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? . . .

I wish I were a child . . .

My friend and I were shopping for her children’s clothes for Eid, yesterday evening. Whilst we were busy trying to match colours and look for the correct sizes, the kids decided to ‘help themselves’ to some toys in the shop. They, brother and sister, each had picked out a toy that they had decided that their mother would pay for along with their clothes.

Their mother reminded them of how naughty they had been earlier – Hamza for not sharing with his sister Maryam, the chocolate cornflake thingy he had made at school; and Maryam for disobeying her mother when she was asked to sit at the back of the car, in her car seat.

“You are not getting these toys; consider this your punishment,” reminded their mother.

The children started to wail, but they were forced out of the shop, sobbing and crying as if life were about to end, right there, right then. The kids carried on crying for about half a mile, with their mother apologizing to me the entire time (I don’t know why she did that; she is a mother, she has the right to be firm with her children, how else will they learn?).

Hamza remembered his half eaten chocolate cornflake thingy that he had made and reached for it, eating it with pleasure. All of a sudden, he cried out,

“Look Maryam, look at that house, its so funny!”

Maryam looked outside the window to the block of flats, and she started to laugh; they both started to laugh, the laughter which came to kiss away the tears that had been streaming down their soft cheeks, previously.

“See how quickly they forget?”asked my friend.

I wish I were a child . . . how easy life would be, to be able to just in an instant forget the pain of memories which once were so beautiful, bringing so much joy?

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.

Pleasure & Pain

Dear God,

You are remarkable… Was walking past a florist stall earlier and noticed a display of magnificent roses. I stopped to admire their beauty. As I was looking at them, I noticed the thorns on the stems.

The rose stalk tells the story of the pattern of life itself. With every moment of pleasure, somewhere along the line there will be the enlacing of pain. And that with every point of pain, there is something that has the potential to bring you pleasure. When I think of these little signs, I realise how much I am in awe of You.

With every ending, there is hope of a beginning, and with every beginning there has to at some point, lie an ending.

With every love, there is euphoria, but then at the same time, there is the potential of heartbreak.

When a couple copulate, it is most often a source of pleasure but then should that copulation go on to sow the seed of a new life, the woman will go on experience immense physical pain of childbirth.

(.. whilst the man … holds the woman’s hand in labour, if she is lucky.)
( .. ok, so we really need to work more on this pleasure/pain theory .. but then, You say that on no soul shall You place a burden more than it can handle, so I guess, this only goes to show the strength of women, because quite frankly, after all, the men are the weaker sex!)

For now, thanks for listening, Nasreen