Scaffolding

Saw something interesting earlier – a very grande, well built, well to do house with scaffolding all over the front of the building itself. How could it be that such a strong looking building, made of concrete and bricks complete with all the inner wall block linings and other trimmings (you can tell I am not a builder can’t you?!?!); a symbol of resilience, of a fortress against the world, against the outside, how could such a protector, shelter from the cold, source of security, need the help of a few tubes of steel?

We all need scaffolding from time to time, I guess.

Deep Cuts

There is a young man training to become a butcher at my local grocery shop. I saw him observing for a while and then the other day, he was there, ready for his new job, wearing the white coat, looking terribly smart, complete with knife in his hand.

I exchange pleasantries with the butcher, while this not-Sir-Alan-Cheeni’s apprentice quietly manages the task at hand. Suddenly, there is a loud yell – I am startled. The butcher just raises his eyebrows, he knows what has happened and tells him to run his finger under the tap nearby. It is then that I realise that the young man has cut his finger.

There  is blood everywhere. It is becoming camouflaged with the colour of the meat on the wooden block beneath it (so glad that is not my order he is working on!). The young man’s tears fill up, but he retains his machoism; yes, men don’t cry, they are alien beings, they are to remain unaffected by pain.

But this is not what concerns me (although if I am completely honest, then perhaps it should); as I stand there I cannot help but think that in that moment, this young man has demonstrated life in action: it cuts us and then we bleed. No matter who we are, how strong we may be, how in control of a situation we think we are (like this man thinking that as a trainee butcher, he would have control over the cutting), we never are immune to life’s power.

It also makes me wonder, whether we are guilty of holding the knives that cut us? . . .

An ode in remembrance

These days I seem to be up very early (an alien concept for me in the past, but then again that is the past…)

For the third day running, at the same time, (5.15am ish), there is a gentleman who walks past my house, singing an ode. I think he is  Polish and even though I do not understand the language, I feel the emotion in his words and the way he sings his poem.

I wonder who he has left behind that drives him to sing this powerfully moving ode.
It gives me great pleasure to listen to him as he walks past and for that brief moment or two that he passes, I remember my own longing and my own heart’s desire.

I may not understand the language in which he sings, but my heart seems to understand, for it weeps, weeps silently.

To love or be loved?

Dear God,

Confusion seems to have taken ahold lately. Hormones have been on red alert (excuse the pun) and what has resulted has been this frightening inner turmoil. I know that there are times when I sit here and wonder if You have forgotten me, sometimes I feel that You do, but then I banish these demonic whispers for that is insane. For I know that You remember me, because I remember You …

Lately I wrote to you asking for someone to want me. Ya Elahi, Ya Rabbul Alamin, sometimes I worry for I do not agree when people say that you should be with someone who wants you more than you want them. Using the infamous words of a notorious someone who, upon seeing Salman Rushdie playing out a role of a doctor, in a very awful Helen Hunt movie, quietly mumbled, ‘that is just .. wrong..‘ Yes it is so very wrong to be with someone because they love you more. Please help me here God, I do not understand; I know its wrong, for you have to be true to that person who is loving you, but then, I question whether it is ever possible for two people to love each other the same? Isn’t it always going to be that one partner will love the other more?

Thanks for listening.

Humbly and very PMT-hoping- that- soon- can- return- to- normal- whatever- normal- actually- is, Nasreen