhaps you get on the elliptical and like any marriage, you have to work hard at it. Keep the machine oiled, send it for maintenance but keep on it for your own health.
Let me tell you, there was many times I wanted to get off and chuck it to the curb!! But like any marriage, it entails hard to work to keep going. I married a pragmatic, practical man who deep down knew what made me tick all these years. Sure I got strange stares when I would tell people I got an elliptical on my anniversary or running shoes for my birthday instead of a romantic getaway for two to Paris or a diamond anniversary band.
And inevitably, I would gush, oooh and awe about stories of their romantic proposals, awesome getaways and specially planned surprises evoking the most emotional responses from friends, family and what the media churned out in most chick flicks. Thinking I was missing out on something. I read about it, heard about it and watched it over the years but as I learned more about my husband, I realized I was learning equally about myself.
I did not have an earth-shattering epiphany that awoke me in the middle of the night. My thoughts about having an unconventional marriage embarressed me at first. But trying to fit the status quo in the society instead gave me more grief. And it was a slow learning process as I evolved over the years to understand that it wasn't them--it was me. Even though romance surrounded me in many forms, when encountering it at any point, it was surreal to me and I didn't know how to react to it.
And slowly, I came to the ultimate realization...that I am not a romantic. It infiltrated my life in many ways but not enough to make me think I missed out on it. Romanticism for us was a thing that was artificially produced and awkward. Sad for some but true -- and no matter how much we tried, it came out too fabricated and cheesy. Our love is practical and by no means any less in value just because the romance factor is missing.
Love comes in differents forms, shapes and sizes. One size does not fit all. And surely, we made our own elliptical mould.
You could know each other for ten minutes or live together for ten years or enter an arranged marriage like I did. No matter how you look at it, it is a risk you take. Across the board, in any culture, religion or mindset you possess. And in the end, it is what you make of it or don't.
The romantic elliptical is an lollapalooza. You either have it or you don't. Of course, an elliptical is not romantic. But I do love my elliptical because it does what it is supposed to do. But romance is subjective for me. I may hear that a couple has a romantic date night each week--but do they communicate? Someone may say that they went for a romantic vacation but are their interests so different that they did not see the sites together? There is always something they are not telling you.
And for the those who solemnly swear they have it all, with romance intact, I salute you and bid you both the very best. No sarcasm here or ill intent. Really, I admire the life long love affairs. But don't tell me its not hard work or there are no bumps, falls or hiccups along the way. Coz then, you are a walking chick flick.
I leave you with this quote. And here comes the subjectivity. To some, it is very romantic and to others, a lesson in practicality. I remember reading it in my first year of high school and it has stuck with me all these years because I have always been a communicator, to a fault--be it verbal or in written word. For better or for worse.
Even on that damned elliptical, you cannot shut me up ;)
Never close your lips to those whom you have opened your heart. -- Charles Dickens
Sunday, August 7, 2011
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 69: Dating, the new fashioned way ;)
And that is all it took. For him to concur that he felt like he was in the same boat: same insecurities, same apprehensions, same genuine uncertainty. When I looked into his eyes and saw the sincerity, I let the air out of the balloon. Why get pent up with a thousand emotions about the "What Ifs?" We had to live in the moment and just let things be as they may.
Ok, so I seem to have things backwards.
First you meet, fall in love and then get married. Right? Sounds pretty normal and cliche.
Of course, leave it to me to find meaning in things against the status quo.
We did not have a wedding song. We did not slow dance to our pick of music that would spring us into married life. If there was a song, it would be "What's Love Got to do with it" by Tina Turner. Because quite plainly, neither of us were in love with each other.
I do believe there needs to be some chemistry, a strong physical attraction. This is essential otherwise I would be banking solely on personality--of which I had no taste of. The mutual attraction was there from Day 1 but I still believe today we were fated to be together. There was an unexplained energy force (no, not lust) whereby the circumstances aligned us together. You have read all about that.
Now begins the Love Story. Aww shucks...is it about to get all cheesy now?
My honeymoon was like watching the Discovery Channel for me. A whole new world.
And then, only then, did I fall in love.
Squeeze me?
Who the hell falls in love after they get married? People in arranged marriages.
And that is what I liken the first beginnings of our relationship together. As we discovered the country of Spain, we also discovered each other.
Like any relationship, we had to earn each other's trust. And it was slow to begin with because we knew very little about the other.
As we explored new terrain of the country, its people, the food and what each city had to offer, we slowly learned about each other in the same way. And we wanted to learn more and more as the days passed.
We actually dated. Finally, as husband and wife. And we made up the rules along the way. And (gasp), it was out in the open! This was a novelty...it was foreign for us to show public affection, feeling that someone was going to turn the corner and report us. But it was liberating in that we appreciated the freedom far more than the average couple who were used to dating and being very open about it.
By Day 4, he was already ordering food for me, knowing exactly what I liked. Many of the Spaniards stopped us on the street after noticing the henna on my hands and feet. In broken English, they asked if we were just married although one elderly woman commented that she could see that we had been together for so many years and there was so much love between us.
I laughed out loud and withheld the truth in order not to disappoint her. But it was a very surprising assessment of us as a couple.
And it was no act. Within a week, I was very comfortable with him and he with I. I could be myself around him, express my opinion and joke freely. And as we got to know more about our likes, dislikes, tastes, ideologies, viewpoints and preferences, it was as if we had known each other for most of our lives. Strange...but completely true.
Although there was no courtship involved, no wooing, no chasing, no impressions to be made, I opened my heart, my eyes and my soul to fall in love--in two weeks...
Can Pakistanis fall in love?
Yes: It can be arranged...
-Unknown Author
Ok, so I seem to have things backwards.
First you meet, fall in love and then get married. Right? Sounds pretty normal and cliche.
Of course, leave it to me to find meaning in things against the status quo.
We did not have a wedding song. We did not slow dance to our pick of music that would spring us into married life. If there was a song, it would be "What's Love Got to do with it" by Tina Turner. Because quite plainly, neither of us were in love with each other.
I do believe there needs to be some chemistry, a strong physical attraction. This is essential otherwise I would be banking solely on personality--of which I had no taste of. The mutual attraction was there from Day 1 but I still believe today we were fated to be together. There was an unexplained energy force (no, not lust) whereby the circumstances aligned us together. You have read all about that.
Now begins the Love Story. Aww shucks...is it about to get all cheesy now?
My honeymoon was like watching the Discovery Channel for me. A whole new world.
And then, only then, did I fall in love.
Squeeze me?
Who the hell falls in love after they get married? People in arranged marriages.
And that is what I liken the first beginnings of our relationship together. As we discovered the country of Spain, we also discovered each other.
Like any relationship, we had to earn each other's trust. And it was slow to begin with because we knew very little about the other.
As we explored new terrain of the country, its people, the food and what each city had to offer, we slowly learned about each other in the same way. And we wanted to learn more and more as the days passed.
We actually dated. Finally, as husband and wife. And we made up the rules along the way. And (gasp), it was out in the open! This was a novelty...it was foreign for us to show public affection, feeling that someone was going to turn the corner and report us. But it was liberating in that we appreciated the freedom far more than the average couple who were used to dating and being very open about it.
By Day 4, he was already ordering food for me, knowing exactly what I liked. Many of the Spaniards stopped us on the street after noticing the henna on my hands and feet. In broken English, they asked if we were just married although one elderly woman commented that she could see that we had been together for so many years and there was so much love between us.
I laughed out loud and withheld the truth in order not to disappoint her. But it was a very surprising assessment of us as a couple.
And it was no act. Within a week, I was very comfortable with him and he with I. I could be myself around him, express my opinion and joke freely. And as we got to know more about our likes, dislikes, tastes, ideologies, viewpoints and preferences, it was as if we had known each other for most of our lives. Strange...but completely true.
Although there was no courtship involved, no wooing, no chasing, no impressions to be made, I opened my heart, my eyes and my soul to fall in love--in two weeks...
Can Pakistanis fall in love?
Yes: It can be arranged...
-Unknown Author
The Romantic Elliptical, Part 68: Careful what you wish for
Many of you have read these posts and wondered the same thing:
"What on Earth was she thinking?"
I know, and I accept your skepticism, outrage, sympathy, bewilderment and curiosity.
Its not the norm. Especially in North America. But at the time I married, over twenty years ago, full knowing how my peers were meeting, socializing, dating, courting, fooling around, or whatever you want to call it, I was entrenched in another realm of courtship, or lack thereof.
Ask me today. Would I do it all over again? I am not sure. Not all arranged marriages have worked out for everyone. Each has a story of its own.
The way I see it...there is no formula that leads to marriage. At the end, its a risk.
Whether you know the person for one minute or ten years before marrying them, things change when you sign that dotted line. People change over the years. Situations change, circumstances present challenges. But I do know there is a hell of alot of compromise and sacrifice by both parties in order to make the relationship work.
Only you define that line in the sand.
Monday, the day after my reception, we went to his home, now my home, to meet both sides of the family. It is customary for the girl's side to come and visit to see how the bride is doing and offer 'moral support'. We spent the evening eating dinner and opening up all the wedding gifts. This became a laborious task as you will remember that there were over 400 guests to my wedding (70% of whom I did not know).
I had to pack that night since we were flying off to Spain the next day. Initially, for me it was a relief to be leaving the family behind and venturing off somewhere where no one could bother us. We were told what to do, what to wear, how to act and what not to say for the next 24 hours and it became quite stifling.
Careful what you wish for.
At the airport, both our families came to bid us goodbye. We hugged everyone, with suitcases in tow, and made our way to the security gate. I looked back and saw my family standing there waving me goodbye. I suddenly felt odd.
While going through security, my mind became occupied with the same thought. I was walking away from those that have loved me all my life, unconditionally. The ones who I could confide in, and seek solace and support. And here I was, leaving them behind to venture forward into uncertainty.
Who was he....really? This man who now was my husband? He stood next to me as we watched our items go through the screening machine and I looked at his profile.
I was alone with him. About to travel across the Atlantic to a foreign country...with a 'foreign' man. I swallowed back the lump in my throat. Suddenly, I missed the commotion back at his house with my extended family and his family teasing, pestering and forcing us to eat this or that. I missed being in a comfort zone of people around us. I missed being single.
Yes, I said it. Single. And here I was, about to fly off with this man I called my husband. I stared at him as we sat at the gate waiting to board our flight. I was quiet--he mistook it for tiredness and claimed he was tired too. Was he really tired or in the same predicament as me? Who was this girl he called his wife?
We stared at each other for a good ten minutes without talking. Any onlooker would not have known we just got married. I sat across from him and pretended to read my fashion magazine. I looked at the models and wondered if any of them were married. They looked so normal and happy. I felt abnormal and perturbed. How did married people act?
We boarded the flight and sat next to each other on the plane. There was a buzz around us. People seemed excited. A couple next across the aisle from us were laughing about something. I furrowed my brow and concentrated too hard on how to buckle my belt. Stop analyzing the situation, I told myself. The left side of my brain was too busy trying to figure out my situation and the next step while my right brain argued back on what the hell I was doing. While this battle continued for five minutes before takeoff, I was brought back to the idea of living in the moment.
He reached over and grabbed my hand and whispered in my ear. It was as if he read my mind.
"We have our whole life to figure this out. For now, you're with me, ok?"
I looked into his eyes, nodded and finally....exhaled.
"What on Earth was she thinking?"
I know, and I accept your skepticism, outrage, sympathy, bewilderment and curiosity.
Its not the norm. Especially in North America. But at the time I married, over twenty years ago, full knowing how my peers were meeting, socializing, dating, courting, fooling around, or whatever you want to call it, I was entrenched in another realm of courtship, or lack thereof.
Ask me today. Would I do it all over again? I am not sure. Not all arranged marriages have worked out for everyone. Each has a story of its own.
The way I see it...there is no formula that leads to marriage. At the end, its a risk.
Whether you know the person for one minute or ten years before marrying them, things change when you sign that dotted line. People change over the years. Situations change, circumstances present challenges. But I do know there is a hell of alot of compromise and sacrifice by both parties in order to make the relationship work.
Only you define that line in the sand.
Monday, the day after my reception, we went to his home, now my home, to meet both sides of the family. It is customary for the girl's side to come and visit to see how the bride is doing and offer 'moral support'. We spent the evening eating dinner and opening up all the wedding gifts. This became a laborious task as you will remember that there were over 400 guests to my wedding (70% of whom I did not know).
I had to pack that night since we were flying off to Spain the next day. Initially, for me it was a relief to be leaving the family behind and venturing off somewhere where no one could bother us. We were told what to do, what to wear, how to act and what not to say for the next 24 hours and it became quite stifling.
Careful what you wish for.
At the airport, both our families came to bid us goodbye. We hugged everyone, with suitcases in tow, and made our way to the security gate. I looked back and saw my family standing there waving me goodbye. I suddenly felt odd.
While going through security, my mind became occupied with the same thought. I was walking away from those that have loved me all my life, unconditionally. The ones who I could confide in, and seek solace and support. And here I was, leaving them behind to venture forward into uncertainty.
Who was he....really? This man who now was my husband? He stood next to me as we watched our items go through the screening machine and I looked at his profile.
I was alone with him. About to travel across the Atlantic to a foreign country...with a 'foreign' man. I swallowed back the lump in my throat. Suddenly, I missed the commotion back at his house with my extended family and his family teasing, pestering and forcing us to eat this or that. I missed being in a comfort zone of people around us. I missed being single.
Yes, I said it. Single. And here I was, about to fly off with this man I called my husband. I stared at him as we sat at the gate waiting to board our flight. I was quiet--he mistook it for tiredness and claimed he was tired too. Was he really tired or in the same predicament as me? Who was this girl he called his wife?
We stared at each other for a good ten minutes without talking. Any onlooker would not have known we just got married. I sat across from him and pretended to read my fashion magazine. I looked at the models and wondered if any of them were married. They looked so normal and happy. I felt abnormal and perturbed. How did married people act?
We boarded the flight and sat next to each other on the plane. There was a buzz around us. People seemed excited. A couple next across the aisle from us were laughing about something. I furrowed my brow and concentrated too hard on how to buckle my belt. Stop analyzing the situation, I told myself. The left side of my brain was too busy trying to figure out my situation and the next step while my right brain argued back on what the hell I was doing. While this battle continued for five minutes before takeoff, I was brought back to the idea of living in the moment.
He reached over and grabbed my hand and whispered in my ear. It was as if he read my mind.
"We have our whole life to figure this out. For now, you're with me, ok?"
I looked into his eyes, nodded and finally....exhaled.
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