That I will always be in awe of the things that I find wondrous.
Like snowfall.
And watching Ryz work.
And growing up. Growing to be different.
With him. On my own. With my family.
And to still be in awe. And to be able to look at the vision before me from the outside in.
And to be grateful. Ever so grateful. For right now.
And to breathe. To take the time to breathe, and to be aware of my breath.
Hearing the snowfall, and "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" by Antony and the Johnsons.
Soon I'll turn off this song. And it'll just be the snowfall and my breathing.
In awe of the very fact that all of this is for me. So loved, and so grateful.
Promise
Stripped Bare.
There are days when I am wary of looking at myself in the mirror. Mornings actually. Followed by an entire day of slushing through.
It all starts with not knowing what to wear. Always. One mismatched outfit and I am scowling.
The days I match my accessories to my blouse, my shoes, my handbag are the days I feel like I own the world.
And yet, on those days and on a day like today. I'm still the same me.
I mean, I did all what James Altucher say I ought to do. I started off with my meditation, reading religious text, listing the people I am grateful for. It was a formula for success!
Except, it wasn't. I was up at 6:30 am and by 10 am I was scowling. Mad at Ryz for something he didn't do. And wanted to spend time on my own.
Me, who's conjoined at the hip with him on most days.
It felt strange. I felt strange. Like I was on some sort of a detox.
Except I'd been eating fine. And there were no food toxins to leave my body.
It was just the old fashioned toxins.
I haven't used my head and my heart in such close proximity in a while! Not since the life coaching certification.
I felt raw. Vulnerable today.
Exposed.
As if everyone could peer into my soul. Like I did this morning.
It's taken me hours to write. Hours.
Finally reading 10% of, "Choose Yourself", a concoction made of oatmeal and dates, and about 8 glasses of water later, I am here to write.
And to think this is Day 1.
A part of me wants to project 6 months into the future to figure out how I'll be. How sorted I will be.
And then I resist. I want to listen to myself and take the natural course.
Take in all that I feel, where I go with this and what's coming.
Deep exhale.
I've done 60-day juice fasts in the past. A 6-month overall cleanse should be fun.
This is going to be fun.
This is going to be fun.
Always About the Journey
We left Lahore from a 3:50 am flight. We arrived in Vancouver (our final destination for now) at 10:20 pm. That's exactly 30.5 hrs of traveling, door to door.
My longest yet.
It was nearly midnight by the time we reached our apartment. By the time we showered and got ready for bed, it was 1 am.
I got into bed after him, sorting out our suitcases and stuff in the kitchen that Chacha left out for us.
I was cold, tired, a bit hungry and generally disoriented.
3 cities in 30 hours. On less than 6 hours of sleep. Now I realize what I felt. At that time I was too tired to even think.
And then I got into bed. And Ryz turned to hug me in his sleep.
"Happy first night," he said.
And in that moment, despite the exhaustion and eddy of being in so many places and making so many decisions. I felt a sense of absolute calm. I was reminded of why I was here.
I was home. Here. Now.
Everything with Ryz, with us, has always, always been about the journey.
Celebrating our series of firsts, 6 years of being married. 13 years of knowing one another.
Just living our days in wonder of life, love and each other. The things we do, the places we see, the people we meet (and stay away from), are all part of our journey.
I seldom get reminded of the big picture with him. I know it's there, and that we share it. Together with one another. And that's enough.
So much to be thankful for, alhamdu lillah. On our happy first morning.
That Squeeze.
Sometimes when I see a beloved book on a bookshelf at a store or a cafe, I want to hug it.
To press it close to my chest and hang on to it until I've paid for it with my free hand and they've handed me a receipt for it.
Like today, on finding Seamus Heaney's collected prose at The Cafe Upstairs. What a rare treasure!
I hugged it tight for a while before moving away from the shelf.
There you are! Am I happy to see you. Come, we need to talk. I want to know everything about you that I've missed.
I can't do that with an e-book. Hug a title, that is.
The rest of the meeting is just as exuberant. Just the squeeze is missing.
When Abu Takes the Wheel
Seasons come and go. They turn into years.
I've been through so many relationships.
I've known how to love in capacities and bounds. Friends, friendships, associations, love, marriage, in-laws.
Safe to say I've grown considerably over the years.
And yet, to sit in the passenger seat in the car while my father drives, I feel like a little girl.
Expecting a treat. Not the kind you'd eat. That's probably what I would have expected as a child.
Now I know the best treat of sitting with him in a car, with him all to myself.
The treat lies in learning something new, still. And to be able to look at the world differently, once more.
I'm looking too much into it? Hardly. All of this took place in the solitary zap as soon as the wheels rolled into movement.
Alhamdu lillah, for being consumed by so much all at once, and still have space to contain more for the future.
Argh. That Feeling.
When you read what someone says about love, and wish you'd come up with the same choice of words. Only before them, to make it your own and in effect, to give it to him.
Things I wish I'd penned for Ryz before someone else wrote them. For whomever or whatever.
Feelings like, "I've learned to count on you as my own fingers." Feelings I've learned, and have become a part of me.
Close enough to touch.
Jab Koi Doosra Nahin Hota
I can't explain it.
I didn't want to go for the Ramadan Toy Drive distributions without Ryz. Even though there was a good reason for him not to go.
I didn't feel the reason why when we were at Jinnah Hospital, having to deal with the red tape involving handing out free goody bags to sick children. Yes there is such a thing as red tape in matters like this.
I didn't feel it when telling the volunteers the disappointing news of not being able to give to the sick children of Jinnah Hospital after all our struggles of getting there.
On the way to Gulab Devi Hospital, I'd called the AMS of Children's Hospital to request an impromptu trip to give away the 80 goody bags we had kept for Jinnah Hospital.
When the AMS gracefully agreed and went out of his way to accommodate us, I was relieved. And yet I didn't know why I felt the void.
In Gulab Devi, everything was a breeze.
Even though I took that nasty stumble, scraped and bruised my (bad) knee. Had all the volunteers rush to help me out.
And the first thing I uttered was, "Is my camera okay?!" Half-seriously, and half-bravely, wanting to distract the volunteers from my injury.
Couldn't explain what I felt even then.
After Gulab Devi, and on the way to Children's Hospital, I checked my camera lens to discover that I had broken the base in the fall. I felt sad.
And yet something was missing. And I knew I couldn't feel sad. Not as yet.
The Children's Hospital trip was a delight. The doctor assigned to us was a kind-hearted man, who took delight in walking to each ward with us and seeing the children smile.
It was truly a pleasure to be there, and a relief to see that all the volunteers had an impromptu trip to make up for the cancellation earlier in the morning.
I climbed up a flight of stairs then, ignoring the sharp pain in my knee. Knowing I had to go on.
Ryz had texted me, and I read his text while taking the kind doctor's phone number. Ryz wrote, "How's it going, good looking?" And I dismissed the text.
We took photographs of each other before heading out our separate ways after that. It was nearly 3 pm. I'd been out since 10:30 am.
Rasham offered us to come over to her place and have omelets for breakfast. I excused myself, saying I want to go home and check up on Ryz.
Dropped Saba home on the way back. Smiling and chatting all the way through.
Came home, settled Arif Bhai's outstanding bills for the day, hobbled to the front door.
And the 4 steps leading to the front door were a mountain each. I could hardly drag my leg to the front door.
Saw Ryz, hugged him. Sat. And the day made sense.
I knew that I need not pretend to be brave or pain-free anymore. I could be myself. Wounded, happy, relieved, exhausted, humbled, sad, happy. All at once.
I moaned and groaned about my scraped knee. Nearly wept about the lens. Moaned some more about my knee joint. Swore never to return to Jinnah Hospital again. Marveled at how enthusiastic the SKANS students were.
The entire day. Became crystal clear.
For that one truth.
Tum meray paas hotay ho goya...
How Obama Has Changed Lives
Sometimes when I raise my hand to give my dad a high-five, I notice he extends his fist for a fist-bump instead.
This is all very recent. I can't think of any other person he could've got this from.
This is all very recent. I can't think of any other person he could've got this from.
Chamak Patti Overdose
I finally put my finger on it.
Why do I not like truck art anymore, when I used to love it before?
I get it now.
I used to love it in Karachi.
Karachi may have its fair share of street violence but the fashion sense of its people is anything but a, "bum dhamaka."
The fashion in Karachi is demure, almost understated on some occasions. You can tell who has taste by how they carry themselves, not by what they're carrying in their hands.
Lahore on the other hand..
There are classy people in Lahore too. My beef lies with the ad nauseum usage of truck art, that of course reflects on Lahoris' general sense of... umm... generosity in fashion.
I have seen truck art in every form here. On tin boxes, in cut out letters of the alphabet, on handbags, on the hems of shalwars, on shoes, everywhere.
Except on trucks. Trucks in Lahore are usually very plain-looking.
It's just not a novelty to seek delight in here. It's in my face, and owned by young adults and middle-aged people alike.
I like(d) truck art because it showed our similarities as a culture spread across a nation that is more long in topography than it is wide.
The truck goes everywhere, across this great vertical stretch of land, and the colors of the truck stand out in the rain, smog and dust-storms.
The truck art symbolises oneness because of similarity.
Enter a barrage of other mediums that have NOTHING to do with the truck art, and yet I see the designs and colors replicated on these surfaces. Without the essence.
How is it without the essence? It gives no credit directly or indirectly to the artisans that created the culture to begin with.
Now it's a border on a hem. Not a safety precaution for night-time driving across the Khyber Pass.
I want my truck art for truck art's sake back.
Old Habits
It's so impossibly hard to try on a pair of white shelled sunglasses and not look like Elton John.
Sigh.
The awkward moment at the polling agent training that you flip an Urdu handout over for the English translation and find none.
Sunday Morning
Though it's just as yum. The juicing process, from washing the vegetables, to cutting them... is so relaxing.
Maybe it's the anchor created with juicing. My mind anticipates my body feeling good really soon and I'm in a great mood.
Or maybe it's the smell of fruits and vegetables first thing in the morning.
Or seeing green, and the other colors.
Today wasn't as glamorous as the past 4 days, though it was more fun, with the element of surprise.
Typing all this out from my phone, I think I've got it bad.
So... Where Was I?
It's part of a year-long commitment to healthy eating and forming habits that serve me best.
Now the journal. Is actually the same that I kept my wedding preparation notes in, waay back in '08.
From salon appointments for my bridal makeup, to wedding card invites, to gifts for Ryz and even my siblings, I had them all listed here.
So much fun looking through them. Did I really do so much? I remember running all these errands only because Ami wanted to do these things for my wedding, and I didn't want her to do them by herself.
And she did so much too. And it all fell into place, alhamdu lillah. Despite the innumerable lists and things to do.
5 years down and I still can't believe I'm married. To Ryz. Wow.
Here's a clip of Shireen Anwer's cooking classes that I attended, attached to my journal for easy reference.
Win-win.
When I was a teenager I used to love wearing my brother's t-shirts. I'd douse them with my mum's perfume so I wouldn't have to give it back to him for the day at least.
Fast forward to now, when I do the same with Ryz's t-shirts. So comfy.
On the Road to Beefdom
Once you get into the workout habit, the healthy endocrines get to work the minute you put your shoes on.
I feel refreshed and excited already.
Not that it's tra la la fun. It's downright painful. And just so sweet at the same time.
Is this what beef-cake tastes like?
Dulce et Decorum est
Ryz brought home an age-old TV serial that aired on our local television screens in '98. Pakistani folks know what I'm talking about - it was called, "Alpha Bravo Charlie," a TV serial regarded as touching and timeless by many. It's about the coming-of-age of a group of friends serving in the Pakistan army.
I just remember older girls crushing on the men in uniform in the drama.
Ryz and my cousin got, "Alpha Bravo Charlie" on DVD with the hopes of watching the complete series. Naturally they started from episode 1. It's charming, I get why people liked it so much when it initially aired.
The storyline started to drag on, or maybe I wasn't sitting still long enough to be drawn in by the plot. Either way, I checked out the synopsis online.
And I didn't want to watch it anymore.
Yes, it showed the Pakistan army in a positive light, and it was so human and real in terms of the relationships portrayed by the characters.
I should have been filled with the warm, fuzzy feeling of watching an old TV show that depicted human emotions with a subtle charm.
Instead, I was only reminded of Wilfred Owen's narrative of serving in the army.
Particularly, "Dulce et Decorum est" - It was a poem on war, and the title was taken from Horace's poem. It literally means, "It's sweet and fitting." The complete phrase is, "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" which means, "It's sweet and fitting to die for your country." I keep coming back to poetry and literature taught to me in school, and allude them to present experiences. I've got to appreciate the teachers who worked so hard with me to build a strong literary foundation in middle school.
Here's how he ended his poem. Wilfred Owen died exactly one week before the Armistice ending WWI was signed. He died in battle.
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
So yeah, I don't want to watch this TV show.
Like Stars Peppering the Desert Skies
Bismillah
Alhamdu lillah it's been more than a year and I'm still experiencing the benefits of marriage in new ways.
Like myself surrounded by seven books scattered on the bed, looking, waiting for inspiration for the perfect website name that I can not only call my own, but also take ownership of for my lifecoaching as well.
My husband is upstairs watching the European Grand Prix and he logs onto chat. I express my distress at not having a name as yet and how it's stagnating me more each day.
He comes up with a name, and what a snazzy one it is too! Not only that, he gives me a couple of tag-lines. Just like that.
I am overjoyed, we have an animated chat from a room across about the possibilities with that name.
I've now begun to tell him how marriage is a wonder each day, alhamdu lillah. He doesn't reply right away because he's watching the race as well.
Two partners in the same flat, in different rooms with their own tasks, and still the connect. Alhamdu lillah.
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