Roots

I recently wrote something, of which the following is a small bit. I never made it public because it felt too raw and because I was arguing with myself while I was typing it out because in essence, I didn’t really believe what I was writing:

You know what?

I just don't care anymore. Not about any of it. Nothing really matters > not who we are, or who we aspire to be or how hard we try and how much we care. Nothing really matters, not anywhere and not anytime.

…bla bla bla...

I'm exhausted and struggling and I'm exhausted of struggling.
Tonight, I'm shaken to my core and I'm terrified.

I know I'll get out of this, but it's going to take me some time.

And so I woke the next morning still arguing with myself re the above sentiments and I decided to go a-mosque-ing because I felt as though I were being fragmented awake.

I went early and the doors were locked. I banged and banged and went from door to door but no one came. I prayed outside behind the mosque and laid my forehead to the pavement and cried. I was so completely alone and terrified and shaking and almost incapable of taking a breath because I didn’t know what – if anything – could make it - whatever 'it' was - better.

After it rained on me, I got into my car and as I was pulling away, a gentleman was opening the door to the mosque. I rolled my window down and he greeted me with the friendliest ‘Al-salamu alaikum, sister!’ His voice dropped as he saw my face and the tears covering it. Immediately, he gestured for me to ‘go go, park, sister, and then come in. You will have the mosque to yourself. Come, come!’

I was drained and exhausted and almost beyond my own physical capacity to stand. But I managed to pray five 2 ruk’as as I had intended to.

And something happened while I was doing this. Something that’s never happened before in any of the times or any of the places I have prayed; Something that worked to carry me through the rest of my prayers and something that has carried me since.

I was moving to stand between one of the ruk’as and in that singular moment, I felt grounded. I actually and quite literally felt rooted. The mosque was my home; I was home and I was at complete and total peace. I understood who I was and what I was and I was finally calmed.

The night I was writing frantically the fragment I share with you above, was a night that found me defining Me not by who and what I was, but by exactly what I was not. I was mired in misery. Having experienced that, I can say that I don’t think there’s anything more challenging than not knowing who we are except, perhaps, when we define ourselves by what we are not. A negative positive, if you will. I never want to relive that night and I plan on fighting those sentiments tooth and nail if they ever turn their ugly faces my way again because they can go f*ck themselves.

Reading the sentiments that saw me move to mosque the following morning, I feel an overwhelming sorrow for the terrified girl who wrote those words, but…after praying, she was leaving the mosque and was met by the brother who ushered her in. He was waiting to ask if she was okay and when she smiled, he said ‘Alhamdulilah’ before he introduced her to his four year old son who was all big brown eyes and curly eyelashes. And when she got into her car, she started crying for a whole other set of reasons, for each of which she could only say ’Alhamdulilah’.


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And if there’s anything to take away from this post apart from boredom, it’s that we all fight and we all struggle and we all most definitely hurt, but…we’re all actually okay. If not today, then tomorrow. Give yourself a break and the room to be fragmented; you will come out prettier on the other side. (Right after which you’ll wear a tea cozy on your head.)

Rounding A Corner: On Faith & Hijab

This post is a little heavy; I promise to post something ridiculously idiotic in the coming days. Something idiotic enough to make you laugh out loud and maybe even lose a little bladder control.

I have had a trying month, Alhamdulilah. ‘Alhamdulilah’ because from adversity and challenge comes strength for those who seek it. Inshallah this last month has made me stronger.

I find that where I’m concerned, I live in severe extremes – starve or gorge, really – and usually end up hitting rock bottom at high velocity before I turn my face up to Heaven. I’ve done this a handful of times in my life, and among everything I used to pray for, I never asked that It (that particular time) be the last. For the first time in my short little life, this is now something for which I am asking. Rest assured that it’s never as bad as it sounds because, Alhamdulilah, I lead a blessed and graced life. No matter the trauma I am forced to face, it is absolute child’s play in the grand scheme of things.

I have only ever gifted the Quran (more specifically, ‘the translation of’) to one person. In it, I wrote something along the lines of how it is only within the pages of This Book** I find calm, peace and forgiveness when I am at my absolute lowest and loneliest. I have been reading the Quran on a daily basis and each night before I sleep; If I could at this point become a page in This Book, I would.

Recently, and because of circumstance, there have been days where I’ve had trouble breathing; in Arabic, we say “dee’it nafs”, which, although it is a physical manifestation, it literally translates to a “tightly squeezed self” (think of it as thus: when you squeeze someone hard, as in a bear hug, they have trouble breathing). More often than not, “dee’it nafs” has a spiritual meaning because nafs comes from the Arabic word anfasukum, which means "souls". I have had this “dee’it nafs” for this past month. Alhamdulilah, whatever it was I was living is beginning to loosen.

This is where Hijab has come in to play. I thought that, perhaps, by wearing it I could protect and shield myself from certain things that have caused me to lose faith and be angry with Allah. A weakness of character, I admit. I spoke with some family members and did my own thinking on the subject of Hijab. The opinion I am going to offer is solely my own and is not a judgment on any female who has chosen to wear Hijab during a time of duress or when she has sought forgiveness for specific action(s).

Before diving into a deeper explanation, I have to acknowledge that while Hijab is not one of the five pillars of Islam (.1. Monotheism & recognition that Muhammad (s.a.w.s.) is His messenger; .2. Salaat (prayer); .3. Syaam (fasting during Ramadan); .4. Zakaat (charity); and .5. Haaj(pilgrimage)) it is indeed a fard, or rather a “must” decreed by Allah. There is a much greater philosophical debate here, one for which I currently neither have the state of mind nor the bandwidth. I am going to only offer a small glimpse into the lines bordering the philosophical argument…

Wearing Hijab is a choice born of Free Will, the choices and positions/judgments being as follows: (1) Because it is a fard, those who perform it are better than those who do not. (2) Someone who commits any act which is mafrood, and does so without being convinced of it, or who flat out denies its validity in their heart, is a hypocrite. (3) Person in either scenario 1 or 2 who commits any fard while, in tandem, committing greater sins. I choose to not posit an explicit opinion on this, for I can actually – and likely with great success – argue all sides. Since Hijab is our main topic, I will write that I believe there are many women wearing Hijab whose hearts are shaded, whereas there are many who do not wear it, but whose hearts are much more pure; Allah is the only one who can judge what is in the hearts of wo/mankind…I just offer an opinion to whomever walks past me on the street.

Having said that, we can now get to me, which is what everything boils down to on this blog.

For your blogMistress, my thoughts currently stand at this: Hijab will not be something I will do at the beginning of my spiritual journey, but rather, while along it. (There can never be an ‘at the end of it’ to such a journey.) Hijab will neither purify my heart, nor will it protect me from myself. (What it would do is signal that we are Muslimaat, and can, when we are ourselves lacking strength, create a barrier between ourselves and that which we have been told to avoid.)

I’ve seen many women take the decision to wear Hijab while mired in severe circumstance. They have done it for the exact reason I stated above. More often than not, these women have removed the Hijab when the situation they were previously in was resolved – and if ever you wish to flip Him the bird (staghfara Allah al3azzem, sorry!), then one surefire way to do it is to remove your Hijab.

Having written that, please understand that what I am about to write does not pertain to all, but is something I have noticed when this particular decision is taken in these specific circumstances. Unfortunately, and usually, the Hijab becomes the be-all and end-all of some. The touchstone of their Iman (Faith) rests on their Hijab. They misunderstand it as both the only and also the final means to Allah, making Islam = Hijab = Iman, forgetting the multiplicity of other Muslim characteristics We have to learn and exercise (e.g. not gossiping, judging, being envious of or jealous of others, not being selfish and wanting for oneself what you would not have others be granted, etc. & OH! Not eating bacon. (Try beef jerky instead.)).

Perhaps my biggest fear would be that wearing Hijab would be a band-aid solution to a much deeper struggle, one that can only be resolved by being honest with yourself about yourself. In laymen’s terms, I mean that wearing Hijab can not possibly rectify the darker recesses of one’s character; the ones which may have led them to behave in a certain manner / which may have led them to their current difficult circumstance. When we commit a wrong, we always commit it against Allah. In tandem with that, we either commit a wrong against another or against ourselves. Band-aid solutions may be used as a means to avoid facing who we have betrayed and ultimately, this means that we avoid being honest with ourselves. Take the modern day example of an alcoholic; their first step is admitting they have a drinking problem. That act is a means to facing one self and one’s own actions. It is, first and foremost, admitting there exists a problem that needs resolution. For me, wearing Hijab without having faced and improved myself may lead me to remove it in the future. I can’t risk it and so choose to not place myself in the situation from the beginning.

Arguably, there are some who can do the above in tandem; face themselves, while wearing Hijab. They will never go back on their decisions and they remain better than I and most likely, stronger than I. I understand my limitations and can’t lie to myself or Allah.

So. Where has all of the above left your blogMistress? Simple, actually. I am learning more about my own religion and I am working from the inside out. Rather than using the cloth as my barrier and guardian, I have chosen to use my Faith (my love for and fear of Allah). Ultimately, I have taken the decision that my Hijab will – when I finally do wear it, Inshalllah – be, not a means of protection, but rather, a means of outwardly stating what’s on the inside: Islam.

I hope that none of the above is perceived as any sort of judgment on anyone’s actions. There is only one judge in this world and He would not approve of my doing so for I can not see into the hearts of others. If I have offended you, please excuse my carelessness and know it is not my intention to do so.

**If you would like to read the Quran, merely go to your local mosque and ask them for a copy translated to the language you require. There’s no cost; you’ll be given The Book for free.

Footnote: This entry is not the appropriate one in which to outline the reasons Muslim women are to wear Hijab; I promise to do so in a future post.

Executive Decisions @ Maha Inc.

I’ve not been able to write substantially these past couple of weeks because I’ve not had much of an appetite for anything. Usually, it’s writing that calms me, but this time around I’ve not been able to either do or focus on anything outside of a couple of situations that have pulled my attention into a black hole. Recognizing that, I’ve been forcing myself to write out little stupidities so as to focus on something outside of everything else that’s currently going on…what follows are the very stupidities I’ve been working on. If you mnage to forgive their boring nature, you may find something interesting in them, anyway.

.1. I was in the gym a few days back and took my very first executive decision on behalf of Maha Inc. I decided that the only type of Crack for this girl is first and foremost The Stiletto.

A while back, I posted a photo of my first platformed Crack. I was born for The Stiletto, because The Platform makes me wobbly. For some strange reason, it also makes me stare at the ground while walking…most likely because I expect The Platform to introduce me – on an intimate level – to said pavement.

I am currently having dreams about the last pair of Crack I fell in love with and didn’t purchase while in NYC. I’d never done that before, never actually not purchased Crack when I saw it and felt an immediate chemistry with the Crack. At the time, I was standing in a corner store on 5th and imagined that moment to be a turning point, a point of maturity in my life.

Unfortunately, this mistake has turned into some sort of a trauma because I can’t stop thinking about them and am attempting to seek them out on line. I believe the brand was Hype, but I could be mistaken. They were open-toed leopard print Stiletto Crack with a diamond buckle on the front and a red lacquered heel.

And so it is with this in mind that I have made my second executive decision: When I see The Crack and I love The Crack, I must immediately buy The Crack.

I don’t mind occasionally being floored by the depth of my stupidity, but I can’t tolerate actively instigating such thoughts, most especially not when it comes to Stiletto Crack.

.2. I love babies. All of them. And this Christmas, I received no less than 7 Christmas cards with photos of other people’s children…and other is in italics because God damn it, I want my own.

Email me if you’re a taker.

Anyway, back to the story at hand.

In years past, I only received two photos of this sort. 2006 has been a busy year for my friends. In case I don’t get busy as they did in the coming year, I have taken the third executive decision that: I too will include a photo in my next holiday greeting card.

I will include a photo of my most prized pair of Stiletto Crack, purchased during the year prior. I may wrap them in a pink baby blanket, for the sake of humour, but otherwise, photos of Crack it is.

Consider yourselves forewarned.

.3. A couple of weeks back, I was speaking with A from my French school. In November, he moved to his new home and he’d still not completely unpacked. In preparation for the Holidays and The Coming Of His Family, he had to finish up quickity split.

I got home later that day and was faced with the reality that although I had poked fun at A for not having completed his unpacking, I too had not completed my unpacking. I slowly entered my storage room and met the stares of the seven boxes still unpacked, nearly one full year later. They dared me to open them up and discover their insides. Open them up I did.

Apart from finding my old law school books, I discovered that one box was filled with paraphernalia from the time I was in love with The Latino Bisexual, Ricky Martin. Scandalized and shocked I was by the amount of utter sh*t I had compiled, thought was important enough to pack and then move to my new home. A moment such as this gives rise to above sentiment of ‘being floored by my own stupidity’, but the Latino Bisexual moment is a moment I am willing to engage, unlike that initiated by the trauma of missing out on Stiletto Crack.

If anything, it was a fun discovery for the videotapes were hilarious, the interviews so contrived,** and as much as I loathe to admit it, the photos were lovely to ogle. Notwithstanding the amount of make-up he uses, he is a beautiful man.

**I was reading aloud and doing the following:
Interviewer: “What is the sexiest thing a woman can do?”
Ricky Martin: “Know how to pamper herself”
Maha: “Shhhhhhh, Ricky! Just shhhhhhh! Be pretty and shhhhhhh!”

.4. Happy New Year.

.5. This would be a great time for something extraordinary to happen in my life.

A Party & it’s Consequence

This is a photo of Sarah and I taken a couple of Fridays back. She lives here and so I was terribly excited to hang out with one of my fans. It always makes me feel great to give back to the little people who’ve made me the Celebrity that I am. Also, I’m full of sh*t.

Isn't she beautiful?



Apart from the completely “random” (thanks, Sarah) Agenda of the evening, I had the pleasure of meeting one of the Middle East’s biggest celebrities, Fathi Abdel Wahab. He recently worked with my personal favourite – Tamer Hagras – but I thought it uncouth to ask him about Tamer’s marriage and whether he would entertain exercising his right to marry more than one woman recent body of work.



At the beginning of the party and before either of these pictures were taken, I’d had a slight break from reality. Nothing like it had ever happened before and so it was difficult for me to comprehend. Within a heartbeat, I found myself sitting at the table with zero level of patience or tolerance. I didn’t want to speak with anyone, I didn’t have the patience to answer questions, make small talk, tell people how my French language training was going, how Beirut was, or what I do at work. It was a first for me, this incapacity to make polite chatter and respond in kind when people were being courteous.

I’ve always prided myself on being diplomatic in the most extreme and difficult of circumstances, but I had no capacity for that on this particular evening. All I wanted to do was get up and walk out of the party because I felt as though I was suffocating and for a good half an hour, I was in my own head talking myself out of getting up and leaving. During one particular moment, I couldn’t remain seated and so instead, I went to the washroom and cried. I sat in one of the toilette stalls and balled my eyes out for a good ten minutes. Lucky that no one came in while I was there, lucky that I don’t wear make-up and lucky still that I can cry for hours and you’ll never be able to see it on my face.

Nanno had died exactly one week past, the wake had been three days prior and another ‘glitch’ had occurred only five days before that moment. It had been a relatively heavy week and my heart took the brunt of it that Friday evening.

Eventually, I cooled off and returned to the main hall where I slowly came back to reality. The ‘situation’ only lasted about an hour and the rest of the evening was an absolute riot filled with a lot of laughter, good food, intelligent conversation and dancing. It was a rare evening of emotional extremes which taught me that sometimes – although rare – it’s best to go to the ladies room alone.

Blue Days outed

I figured out that my first ever real & true Blue Day wasn’t in March but rather in December of 2005. My writing then was much more sporadic and without the usual comedic overtures. When I wasn’t at work, I was at home. I refused to talk about what was happening (partially because I didn’t know what I’d say other than: “I’m sad”) and it took a lot to get me out of the house for a solid month or two. Things climaxed when my best friend called me crying because she didn’t know what to do about ‘me’ and couldn’t understand why I wanted to be left so completely alone by everyone. I asked her to simply support me through it because the last thing I needed to deal with at that moment was the guilt of pushing people away. She did.

There were a lot of factors to contend with and which led up to that tiny little time in my life. I had just turned 31, I was unhappy with my surroundings, I was unhappy at the office, I wanted out, an escape, a different life, a different everything, really. The catalyst was a Man Boy; I’d spent seven years prior keeping myself safe and my heart in my hands, closed. I chose to open my hands up a little bit and to let go of that safety net; for all of the wonderful and incredible moments experienced within that freedom, I experienced its equal in grief.

Within a moment, everything exploded all over me & my life and it was all just so sticky and impossible to wash off quickly. And so I cocooned. I went into myself and shut everyone out including my family. I needed to change something inside of me before I could address my environment; both of these I eventually did.

With equal vigor and quickness, it was all gone; One afternoon, all of my grief just lifted up and away from me. I wasn’t myself, but rather, I was someone inherently better, more secure, confident, together and aware.

This time as with last, there are a multitude of factors creating the foundations of this Blue Day, many of which are similar to last year (e.g. the same Man Boy) and some that are not (e.g. yet another Boy & my time in Beirut). So, whereas last year I chose to wallow in whatever it was that was holding me in, this year, I’ve decided that won’t be the case. It simply can’t be; being a different person than who I was last year dictates that I am to deal with a situation differently.

So I’ve been going long and hard every single night and I don’t plan on stopping until I either completely burn out, or I’m seeing pink again. I figure that at this point in my 31 years, I should try a new route on for size. So far, so good, because it’s allowed me to avoid dealing with the roots of Blue Day, and the longer I can put that off, the happier I am. If there is blowback to my chosen course, it may not be so great, but at this point I couldn’t care less. And ultimately, the last thing I want to be is alone right now…so my friends are seeing a lot of me and for this, I am grateful.

Having written that and before moving on, I have to say ‘Alhamdulilah’ for every single thing placed in my path, no matter how blue or pink that may make my day.

Blue Day

I’m having a Blue Day; something that’s not happened in quite some time. (Think the last Blue Day I had was in March.) There’s nothing to be done about it which I’ve not tried to do already. I’ve always kept myself busy as sort of a general rule of thumb about how I want to live my life…and when I sense the coming onslaught of a Blue Day, I usually work doubly hard to be even more busy than the norm (hence the mania of posts and energy as of late).

This time it’s not worked, and so here I am firmly entrenched in my Blue Day. Weather seems to agree with my mood as it is pissing rain, cloudy and cold. Seated in Bridgehead earlier today, I had to control myself so as to not cry into my latté. I made it to the washroom and sniffled quietly away as I reapplied my lip-gloss.

I’ve already watched the entirety of Season 6 of Lorelai & Rori and have nothing warm to cozy up to this night. Mum’s in Dubai for the next three weeks and although I have the full of 24 hours a day to do anything my heart desires, I have no desire to do a thing. It’s moments such as these when I wish a boy would close the world, pull me in, cover me up and tell me everything was going to be ok.

Bet you’d have never had me pegged for such a completely foolish romantic.

The smell & sound of rain

If you visit my blog regularly, you’re already aware of the affinity I have for bodies of water. I’ve often said that I’d be happy living in either a shed near the water or in a boat in the middle of nowhere. One thing I’ve not often mentioned is the smell and sound of rain either late at night or early in the morning.

There are three different occasions on which this particular feeling comes to mind. I write ‘feeling’ because it extends beyond all senses and touches something deeper.

First was about four years back when Alisa & Ryan were married in Lake Placid. A friend and I stayed at the Trail Head’s Inn in the Bigelow Room. I’ve noticed that the Inn has since changed ownership; while there, it was owned and run by a young couple from Australia who had a beautiful little boy.

My beautiful friend ended up staying with some of our friends at the Blueberry cottage (a common affliction of weddings?) and so I had our room all to myself. The room was in fact split into two areas, one of which was called the ‘Adirondack sleeping porch’.

The porch was once a balcony with an old, squeaky and washed out grey wood floor and a very thin steeply sloped wooden roof. The railing of the balcony was a faded white painted wood, and all open areas of the balcony were covered with a thin fine green mesh. The room held the four following items: a queen-sized bed with white bed coverings & a duvet, a small old and worn rug which – I later found out – was purchased from a Moroccan market, one forest green reading chair and a beautiful antique cherry wood night table.

This room sat on the opposite side of the entrance and where the family lived, and so was completely silent. Due to the height of the balcony, I couldn’t see anything but the forest’s tree tops as I sat on the bed. For the duration of the night and the next morning, it rained and all I could smell was that rain and its translation on the forest surrounding me. I was alone in the world for a few hours and I was mesmerized. There wasn’t a sound beyond this and between the haze and the mist was a very cool breeze that kept me buried beneath the duvet until around 11 a.m. the next morning. To get back into the room, I had to tiptoe across the floor or risk freezing my feet. Honestly, it was heaven and I’m glad my girl found alternative lodging (as I’m sure she was the evening prior, but not necessarily the morning following…).

The second time was the first morning Dianna and I found ourselves in Scotland. We’d decided that, since we’d be traveling overnight, we’d not make any plans for that first day, instead opting to play it by ear and get to know Glasgow at our leisure. We were at Mrs. Morrison’s Craigielea Guesthouse (highly recommended, for those with eclectic taste: 35 Westercraig’s Street) in one of the second floor’s largest bedrooms.

This is the entrance of our little home while in Glasgow:



The floor of the entire B&B was covered in soft furry plaid and there were at least 100 different pieces of artwork lining the walls from ceiling to floor (Mr. Morrison is an artist).

Our room had attention deficit disorder in the form of a stand up shower, sink, fireplace, dining table, two queen-sized beds pushed together, several dressers, a gigantic Chinese lantern hanging from the ceiling, two reading chairs, a television, one too many paintings on the wall and different paint colors all over the walls. We loved it.

I like to sleep next to windows, otherwise I find that I get claustrophobic. During all times of the year, the window remains open. Mrs. Morrison’s window had no screen and was enormous. It did have a thin sheer white curtain beneath three other heavier ones and so we pulled back the heavy curtains and left the window wide open with only the sheer covering it. I woke up to the sound of that Scottish rain and found that because we’d left the window wide open, the room was filled with a fine mist. It was a luscious morning to wake up.

This is my side of the bed, next to the window:


& here’s what you saw if looking out of our window:


The third and last time the scent and sound of rain washed out the world was two nights ago, Friday evening. I’d finished writing my final exam and walked the two hours home so that I could unwind and get my thoughts in order. Having taken a shower, I was utterly exhausted and don’t actually remember getting into my bed. At some point in the middle of the night, I was awakened by my friend and all of his welcome trappings, including the chilly breeze and the way the pavement talks back to him.

Although exhausted still, I sat up in bed next to the open window and was kept company by rain for the next hour and before I fell asleep again.

Punch Your Way To The New

.1. Out with the old and in with the new.

.2. I’ve booked myself a full-body massage for tomorrow. Yippee!

.3. Inshallah, when I have children, I’m going to sing them this song:

Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high are the dreams that you dream of, once in a lullaby. Somewhere over the rainbow, blue birds fly and the dreams that you dream of, dreams really do come true.
Someday you’ll wish upon a star. Wake up where the clouds are far behind. Where trouble melts like lemon drops. High above the chimney tops that’s where you’ll find me.
I see trees of green and red roses too. I’ll watch them bloom for me and you, and I’ll think to myself, What a wonderful world. Well I see skys of blue and I see clouds of white and the brightness of day light the dark and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.
The colors f the rainbow so pretty in the sky are also on the faces of people passing by. I see friends shaking hands saying ‘how do you do?’ they’re really saying ‘I love you’.
I hear babies cry and I watch them grow. They’ll learn much more than we’ll know and I think to myself What a wonderful world.

.3. Had my first Level II boxing class today. The main difference between Level I and Level II is that you have to now: (1) do push-ups; (2) learn upper left cut; and, (3) change your normal stance from left foot forward to right foot forward.

The class is only 1 hour long, but I always walk out completely drenched in sweat. And that’s not just a figure of speech, I mean it literally. There isn’t one item of clothing on me that I don’t ring out after class.

Today was a day that I needed to face a punching bag. I pushed my body so hard that half way through the class I had to stop and take a breath or risk vomiting.

It felt absolutely incredible, and I mean that in the best way possible.

Here are the funny things about this night’s class (apart from me nearly vomiting, naturally).

(a) Am not ambidextrous. I don’t really even know my right from my left. When you’re used to standing with your left foot forward and then are forced to switch your entire body around in order to place your right foot forward, you quickly realize that not only are you not ambidextrous, but you’re also not coordinated. I started chattering with the punching bag while no one was looking. I was saying things like “left?” ,“right?”, “but?” ,“the hell?”, “christ”, “god damn it” & “ohmygod I’m retarded”.

(b) Skipping rope is nothing like riding a bicycle. If you haven’t done it in a while, it’s not that easy to jump right back in there and if you’re not careful, you will most likely whip yourself in to a state of shock and maybe even get so tangled up in the rope that you won’t be able to see parts of it.

And man can those ropes really whip your ass. Again: literally. I have welts. But I can’t see them. They’re back there.

(c) The push ups we do in class are not your normal back breaking push up (that’s not good enough for my coach because HE WANTS YOU TO DIE).

Here are the steps (I strongly urge you to print this up and try it…):
.1. Spread your legs as far apart as possible & keep your heels on the ground.
.2. Throw yourself forward. Better yet, propel yourself forward and attempt to land square on your palms. Your palms should be as far away from your legs as possible, and square with your shoulders.
.3. Stick your ass way up in the air, while keeping your heels and palms on the floor.

Now you’re ready for the hard part!
.4. As you exhale,
bring your chest down to the floor
and slowly move it forward toward your arms
and much like the famed breakdance move known as ‘the worm’
start to bring the rest of your torso down
so that by the time your groin is touching the ground
your chest and face are facing the wall opposite you
and you’re looking up at the ceiling.

Now. Inhale and get back in the starter position FOR THE CRAZY WORM/PUSH UP. And to quote Chris, my coach and the man I adore and worship and think is the bomb even though he’ll bust your ass, “25 is good. Anything below that isn’t good enough. If you have to stop, stop only when you’re shaking and can’t DO anymore.”

I managed 8 right before I passed out and cracked my nose on the floor. Not really. I did manage 8, but didn’t crack anything. I just laid there and cried. Heh.

My body will be magnificent when he’s done with me. I love that.

.4. Should I tell you about my shower experience?

Pouting Mahi Mahi

.1. I’ve just been told that I pout. Something about this strikes me as funny; I never thought I was the sort to pout, but rather, the sort to deal with something and…just deal with it…instead of letting it fester to the point of pouting.

Perhaps this new found talent of mine will come in handy some day. If it does, I will let you know immediately.

I really do wish this person had taken a picture of me pouting, as am terribly interested if it is a good look for me.

.2. My girls T & M are off to London this day. They are heading there for a little party and I’ve promised to present them with the list titled: Maha’s Top 10 Things To Do While In London. First, I must compile it. When it is completed, I will blog my bit for your eyes as well.

There are certain things which are a staple of a London trip…no matter how old or young, intelligent or imbecilic one might be, these tips should be adhered to at all times. Without a doubt, London is one of the few cities to which I would move in a heartbeat; since I was a little girl and we spent my first few summers there, I’ve had a long-standing love affair with that City.

Occasionally, I have an illicit affair with NYC, but I don’t let London in on that…

.3. Mama’s been gone a little over a week now and I think this trip has been good for both her and I. She’s doing very well and enjoying her time with the family immensely.

.4. There are ‘friendships’, and then, there are friendships. One of my favourite quotes comes from Eleanor Roosevelt (shut up!), and it is: “Many people will walk in and out of your life, but only true friends will leave footprints in your heart.”

One of the very few who have already left well-heeled (& often times well-booted) footprints in my heart is Baby J. She lives and works in Toronto and last I saw her was during TIFF; we spent the weekend meeting interesting actors, shopping, eating, sitting on her balcony and having the most insane and lively conversations until all hours of the night / morning.

For the last few months, certain affairs have kept us from contacting as often as we both would like…

Last night, we managed to squeeze in an approximate one hour conversation, trying desperately to make it through the details of our last 3.5 months apart. We highlighted the most critical life-events and managed some time for analysis. Rather efficient, considering the dense topic of conversation.

I miss her often, and she is the only one to whom I dedicate an entire evening of letter-writing.

She will always remain the first to have nicknamed me “Hawaiian fish”.

Through A Lense

While volunteering with UNRWA 3 summers back in the Palestinian Territories, I managed a few days out on the Mediterranean coastline in Gaza.

I was having a completely shit day (something that happens all too often while there) and decided to haul myself down to the coast, because water has a way of calming me. Besides, it’s easier to cry when you’re alone.

I was such a mess, I used to cry myself to sleep on a nightly basis while I was volunteering, and it took me a long time to recover when I came back to Canada. Although it was an incredible experience, I came back shell-shocked and heart broken by what I saw; I was completely broken up by the fact that I was lucky enough to leave. Really. What a mess.

So. I took this photo. Through the lens, it didn't look like this; there wasn't that sun shining through the clouds. It's since become one of my favourite photos and I came across it while cleaning my baby mac...thought I'd share it with you pretties.

Solace

Walking down the hall just moments ago a colleague who passed me said: Maha! I have to tell you, it’s so nice to see you smiling!

Suddenly, it hit me. I knew it, and I acknowledged it, I just didn’t think others had. The only way to describe it would be to write that: I have been a shadow of my true self for the past month (and for the two months prior to that, but not quite as painful or as obvious). And I don’t like that. I didn’t know I possessed the capacity to be such a person, but…we all learn and we all change and we all morph as the days and the years pass.

Only recently have I started feeling like I am stepping away from that shadow and back in to me. I guess that too is starting to show.

And as I type this out, know that I’m smiling, and that writing has been a source of much solace for me…

She Walked On Coral Sidewalks

She walked on coral sidewalks and looked through turquoise windows framed by cream eyelids. Her sky was yellow and cloudless. At the end, she could see the last house. Unlike all others, it had one drape drawn. The space was winking at her (knowing what was to come next, before she could dream it).

It was in this dream he found himself. His dream had become fragmented, the grey trees shattered by an oddly colored canvas of coral, cream, turquoise and yellow.

There was a girl walking down the street.

When she found him in her dream, he had bled grey.

Crying, he was seated on grey grass, beneath a grey sky and shaded by (what else?) a grey tree. Crying, his dream faded as she came closer – only, this he couldn't see because he had, once more, buried his face in his hands in search of tortured loneliness.

She had never had a boy in her dream. Must be some sort of a man, she thought: he was too large for any boy of sorts.

A scarf, her landscape of colors traveled and filled her surroundings until she found him seated on the coral sidewalk by the winking house.

There was no hesitation in her movement as she reached down and placed her hand on his shaking shoulder. Innocence allowed people to do this; innocence allowed her to be free, and to trust. To trust.

To trust her would have meant he could eventually love her. To love her meant walking away with her. Grey threatened, he thought. Or perhaps: Grey, threatened, he thought.

So he didn’t trust her, and therefore never knew what it meant to love her. Choosing comfort of loneliness over the challenge of unknown, he shook her hand away and turned toward Grey.

Strangers, they faced one another in his bed.

Alone, she cried over her sullied scarf.
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I don't really know what the above is, I think it was a dream...it just sort of makes sense written this way.

Cookies & ice-cream or Coke & whiskey?

What do you do when you feel down? Forget about the reason behind your feeling a little blue, just tell me what you do to make yourself feel better…

For some days, I have been a little more morose than I would like; yesterday I stayed home.

All day, I stayed in my yellow flannel pj’s covered in ducks. I sat in front of my television set, turned up the heat (literally, not figuratively), brought out my largest fluffiest pillow & warmest fluffiest wool blanket and watched back-to-back episodes of the Gilmore Girls and of Felicity (God bless her, for she is a bona fide retard; and although I can relate, I found myself talking to the television and saying things like “STOP TALKING, FELICITY!”).

Am not a television girl. (Due partly to mum’s imposed “half an hour of television only” per night rule, coupled with her “no television on the weekends” rule when I was a little girl. I was dragged to museums instead; something for which I am grateful today.) There are very few shows I make a point of watching, preferring instead to pay attention to my own life, rather than that of others.

But the above two shows have always, and I think, will always intrigue me and create a sort of *safe space* for me when am blue. They have the ability to generate a feeling, an aroma of health or something. Christ, I sound as though am living in L.A. (sorry, Mo!).

Right. They have the capacity to remove me from current affairs and bring me back to the time when I watched them as they aired in real time.

Not since either of these shows have I been intrigued or seduced by any other television show…except for Nip / Tuck, but that’s not the sort of place I like to go to when am blue (rather, when am psychotic, disassociating, pornographic, violent, self-abusive, self-loathing and generally just. Not. Happy.). Seeing as how I just listed off some rather gross references, it should come as no surprise that I stopped watching Nip / Tuck.

I also ate D’s spectacular ginger-bread-cookies with vanilla ice-cream to make them melt in my mouth.

And then I spent a few hours on the phone with some fabulous women.

And then I went out and saw some other fabulous women, late in the evening, over warm milk and more cookies.

What do you do?

Patching up my heart

A few days ago, I’d mentioned my interest in working with the UN; I’d promised to tell you why…

I’ve recently questioned what I do with my time & what I’m contributing to the lives of others, globally. I’m not happy with the answers to those two questions and so: It’s time for change.

I can’t explain it any better than this, but I’m feeling as though I have holes in my heart, or soul, or whatever part of us brings about physical pain from emotion and thought.

My current job is brilliant and lucrative; it’s also afforded me the opportunity to travel quite a bit. But…that’s not enough when you’re actually feeling empty.

Empty. It's such a gross space to be in, and it's left me exhausted.

I feel it's time to do something that’ll feed and patch up a little bit of what feels as though it’s been breaking everything inside of my chest.

I’m not entirely certain where I’ll be in a year, but I do hope that by then I’ve found more solid ground on which to stand.

I promise to blog something more up-beat quickly…

Memories of his Melancholy Whores

Am currently on a Gabriel Garcia Marquez bonanza. I am re-reading three of his works at the same time and wanted to share two things with you

The first is a short quote that is very poignant because I have always believed that nostalgia is one word for ‘bored with today’. It doesn’t mean that you are weeping or are sad for the past, but that you don’t believe – usually subconsciously – that your present is worth paying attention to. As soon as I realized that, I tried to get rid of the word ‘nostalgia’** from my own personal lexicon and tried to pay attention to details of right now. (**Another word I try to never use the active of is ‘regret’; that’s another blog entry saved for another rainy day.)

Naturally, it’s impossible not to rethink and review the past – be it for signs we missed or mere curiosity to understand a current situation – but the essence of nostalgia is usually rooted in some sort of melancholy, and so it is fitting that the title of Marquez’s work of art is Memories of my Melancholy Whores.

The quote is: ”The adolescents of my generation, greedy for life, forgot in body and soul about their hopes for the future until reality taught them that tomorrow was not what they had dreamed, and they discovered nostalgia”. (p. 38)

&

Yesterday morning while looking out through windows peeking at snow covered streets and yellow trees, I was drinking my morning coffee, listening to jazz and the following made me so sad I actually cried for both of them…

Damiana has served as the maid of the book’s main character for years; today he turns 90 …

“I could not resist the temptation to ask: Tell me something, Damiana: what do you recall? I wasn’t recalling anything, she said, but your question makes me remember. I felt a weight in my chest. I’ve never fallen in love, I told her. She replied without hesitation: I have. And she concluded, not interrupting her work: I cried over you for twenty-two years. My heart skipped a beat. Looking for a dignified way out, I said: We would have made a good team. Well, it’s wrong of you to say so now, she said, because you’re no good to me anymore even as a consolation. As she was leaving the house, she said in the most natural way: You won’t believe me but thanks be to God, I’m still a virgin.

A short while later I discovered that she had left vases filled with red roses all over the house, and a card on my pillow: I hope you reach a hunnert.” (p. 39 & 40)

I wish to close my eyes, sink in to a very thick, soft & warm chair while Gabriel Garcia Marquez reads his own stories to me.

Ever feel like you don't fit in?

Don't despair. There's always a place for you here...



(Thanks to the Wickeds at Engrish(dot)com)